Our characters are formed long before we have the will or ability to forge them.
But no, it was mere coincidence that the words were so similar. And only the time of year making her think of that letter. She hadn’t thought of it in ages and ages. Since last Christmas, surely . . .
The pounding of the front door knocker made her jump in her seat. She set aside the menus she hadn’t quite been perusing and hurried into the hall. About time, Grandfather, she scolded silently. He would grumble at his escort, whoever it might be this time, scowl at her, and demand something to eat. It would be the end of just another day in Kilcullen.
But it wasn’t her diminutive grandfather standing framed in the stone doorway. And Alice knew, as she stumbled to a halt a dozen steps from the tall figure in the dark, caped coat, that there would be no more predictable days at Kilcullen. More than that, her deepest, most fervent wish had been answered. Eight years too late.
“Alice.” The voice was the same: deep, rough, created by some mischievous angel to set women’s hearts thumping. And thump went Alice’s heart.
The face was the same, too, if harder. The same broad forehead and sea green eyes beneath a sleek sweep of night-dark hair, the same Roman nose and wide mouth. Unsmiling. He’d smiled so often, so easily in his youth.
“Gareth,” she whispered. Then, lifting her chin to meet his eyes, “I beg your pardon. Mr. Blackwell.”
They stood facing each other for a long moment. Then he smiled, finally. And it chilled her.
“I suppose that’s all the welcome I can expect.” He shrugged and stepped into the hall. “Well, here I am, Alice, home to await the blessed event.” He glanced around the foyer that had heard the patter of his first steps, the eager skipping of childhood, the impatient ring of a young man’s boot heels. “I trust there is plenty of whiskey around to get me through the anticipation.”
2
Gareth Blackwell had managed to stay away from home for eight years. At that moment—for every moment, actually, since hearing of his brother’s demise—he would gladly have given everything he possessed to make it nine.
Alice.
Perhaps he should have been surprised to find her there, but very little surprised him anymore. Alice. She had changed. Of course she had. This was a woman of twenty-six rather than a girl of eighteen. It was the same little form, the same little face: heart-shaped and so very pretty, surrounded by the same wild brown curls. But utterly different, somehow. It was, he decided, as if the girl he remembered in sunlight had stepped into the shade.
That was it. In the past, her face had lit each time she had seen him. It had, he realized now, made him feel ten feet tall. This Alice was regarding him with no expression whatsoever.
He waited for her to speak. Alice, his Alice, had never been one for silence. She’d been inclined toward strong opinions, fond teasing, the occasional blast of temper. Which, no doubt, was what he was in for now. She would think he deserved it. And while he might have mixed feelings on the matter, he was prepared to let her rant. It was the quickest way into the house and toward the whiskey. He waited. She blinked. Then, “I’ll go see to having a room prepared for you, sir. We did not anticipate your arrival.” With that, she turned her narrow little back on him and walked away.
She was nearly at the door to the back hall when he found his voice. “Alice!”
She stopped, faced him. “Yes?”
“I am not . . . I am . . . Well, hell.” He couldn’t be sure what he was. It was a new sensation, and not a pleasant one.
Whatever else he might have found to say to her was stalled by a cry from the stairs.
“Gareth!”
He blinked at the vision trundling toward him across the floor. The last time he had seen Clarissa Ashe, she’d been fifteen, unusually beautiful, and so slight that a goat sneeze would have blown her over. Now, at twenty-three, she was just as lovely, but she looked as if she’d swallowed the goat.
“Gareth,” she said again, hands extended. “You’ve come. I’m so glad.”
“Clarissa. I’m so sorry, you know. I would have come sooner—”
“Yes, yes, of course. I did so hope you would be at my wedding, but Arthur didn’t mind overmuch, so I forgave you.”
Before he could reply, she rushed on, “We have missed you. At your dear father’s funeral . . .”
He’d been in the Indies then, recently sold out of the navy, wealthy and comfortable with the sun and spiced rum. By the time news of his father’s demise had reached him, it was winter and traveling had seemed an unnecessary exertion. He’d sent a letter to Arthur.
“And now, with Arthur gone . . .”
Greece. A little island full of olive trees and cool taverns. Ouzo and lush, black-eyed barmaids. He almost hadn’t come home. He’d mourned the brother he’d never really known with dry eyes and several bottles of wine. He’d tossed a handful of coins into a fountain, promising the stone Dionysus there half of his fortune if he would put in a good word with the rest of the gods about Arthur’s unborn child. Then he’d booked passage. To Turkey.
