Marian's Christmas Wish by Carla Kelly Page A

“Or
so I remember it.”
    “I, too, sir. I am seldom there, what with the world
situation as sticky as it is. If Collinwood falls down about my ears someday, I
can blame Bonaparte.”
    The vicar laughed politely, as he was expected to, and
welcomed them into the parlor, where the choir sat about the hearth counting
their money and downing Christmas brew.
    Lord Ingraham intercepted a pint pot that one of the
baritones passed to Marian. He took a sip and shook his head at Marian.
    “Not for you, brat. Your brother would have my ears,
hooves, and tail if I brought you back bosky to Covenden Hall. Sir,” he
inquired of the vicar, “have you something else for members of the infantry?”
    Marian watched as Ingraham and the vicar moved toward
the sideboard, and then stood their, heads together, over a glass of ratafia.
The vicar nodded and motioned the earl to follow him down the hall.
    “I like that,” Marian said out loud. ‘There goes my
refreshment.” She went to the sideboard and retrieved another drink, wishing
she could follow the gentlemen down the hall. They were already deeply engaged
in conversation as they walked along, and she knew her presence was neither
wanted nor required.
    “I shall be discreet,” she said into her glass, “as
seldom I am.”
    She returned to the parlor as the choir members
pocketed their bounty, wished each other Good Christmas, called their farewells
down the hall to the vicar, and left for their own homes. Marian came closer to
the fire and added enough wood to warm her feet through her boots. How still
the parlor was. The clock ticked over the mantelpiece, managing somehow to
sound self-conscious in the quiet room. Only five days to Christmas.
    Marian listened for Lord Ingraham’s footsteps,
wondering why it was that she already knew what they sounded like. She sighed
and wondered why he was so opposed to Christmas by his own fireside. For even
if they do not know the extent of his injury, she reasoned, surely it does not
matter. Already, in less time than a day, that scar was a matter she seldom considered,
even when she looked at him.
    The clock chimed eleven. The sofa invited her, so she
curled up one end of it, carefully arranging her cloak over herself. She was
asleep in moments.
    “Marian, wake up, you goose.”
    She opened her eyes. Lord Ingraham was bending over the
end of the couch, looking down at her. “Thank goodness,” he said, his ready
smile lurking. “I was about to resort to a mirror to ascertain if you still
breathed.”
    She sat up. “Silly! I am merely a sound sleeper.” She
looked about her. The room was wreathed in shadows. The smell of the vicar’s
Christmas punch lingered in the room, mingling with the garland of greenery
that warmed itself over the mantel. “How pleasant it smells here. Oh, Gil, isn’t
Christmas simply the best time?”
    She thought he would return some casual answer, but he
sat down on the sofa and regarded her with some seriousness. “It used to be the
veriest pleasure. Papa would be home from one country or another . . . Oh, yes.
we are a family of diplomats. Mama was very like you, decorating everything
that stood still and overseeing every detail. It was always so much more
pleasant to be home than to be at school . . .” His voice trailed off. He
looked down at his hands. “Perhaps I do not spend enough time at home.”
    Marian drew in a breath and opened her mouth to speak,
but he beat her to it. “But not this year. Come, Marian. Your brother will have
given us up for dead.”
    She did not argue. He draped her cloak about her,
resting his hands for the smallest moment on her shoulders and then giving them
a pat.
    Sam showed them to the door. “Until tomorrow, then, my
lord?”
    Marian brightened. “Oh, Sam, you will visit us
tomorrow? You will not let Sir William steal your march?”
    The vicar put a finger to his lips. “Not a word,
Marian. Especially not to Ariadne. When, sir?” he said to Lord