Marian's Christmas Wish (12 page)

Wave after wave of gooseflesh circulated around her
back. She took a firmer grip on the poker and started up the stairs. “I’m
coming, Sir William,” she shouted, though her voice could not compete with the
rattle of chains, as if someone dragged them about the floor. “Never fear, sir,
never fear,” she squeaked.

The stairs took a little time. For every one she
ascended, she retreated two at the maniacal laughter and the pleadings of Sir
William. By the time she reached the top, her heart was pounding so loud that
she knew if she looked down, she would see it leaping about in her chest.

The sounds stopped and the door slammed open. Marian
shrank back against the wall and raised the poker over her head.

Sir William leapt from the room as if shot from a
cannon, fell to his knees, and crawled on all fours toward her. With a mighty
swoosh of wings, an enormous bird flew out the door and circled about Sir
William, who drew as much of himself into a ball as he could, and cowered
there.

The bird—it seemed more apparition than fact—fluttered
about and then glided smoothly down the stairwell. With another scream, Sir
William scuttled behind her, jabbering something in an unknown tongue. He
clutched her around the legs and she nearly fell down.

“Sir William, do unhand me,” she said, and pried his
fingers from her legs.

Alternating threats with appeasements, she freed
herself. Against every instinct, she peered into the little room and was
rewarded with the merest glimpse of a shadowy figure that lurched about,
laughing.

The outside door below opened and Alistair and Lord
Ingraham took the stairs two at a time. Marian sank back in relief. Sir William
burst into tears, grabbed her about the middle, and tried to bury his face in
her lap.

“Sir William, this is highly improper,” she hissed and
tried to pull him away. She looked at him. The seat of his pants had split from
his exertions. His wig was tumbled over one ear, revealing a head as bald as an
egg.

As Ingraham pulled Sir William away from her, Alistair
took the poker from Marian and knelt down to speak to the cowering man, who
could only sit and stare, his eyes bugging out and his mouth opening and
closing.

“Sir William, you were in rare danger. How were we to
know that you would come to this room? Oh, it is too terrible to contemplate
what would have happened if we had not stepped in.”

With an oath of his own, Alistair sprang to the doorway
and brandished the poker. “Never fear, Sir William,” he declared as he stepped
inside the door and closed it behind him.

Marian gasped and clapped her hands over her ears, but
she could not drown out the clanking of the chains, and Alistair crying, “Back!
Back, you fiend,” and flaying about him with the poker. Before she realized it,
she had retreated to the safety of Lord Ingraham’s open arms.

He seemed willing enough to enfold her in a tight
embrace, even as he talked in soothing tones to Sir William and convinced the
man he should get to his feet, in the event that immediate flight was required.

The din from the room lessened, only to be followed by
gusty tears, and Alistair saying, “There, there now, Uncle, did the fat old man
give you a fright?”

Marian stiffened and looked up at Lord Ingraham, who
still clutched her to his chest. He looked down at her, gave her a slow wink,
and put his finger to his lips.

Suddenly it was all amazingly clear. After a rapid,
sideways look at Sir William, she burst into tears of her own and clung tighter
to Lord Ingraham. “Oh, my poor, poor uncle,” she sobbed. “Oh, Sir William,
whatever did you do to him? He is generally quite harmless. Oh, I cannot bear
it.” She sobbed louder and louder until her voice began to crack like that of
the man behind the door. Sir William stared at her.

Ingraham held her away from him and shook her until her
hair came out of the riband. “Stop it, Marian,” he ordered. “Remember yourself!”

His voice had a slight, all-too-familiar tremor, and
she did not dare look at him. Instead, she collapsed in his arms and sobbed
quietly, noting to herself that for a man somewhat stricken in years himself,
Lord Ingraham had a wonderfully well-muscled chest.

Alistair came out of the room finally, closed the door
firmly behind him, and turned the key in the lock. He leaned against the door
panel and slid down to the floor until he slumped there. He buried his head in
his hands for a brief moment, then drew himself together and took a deep
breath.

“Sir William,” he began, as if the words were torn from
him, “I am horrified that you had to discover . . .”He looked at Marian, his
eyes desperate. “Oh, Marian, how can we tell him? What will he think of us?”

Marian yanked Lord Ingraham’s handkerchief from his
breast pocket and buried her face in it. “Oh, Alistair, you must tell him, for
I cannot.”

Indeed I cannot, she thought.

Alistair got to his feet and stumbled toward Sir
William, attempting to take hold of his hands. The man drew back in fright and
Alistair turned his face away. “Sir, I fear you have discovered—oh horrors, how
can I say it?—the Wynswich secret.”

The silence was broken by the sound of stertorous
breathing from behind the door and then little scratchings at random on it,
some high, some low. Sir William shook like blancmange, and Marian would have
owned up to another rank of shivers down her back if anyone had closely
questioned her.

“Alistair,” said a trembling thread of a voice, “I’ll
get you for this, just see if I don’t, some night when you think all is safe.
You, and that funny little fat man, too.”

Sir William moaned out loud and scooted closer to Lord
Ingraham. “Who-who-who-who,” he stammered in remarkable imitation of an owl.

Alistair forced back a sob. “Sir, it is my uncle. Papa’s
dear brother. The estate would have been his, as eldest son, but he was found
to be completely mad.” He turned pleading eyes on Marian, her face still safely
smothered in the handkerchief. “Oh. Marian, how dare we admit to this excellent
gentleman, so soon to become part of our household, about the—I cannot bear
it!—the tainted blood of the Wynswiches?”

