Marian's Christmas Wish Read Free

would be visiting his
grandsons—and regular little mewling things they are, too—in the next set of
rooms? He took exception to my composition. And really, Mare, I wasn’t singing
loud.”
    Marian opened and closed her mouth several times in
perfect imitation of a mackerel. “In fact . . . Oh, Mare, he cut up stiff about
it. The dean told me to take myself off.” He slumped in the chair. “A letter is
to follow.”
    “Oh, Alistair! I . . .”
    “Do words fail you, sister?” he asked hopefully when
she continued to stare at him, her eyes wide.
    “Indeed they do not,” she snapped. She jumped up and
began to pace back and forth about the room.
    Alistair watched her come and go. “I was hoping they
would, actually, Mare. It is the season to be jolly.”
    She picked up a paperweight on the desk and would have
thrown it at him, except that she feared the racket would have brought the
entire household into the room. She slammed it down on the desk, marched in
front of him, and slapped him on both shoulders. He reeled back in his chair
and nearly spilled himself out.
    “Alistair, you are a ninny! Percy is due here any
minute from Belgium . . .”
    It was Alistair’s turn to imitate the mackerel. “Good
God. I had no idea. Then he . . .”
    “... will read the letter. Oh,
Alistair, he is bringing company, too, important company. And Mama will have
hysterics.”
    They were both silent, Alistair waiting out the storm
that he knew from long experience would end soon, and Marian unable to think of
anything to say. She felt her Christmas plans coming down about her ears. First
Percy and the would-be suitor, and now Alistair bumbling about. All it needed
was . . .
    Someone knocked at the door. Grateful for the
diversion, Alistair opened it so fast that the boy outside gasped. He recovered
quickly and came into the room.
    It was the stableboy and he carried a cat in his arms,
a particularly ugly cat, soaking wet, and obviously soon to be a mother. The
creature was plastered with mud. Whether its coat was brown or gray, Marian
could not be sure.
    The boy looked from the sister to the brother. His face
brightened. “Alistair! I mean, well, hello!” He looked back to the sister
again. “Begging your pardon, Miss Wynswich, but I found this cat out by the
main road. The dogs were teasing it. I thought you might . . . well, you know.”
    “Yes, I know. Hand it here, and thank you.” The boy
relinquished his burden, grinned at Alistair, and executed a quick march from
the bookroom before Marian could change her mind.
    Marian sat down next to Alistair again and wrapped her
apron around the cat. The babies in its belly squirmed and tumbled into each
other as she rubbed the cat dry. The animal began to purr, and the sound was a
balm to her jangled nerves. She smiled and scratched the cat under the chin.
    “And I suppose you have a sad story to tell, too, if
only you could talk,” she said, addressing the animal. “Something about a
misspent kittenhood and the perfidy of toms.” Marian looked at her brother. “Since
everything and everyone conspires against me this Christmas, we shall simply
have to make the best of it.” Her tone became decisive. “Alistair, you will
take yourself off to the guest room. No, the second-best one. I’ll contrive to
bring you up some dinner later. It would be better, I think, if Mama did not
know you were about yet, and your own room is too close to hers. She would hear
you. If you will lie low, I may have the chance to talk to Percy before he
finds out . . . or receives that letter.”
    “I think the archbishop is sending one, too,” said
Alistair. Marian winced. “I wonder, brother, does the Church of England
excommunicate entire families?”
    “Surely not minors, Mare,” said Alistair. “We are safe!”
    “No, we are not, you great big looby! Oh, take the cot
in the dressing closet. Who knows, but Mama may stick her head in the room. At
least then she will not see you. And take this