Marian's Christmas Wish (30 page)

“So you have resigned,” she said, and felt a twinge of
sadness, even as she congratulated Lord Ingraham silently for his wisdom. “You’ll
live longer, I suspect.”

Lady Wynswich brought in luncheon and didn’t even sit
down. “There is so much to do, my dear,” she explained. “Ariadne and I are
driving over to Mrs. Tilby’s this afternoon. Mrs. Tilby is making the bridal
gown. Perhaps you care to drive with us next week?”

She carried a book in her hand, something Marian had
never seen her do before.

Marian pointed to it. “What is that?” she asked.

Her mother stared down in amazement. “I believe it is a
book, Marian.”

Marian sighed.

“Dear me. I didn’t mean to bring this in here. It would
only be a waste of your time.” She started for the door.

“Mama, you are provoking! Hand it over.”

Mama returned to the bedside with supreme reluctance. “It
is Richard Longacre’s
A Traveler’s Guide to North America.
I can’t imagine it would be of
any interest.”

“We do not possess such a book in our library,” Marian
said, her voice dark with suspicion.

“I’m sure I do not know,” Lady Wynswich replied
vaguely.
“I
must have
picked it up when I was in the parlor. Let me return it there.”

“No,” said Marian hastily, and then smiled. “I mean,
just leave it here and I will look it over.”

An hour later, Marian was deep in the book when the
door opened. “Come in,” she said absently.

“Mare! I escaped!”

Marian dropped the book and threw back the covers. She
hobbled over to her brother, who stood on unsteady legs at the door. “Alistair,
Mama will ring such a peal over you,” she scolded, and then tucked his arm
carefully in hers and led him to her armchair. “But I am glad to see you
upright again.”

Alistair sank into the chair gratefully. “I am amazed
that a little bullet hole can cause such trouble,” he said. “And everybody has
been fussing and carrying on. Don’t you wish they would go back to the way they
were?”

Marian sat on her bed. “Oh, Alistair. I think they have
already done that. Everyone schemes and meddles and teases. Nothing has
changed. “

He laughed. “Mare, it’s good to see you.”

“And you.” She picked up the book again. “Alistair,
listen to this. It says here that North America has an agreeable climate and
all manner of plant and animal life, including birds of rare beauty and—”

“Indians,” Alistair interrupted. “And they take scalps.”

“Silly!”

“Gilbert told me this morning that . . .” He stopped
and shook his head. “No, no,
I
shan’t tell you.”

“Tell me what, you provoking beast?” she said, and
threw her pillow at him. “Ow! Oh, I know I have a broken rib.” She started to
cry.

Alistair grasped the pillow with his bare toes, pulled
it closer, and reached down carefully to retrieve it. He set it on top of her
head and she started to giggle.

“That’s better.” he said solemnly. He looked toward the
door. “I think I hear someone. If Percy finds me out of bed, I will be interred
two years at St. Stephen’s instead of one. Bye, Mare.”

She took the pillow off her head and hugged it to her
side until the ache lessened. Longacre’s book lay just out of reach on the
floor. Marian leaned toward it, gritting her teeth.

“Brat, if you break another rib, the doctor will bind
you so tight you’ll only be able to breathe through your ears.” Lord Ingraham came
into the room carrying a chess set, which he placed at the foot of her bed. He
handed the book to her and took up the set again. “I promised Percy a game in
the library, Marian. See you later, my dear.”

“Percy is no challenge,” she said so softly that she
was sure he could not hear her.

“He will do. I fear you would be easy pickings these
days, and I never—seldom—prey on the weak.”

Marian gritted her teeth. “You are assuredly the most
irritating man I ever met.”

He bowed and smiled. “And you, my dear, would drive any
sane man to suicide inside of fifteen minutes of making your acquaintance.”

She sank down among the pillows and picked up the book,
staring at it and turning the pages.

Lord Ingraham opened the door. “Marian, it’s easier to
follow the narrative when you hold a book right side up.”

The afternoon wore on. When it was getting dark,
Ariadne danced into the room, removing her bonnet, her cheeks red from the cold
outside. “Marian, the dress is so beautiful. It is all silk and has the most
beautiful lace overskirt. You must come with us next week and see for yourself.’’
Ariadne sat down on the bed. “I thought blue would be a bridesmaid’s color, if
you think that agreeable.”

“I do,” said Marian. “Ariadne, is
...
is Gil still belowstairs?”

“No. I saw him walking with Sam. They were quite deep
in conversation. When he returns, do you wish me to send him to you?”

It was on the tip of Marian’s tongue to say yes, but
she could not bring herself to do it. She shook her head. “It is nothing that
will not keep.”

Lady Wynswich brought her dinner that evening. “We have
all decided that it is best that we do not disturb you, my darling.

Alistair is sleeping, and you must be exhausted, too.
When the doctor comes tomorrow, perhaps he will let you sit up in your chair
for restricted periods of the day.”

“Mama! Do you mean to turn me into an invalid?” Marian
said. “I would like to go downstairs right now.”

Her mother only stared and put her hand on her daughter’s
forehead. “I am certain what you need is rest.”

When she left the room, Marian got up from bed, tugged
her armchair to the window, and sat there, looking out across the snowy formal
gardens. It is time I gave a thought to what I will do after April. She smiled
to herself. If the world were fair, I would go to St. Stephen’s and study with
Alistair. Or I would follow Percy to Vienna as his secretary.