Whatever color remained in the formerly sanguine Sir
William drained away. He closed his mouth and set his wig on straight again. “Do
you mean to tell me, young man, that there is a streak of madness in this
family?”

“Oh, it is more than a streak, sir.” offered Alistair. “It
is more like a broad stripe.” He forced a smile. “But. Sir William, I am happy
to report that it skips a generation, and Ariadne is quite, quite normal.”

Lord Ingraham shifted Marian to his other arm, but he
did not release her. “Sir William, this is not an uncommon occurrence among
older, titled families.” He managed a little laugh. “Why, you will find queer
stirrups among the best houses in England.”

Sir William shuddered. “Then how grateful I am, my
lord, that my title is a courtesy only and my relations are untainted by the
fumes of madness.”

“They are only tainted by illogical syntax,” murmured
Lord Ingraham into Marian’s ear, for which she trod upon his toe.

Sir William was only just warming to his subject as his
color and choler returned. “For all that we may smell a trifle of the shop, my
lord, but there is not a looby among the whole crew.”

“Then you are to be congratulated,” Alistair said. “Ariadne
will be privileged indeed to become a part of your untainted family.”

Sir William yanked his wig down tighter about his ears.
“My dear Alistair Wynswich, there will be no marriage.”

Alistair staggered about on the landing and then
dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, Marian,” he sobbed, “speak to him. Reason
with him.”

Marian abandoned the safety of Lord Ingraham’s arms and
sidled toward Sir William, who backed up against the wall. “Sir,” she began
prettily, “only think how disappointed Ariadne will be.” An odd little laugh
rose in her throat. “And how sad you will make us.” She laughed a little more,
and her laughter was joined in precisely the same key by the creature behind
the door. She threw herself to the floor in a flood of tears and mad laughter.

Sir William pointed a finger at her and edged down the
stairs. “Legislation,” he shrieked. “There ought to be legislation concerning
women like that one, I tell you. And you say it skips a generation? Not in her
case.” He backed down the stairs. “If I had been misguided into an alliance
with this demented family, hell’s foundations would quiver.”

Ingraham leaned over the railing to watch Sir William’s
descent. “Oh, perhaps not precisely quiver, my man. Shake a little perhaps, but
quiver? Surely not.”

“You can afford to be light and airy, my dear Lord
Ingraham,” said Sir William, drawing himself up, even as his ripped stays
dropped his belly lower and lower. “You were not contemplating a union with
these denatured Wynswiches.”

“No, I was not, was I?” the earl said affably. “Sir,
what will you do?”

“I will leave at once. Wild horses,
et cetera
et
cetera,” he declared. He jabbed the air with one hand and with the other
grabbed for his pants, which were entirely split out the back. “How dreadful of
Percy not to say something to me.”

“Sir William, have some charity,” Ingraham admonished
in
tones
appropriate to a restless
child. “Consider the embarrassment to Percy, and he a most excellent fellow! I
am sure that
the
least said
about this to him, the better. Indeed, haven’t you
been
posted to Poland? I doubt your paths will cross with overmuch frequency, except at special court
functions, when no one speaks the truth.”

Sir William tugged at his pants. “Yes, thank goodness!
I shall be polite to the poor fellow, cordial even. But never, never will I
associate with this family again.”

Alistair burst into noisy tears of his own.

“Oh, cut line, you hellborn babe,” snapped Sir William.
“When you have collected yourself, direct your butler to inform the stables
that I want your gig to take me to Picton. I shall wait there for the mail
coach. I go to pack. Good day to you all.”

He turned and continued at a dignified pace down the
stairs, his rump winking out of his ruined pants, his stays popping everywhere
like ruptured barrel staves. The conspirators at the top of the stairs could
only stare at him.

He slammed the door behind him, and except for the
flutter of the owl downstairs, searching a way out, all was quiet.

Marian sat up, straightened her dress, and folded her
hands in her lap. She looked at no one.

Alistair walked over to Lord Ingraham and shook his
hand. “Sir, I can only ask: were you ever thrown out of boarding schools at an
earlier age?”

Lord Ingraham coughed and had the grace to look away. “Oh,
no. I was a well-mannered, highly regulated, extremely proper fellow until two
days ago—God, is that
all!—
when I entered this house.” He leaned over the banister
again, as if searching out Sir William. “I can only speculate that something of
what my colleague says about this family may be true. Are you
both
bewitching me? I don’t pretend
to understand any of this!” He rested his forehead on the banister and began to
laugh.

Marian shook her head, tugged at Alistair’s trouser
leg, and forced him to sit down beside her. “Who is in that room?” she
whispered.

Alistair jumped up. “I almost forgot!” He unlocked the
door and stuck his head in. “Daniel, you can come out now, to the thanks of an
entire nation.”

“The stableboy! I should have known,” muttered Marian. “Oh,
Gil, do be quiet!”

Ingraham shook his head and tried to speak, failed, and
sat down on the stairs. “Oh, Marian,” he wheezed, “you were magnificent, a
regular Sarah Siddons. That high-pitched laugh of yours, and the way you threw
yourself at his feet!”

The stableboy came out of the room, rattling the chain
draped about his waist. He grinned at Alistair. “I haven’t had so much fun
since the time you and Marian sent your cousins looking for King Arthur’s
treasure in the kitchen midden.”

“That was a good stroke, wasn’t it?” agreed Alistair
modestly. “This was our crowning achievement, I vow, and it wasn’t even our
idea. We owe our complete success to Lord Ingraham.”