Marian's Christmas Wish by Carla Kelly

approached the
next great house.
    He slowed his stride. “You will be breathless if I do
not remember. Yes, I suppose it is for you. And it is for me.”
    Marian stood still. “Oh, but you never say the wrong
thing, or do the wrong thing, or embarrass your relatives, or become a
laughingstock to your friends.” When he said nothing, she peered closer. “Do
you?”
    “I might have said no yesterday, but today I am not so
sure. Maybe I am not so sure about . . . Well, never mind.” He teetered on the
edge of saying something more, but did not.
    “Look now, the door is opening. Hurry up, brat.”
    He broke into a run, and Marian chased after him,
grabbing at his coattails. She arrived, out of breath, in time to join in
singing the last verse of “Good King Wenceslas,” to the doctor, who was
standing in the doorway while his wife buttoned his overcoat. The doctor looked
at the tithe book that the caroler thrust at him, filled in an amount, dropped
his coins in the box, and hurried down the steps, muttering something about
babies not waiting.
    He stopped long enough to point a finger at one of the
tenors. “You, Jim Plant, d’ye promise before these witnesses to sing on key
four Sundays out of five?”
    The tenor nodded as the others laughed. The doctor took
another coin from his pocket and flipped it at the man. “Then have a Merry
Christmas!”
    Marian clapped her hands. She stood in front of Lord
Ingraham and straightened his muffler again. “Gil, would you not rather be
home?”
    He pulled the strings of her hood tighter about her
face and smiled down at her. “No, for the hundredth time, you nosy baggage, I
would rather be here.”
    She was not satisfied, but the choir was cutting across
the doctor’s lawn, heading toward the home of Colonel John Quatermain, Ret.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her.
    By the time the choir reached the environs of Picton,
it was in better tune than on many a Sunday. The tithing box had a pleasant
jingle to it as the carolers hurried along, already anticipating the remainder
of the evening in front of their own hearths.
    By now Marian had lost one of her mittens, and her bare
hand was deep in one of Lord Ingraham’s pockets. “For that is what happens when
you insist upon wearing a cloak. Marian, and have no pockets of your own. I’ll
share.” He insisted upon putting his arm about her so she would not pull her
hand out. and as he was adding to her own warmth, she made no objection.
    The snow had ended an hour before. They trailed along
behind the other carolers and Marian stopped and looked up at the sky, where
the stars had come out in a frosty twinkle. “Oh, Gil. how beautiful,” she
exclaimed.
    “I agree,” he said, but he was looking at her and not
the stars.
    She prodded him. “No. look up there! I know that is
Orion, because Percy says he hunts only in a winter sky.” She sighed and drew
in closer to Lord Ingraham. “It is almost perfect.”
    “And what would make it perfect?” whispered her escort
in her ear.
    His breath tickled her ear and Marian felt a little
ripple of pleasure down her back. It was accompanied by an odd feeling, one
that she had never experienced before, one that warmed her toes. She would have
to ask Ariadne about it. She withdrew her hand from Lord Ingraham’s pocket.
    “Sam Beddoe offering for Ariadne. Before it is too
late.”
    Ingraham only smiled and nudged her into motion again. “Let
us see what we shall see at the vicarage,” was all he would say.
    The vicarage was full of carolers when they arrived,
out of breath from running the last block.
    Sam welcomed them in. “Marian! How did you convince
Percy—”
    “It was Gil’s doing,” she said, pulling him forward. “Mr.
Beddoe, this is Lord Gilbert Ingraham, Earl of . . . Dear me, I forgot.”
    “I sometimes wish I could, Marian. Earl of Collinwood,
Mr. Beddoe. My seat is in Wiltshire, near Bath.”
    “Ah! Excellent country, my lord,” replied the vicar.