But the world is not fair, Marian decided, and I am
allowed to do none of these things. She continued her contemplation of the
gardens, unwilling to surrender to sleep, but forced to concede finally that
her mother was right. She was exhausted still. She sat in the chair a few
moments longer, wishing that someone would come and jolly her out of the
melancholy mood that was descending rapidly.

No one did. Marian Wynswich tucked her long hair
carefully into her nightcap, blew out the lamp, and crawled between the covers.
She said her prayers in bed because her knees pained her too much to pray
beside her bed, as she usually did. Clasping her hands together, Marian
considered the usual order of family and friends and king and country, and
abandoned them all to someone else’s tender mercies. She prayed for herself
alone.

The sound of the fire in the hearth woke Marian hours
later. It had been dying down when she finally closed her eyes, and here it
was, blazing up as if someone had carefully stoked it. How kind, she thought as
her eyes closed.

“Marian, don’t go back to sleep.”

She opened her eyes again. Gilbert Ingraham stood by
the fireplace. As she watched him, he added another log to the hearth and then
tugged her armchair close to the bed and sat in it. Marian raised herself up on
her elbow. Without a word, he picked up an extra pillow and propped it behind
her head. She relaxed again, never taking her eyes from his face.

She didn’t say anything when he pulled back the covers
from the foot of the bed, raising them to reveal her knees. He smiled at her
and touched her cheek, and then opened a jar in his hand. While she watched in
silence, Lord Ingraham knelt by the bed and gently dabbed a layer of salve on
her knees.

“I didn’t know I had a jar made up,” she said finally
when the silence seemed too intimate.

“You didn’t. I followed your chicken scratch recipe and
added some touches of my own.” He sniffed the ointment. “I couldn’t find your
lavender water, so I put in a drop of my own cologne. He sat back on his heels.
“Well, brat?”

She lay back, grateful down to the soles of her feet as
the salve took the throb and ache from her knees. “Oh, Gil,” she sighed.

He smiled. “I take that for approval.” He touched her
knee. “I don’t think I can do anything about the scars that you will have, but
I seem to remember someone telling me that scars fade.” He allowed the ointment
to soak in and then covered her legs again.

“Your hand, please.”

Without a word, Marian turned it palm-up on the
coverlet. With a gentleness that she thought surprising in a man, Lord Ingraham
unwound the bandage and looked at her palm. He traced the jagged wound,
counting the stitches. In silence, he wrapped her hand again and placed it back
under the covers. He sat on the bed and looked down at her.

“Marian, when my footman handed me that dress of yours
at the dinner table, you cannot imagine what went through my head.”

She reached for his hand, but he was on his feet,
unable to meet her eyes. “I thought you were dead. Oh, God! I held up that
dress and it was so ripped and bloody.” He turned around to look at her, his
face ravaged. “It was the worst moment of my life.”

He came back to her then, dropped to his knees by the
bed, and rested his head on her breast as he sobbed. They were the deep,
wrenching tears of a man who never cried, someone trained by masters, she
thought, to seldom betray feelings.

Marian rested her hand tentatively on his head, and
then put her arms around him, patting his back, kissing his hair, holding him
close.

“I had to do it, don’t you see?” she said finally when
he sat up. “Someone had to pull you up sharp. But, oh, I hope you burned that
dress. What . . . what did you do with it?”

“I hung it in my dressing room.” He rested his head
against her again. “My footman said you fought like a tiger.”

She looked down at him and touched his hair. “I have no
experience at all with men, Gil, but I harbored no illusions about what Sir
Reginald Calne would have done.”

He did not move; she did not press him. He spoke
finally, his voice muffled by her body. “I could go on with it, of course, but
I
would never dare live such a
dangerous life, not with a wife and children.” He raised himself then and sat
on her bed, his hands on her shoulders.

She wiped his eyes with the sheet. “You could, Gil. But
the price is too high.” Marian cupped his face in her hands and whispered
softly. “And don’t you think you—and your father before you—have done more than
most men for the good of your country?”

He kissed her. “But there is always more to do, Marian.”

“And someone else can do it.”

He sighed, patted her hand, and went to put another log
on the fire. “Do you know, Marian, that article in the
Times
was a bit hasty. I did not
entirely sever my dealings with the Diplomatic Corps.” His tone was apologetic
and defiant at the same time, and she was forcefully reminded of a small boy. “I’m
not sure that I really want to.”

“What are you aiming for?” Marian asked when he did not
speak.

“There is a post in Washington, D.C. I have been
offered it and I am considering it seriously. Now, don’t look at me like that,
brat. There is no huggle-muggle about this job. It is merely”—he bowed deeply—”diplomacy.
It is using the proper fork, dancing the latest dance, and trying to help the
Americans overlook that we burned their swampy capital five months ago.”

She laughed. “And you want it, do you not, sir?”

“Indeed, I do.” He came no closer to her. “I already
have a horse. Now I want a wife.” He coughed politely. “That,
I
am told, is all a man needs in America for a fresh start.”

Marian was silent.

He watched her. “I’m leaving soon enough, at any rate.
I sail from Bristol in two weeks. Do think about it, my dear. Cast aside all
the differences we have, all those counts that make this a supremely silly
idea, and put your fine mind to it.”