Marian's Christmas Wish (18 page)

Lord Ingraham released Alistair and sat back on his
heels.

Alistair got up quickly and brushed the snow from his
overcoat. He refused to look at Gilbert or Marian. He stalked to the road’s
edge and stood for a long minute contemplating St. Stephen’s, his hands shoved
deep in his pockets.

Marian started to speak once, but Lord Ingraham put his
finger to his lips and shook his head.

“The West Indies, you say?” Alistair asked finally
without turning around.

“Aye, lad, berthed in Kingston. I’ll warn you, though,
that Captain de Spain is as hard a man as you could hope to meet on a dark
night. However that may be, his sailors will follow him anywhere. A better man
I do not know, unless it is your own brother.”

“Done then, sir, done.” Alistair turned around. “I need
not scruple to tell you that I am not happy about it.”

Without another word, Alistair started down the road at
a clipping pace, despite the snow that came up to his knees.

Marian looked at him in dismay. The earl motioned to
her and she floundered through the deep snow to his side.

“Marian, we’ll let him go on alone for a while. Likely
he’ll feel like talking later.”

Marian nodded. Ingraham started ahead of her again, but
she took him by the arm. “Seriously, why are you doing this for us, sir?” she
asked.

He was silent a long moment. “Well, if I have to
explain it, then you probably wouldn’t understand—not yet, anyway. Let’s call
it a Christmas gift for hospitality rendered.”

“That is a hum,” Marian scolded. “You have already said
in so many words that Wynswich hospitality is exhausting.”

“I have, haven’t I?” Ingraham agreed. “Hurry up, brat.
You’re making me cold just standing here.”

Snow was falling again by the time they walked into
Brattleford. Nothing moved except the smoke that puffed vigorously from every
chimney. There was a tangle of carter’s wagons around Brattleford’s only inn.

Alistair sat on the whiffletree of one wagon, waiting
for them to arrive. “Tired, Mare?” he asked.

She nodded and then quickly amended, “But not too tired
to make it to Bath. By the way, sir, how far have we to go?”

“About three miles, as I recall.” Ingraham leaned
against the wagon. “What’s it to be? Do we go inside, throw ourselves on the
floor, and plead for sanctuary, or do we plunge ahead?”

“We plunge ahead,” Marian said.

“Can you still wiggle your toes, Marian?”

She blushed. “That’s not something a gentleman asks a
lady.”

“Brat!”

“Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Come on, Alistair. Let us
show this earl what we can do.”

They continued through Brattleford, stopping once to
help a carter extricate his wagon and team from the ditch where the horses had
wandered. The snowy afternoon was filled with enormous, whirling snowflakes as
the sky turned a deep gray and they struck the rough road again.

Marian continued in silence, head bowed against the
snow, determined not to complain. Her stomach rumbled, her head ached from the
cold, and her beautiful green woolen dress was icy to the waist. If you insist
that your Christmas-pudding wish comes true, Marian, she told herself, you had
better be prepared for the lumps in it.

Alistair forged ahead. Gilbert joined Marian, slowing
his pace until Alistair was out of earshot. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, my
dear.” He hesitated, and for a moment the diplomat’s polish deserted him. “The
other day—good God, was it only yesterday?—I seem to have vague recollections
that I was not . . . How do I put this? Behaving in a completely gentlemanlike
fashion.”

Marian thought back to her struggles yesterday morning
in the best guest room and was grateful that the gray and snowy dusk hid her
blush. “I can certainly make allowances for your behavior, Gil. You were
extremely put upon.”

“H’mm. Was that it? I had the distinct impression that
you were the one ‘extremely put upon,’ as you so nicely phrased it.”

“It is nothing you need speak of,” she added hastily.

“Then I will not, other than to apologize,” he stated
promptly.

They walked on in uncomfortable silence for the space
of several minutes, the only sound the crunch of snow underfoot. “But tell me,”
he asked finally, “did I enjoy myself?”

Marian only giggled.

Lord Ingraham rolled his eyes. “I thought so. My
apologies, Miss Wynswich.” he said formally, and then ruined the effect by
winking.

It was snowing in greater earnest when they walked into
Bath. Night was well along, but the traffic, held up at several points
throughout Christmas Eve day, increased the nearer they came to the city.
Shoppers hurried on the snow-covered streets, buying last-minute items as
shopkeepers stood by the doors, keys in hand. Church bells tolled as the
lamplighters strolled down the well lit thoroughfare, pausing now and then to
adjust a lamp where a flame struggled, and then shout holiday greetings to
friends passing by. The friendly sounds were muffled by that peculiar stillness
that snow brings, wherever it falls.

“What is your direction, sir?” Alistair asked when
Ingraham stood still on the sidewalk, as if wondering where to go.

“The Royal Crescent,” he replied slowly, the words
dragged from his body. Still he did not move. Alistair glanced at Marian and
shrugged.

Marian inclined her head toward a shop window that was
still brightly lit. Alistair nodded and went to watch the shopkeeper sweeping
inside.

Marian moved closer to Ingraham, saying nothing, but
looking at him in critical fashion, much as she imagined the passersby doing.
She saw a tallish man in a stylish overcoat of definite continental cut,
wearing a high-crowned beaver hat. The scar on his face stood out in the
lamplight, red and raw, even under his two days’ growth of beard. What do they
think? she wondered. Do they feel pity? Revulsion?

His hand was thrust deep in his pocket. Marian put her
hand in his pocket and grasped his wrist. Startled, he looked down at her, as
if unaware that she was even standing beside him.

“I am a great coward, Marian,” he said as he stepped
out of the lamplight and into the shadows. “Or perhaps it is vanity. I was once
accounted a regular handsome man.” He fingered the scar. “It is not a face with
which to startle one’s mother.”

“Gil, does she know nothing?”

“She knows that I was burned.” He sighed. “I suppose
others have told her.” His arm went around her shoulder. “It was always easier
to find an excuse to stay away from Bath, and truly, I was needed in Ghent at the treaty talks.” He looked down at her. “But the talks are over, and you have
removed all my other excuses.”

“Gil, she will be so relieved to see you,” Marian said.
“I know
...
I know that I would be.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “I hope you are right.
I suppose I must get used to that startled glance that people give me now, that
look, right before they recover and then smile and bow and act as if nothing is
different.”

“You will not know unless you go home, Gil.”

He stood still a moment longer and then waited another
minute.

“Gil, pretty soon I will not be able to wiggle my toes,”
Marian warned.

A brief smile flickered across his face. “Well, then,
let us go. Come, Alistair. You have made that shopkeeper quite nervous enough.
He must think you have designs on his cash box.” Ingraham rubbed his hand over
the stubble on his chin.

“God knows we look none too respectable, as it is.
Thank the Lord, at least I do not still smell of herring.”

As they walked, the snow tapered off and stopped. Everywhere
the world was white, except for the great wreaths of greenery that adorned the
doors of the fine homes, and the candles that winked in windows, little dots of
light that transformed the snow into diamonds.

They came to the Royal Crescent, and Marian stood still
in delight. “Such homes,” she said, her voice soft with wonder.

“Truly, I had forgotten how beautiful it was,” the earl
said softly. They walked slowly down the middle of the deserted street until
Lord Ingraham stopped. He remained there a moment, silent in thought, and then
squared his shoulders and started toward one of the elegant row houses.

To Marian’s ears, even the door knocker sounded distinguished
and restrained, like everything on that magic street. The butler who opened the
door was as impeccable as the hall beyond that opened to their view.

The butler looked down at the three of them. “Lady
Ingraham is not receiving callers at this hour,” he began.

“Washburn,” Lord Ingraham murmured, and stepped closer.

The butler peered into the dark night and then his eyes
widened. He stepped into the snowy entrance. “Oh, surely it is not—”

“Ah, but it is,” the earl contradicted. “Merry
Christmas, Washburn.”

“Lord Ingraham! We had no idea
...
no idea at all that you were even in England.” He practically pulled Gilbert into the front hallway as Marian and Alistair
trailed behind. “Allow me, my lord,” he said, and held out his hand for Lord
Ingraham’s overcoat.

The earl unfastened the buttons but did not remove the
coat. “My mother?”

“My lord, she has gone to Christmas Eve services.”

Ingraham’s face fell. “Oh, I had no idea it was that
late!”

“It wants but a quarter-hour to eleven, my lord.” He
peered at Lord Ingraham’s face, and Marian felt Ingraham tense beside her. She
crossed her fingers. The butler’s eyes flickered across

Gilbert’s face, but his expression did not change. “Surely
my lord has not misplaced his late father’s watch?”

Marian felt the earl relax. “Not precisely, Washburn,
so you need not scold me. It is ticking in some French tar’s pocket, I don’t
doubt.”

“Very good, my lord, if that is your preference,” said
the butler, betraying his dissatisfaction with a slightly upraised eyebrow.

“So many of my decisions have been made for me of late,
Washburn,” Lord Ingraham murmured. “That was one of them. And is my mother
...”

“Yes, my lord, in the same place as always.”

“Good.” The earl turned to Marian. “My dear, can you
still wiggle your toes?”

She nodded. The butler raised his eyebrow a fraction of
an inch higher.

Ingraham smiled. “Washburn, these are Marian and
Alistair Wynswich, friends of mine from Picton, near Lyme Regis. They will be
staying with us a few days.”

Washburn bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

“Very good, indeed,” Lord Ingraham echoed. “Let us be
off and do what good Christians do at least twice a year, whether they need it
or not.”

“Oh, surely we could just wait here,” protested Marian.
“I know that I look a sight, my lord.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. “Your cheeks are rosy, and
even though your eyes look a bit tired, they have a real snap and sparkle to
them.”

“Oh, do be serious,” she murmured.

“I am being serious,” he insisted, and then continued
in some embarrassment. “If I do not continue on and see this thing through,
Marian, I will not have the heart to wait.” He looked over her head, his gaze
on something far away. “I’d be off to Vienna, or St. Petersburg, or even Washington again, and she would never know I was here. No. We
...
I must see it through. Please come with me.”

“I shall,” Marian said, with no further argument.

“You, too, Alistair,” said the earl. “The Lord must
amply bless rogues and sinners tonight, and we are all that.”

Alistair had the grace to blush. “And more, sir.”

Down the stairs they went. Alistair hung back. “My
lord, I have not been to church for a long while.”

Gilbert gave him a searching look. “You are in
desperate need of St. Stephen’s, where chapel at six is a preface to oatmeal at
seven. Or was it the other way around?”

The bells of Bath were silent as they hurried along. A
brisk wind began to blow from the west.