He had taken four months to return to Ireland.
“Well, now you’re here, and won’t we be a merry party this Christmas!” He realized Clarissa had been prattling the whole time. “Counting the days, of course.” She tugged on his hands, drawing him nearer. “And we must remember, you and I, to make the same wish on Christmas Eve.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Why, for a girl, silly! That would quite settle things for both of us, would it not? You shall have the title, I shall be free to do as I please. Quite settled. Now, I’ve been trying to persuade Alice to play with me all day, but she simply will insist on doing the dullest chores. Backgammon, Gareth? Or perhaps piquet? I would be more than happy to wager.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Alice quietly talking to a maid. Completely ignoring him.
“A wager!” he announced loudly and saw her jump. “But not on a game.”
“No?” Clarissa clapped her hands eagerly. “On . . . ?”
“On the outcome of your blessed event. If it is a girl, I forfeit; if a boy, you do. Now, my dear, what do you wish for?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Clarissa announced, “I should like a strand of pink pearls. Not to speak ill of your mother, Gareth, but she was rather selfish when it came to her jewels. She took the very best pieces with her and the Kilcullen pearls are not at all to my taste.”
Yes, he agreed, his mother had been rather selfish. Always. And especially with her time. She’d had very little to spare for her sons. As for the jewels, she’d purchased a great many during his father’s lifetime. She’d had every right to take them with her when she remarried, a year almost to the day after the earl’s death. Her new husband was an age-old friend of her first, without a title, but with a fortune and estate in the neighboring county. Gareth had a very good idea that the attachment had predated the wedding by more than a few years. His mother, after all, had been a great one for seeing to her own pleasures.
“Pearls it is,” he agreed.
“And should I lose?”
“Should you lose, I claim Arthur’s gun collection as your forfeit.”
Clarissa blinked at him. “But you have always loathed hunting.”
“True.” Being forced by one’s sire to shoot small furry creatures at the age of seven could do that to a boy. “As a matter of fact, I should like to have a selection should I ever choose to dispatch myself.”
“Oh, Gareth, how you jest!”
Perhaps, he thought, but one never knew what the prospect of a lifetime tied to the estate would do to his sanity. He forced a smile. “Just look at it this way, madam. You win either way. Arthur’s guns are no loss to you.”
She laughed, but then sobered quickly. “Oh, no! You must ask for something more dear than that. You must!”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said earnestly, “I must be the one with the most to lose
. The old Gypsy said so!”
Before he could begin to make sense of that pronouncement, there was a clatter of hooves on the stones outside. Even through the heavy wooden door, Gareth could hear the lurid stream of curses. He knew that voice.
A footman hurried to open the door. The scene there was enough to raise Gareth’s brows. Two young men, farmers by their clothing, both with the height and girth of the average ox, were carrying a much smaller man up the stairs. Each had a meaty fist around one of his upper arms and were supporting him effortlessly, his feet dangling a good foot above the floor. He was cursing with enough force and creativity to put a seasoned sailor to shame.
“Grandfather!” Alice had slipped forward and was facing her muttering grandsire, hands planted on her hips. “You promised!”
Unlike his granddaughters, Sir Reginald Ashe hadn’t changed at all. He was just as elfin, just as hale and hoary as he’d been the day Gareth left. Garbed, much as always, in ancient leather jerkin and buckled knee breeches, he had one hand wrapped tightly around a wooden box, the other waving an ineffectual fist at his escorts.
“I did nothing of the sort, girl! And I’ll say again, let go of me, you hairy behemoths!”
“Just helping you in, sir,” the young man holding his right arm replied jovially. He and his companion lowered their burden to the floor and let go. Sir Reginald stomped into the foyer with a huff. He stopped in front of Alice and glared at her from beneath shrubby brows.
“You’re breaking my heart, you are,” he muttered.
Alice sighed. “That is hardly my intention, Grandfather.”
“Hmph.” He turned his glare to Clarissa. “Get off your feet,” he commanded.
“Yes, Grandfather.” She kissed his cheek and chided, “You did promise.” Then, “Look who’s come home.”
The old man looked at Gareth for the first time. “About time,” he grumbled. “Your grandda would have taken a birch stick to you right sharpish, you know.”
Gareth nodded. “Very likely, sir.”
Sir Reginald huffed. “Should probably do it myself.” He appeared to be gauging the six inches and four stone Gareth had on him. Not to mention the fifty years. “Can’t be bothered tonight. Remind me tomorrow.” With that, he stalked creakily toward the stairs, box still gripped tightly to his chest.
“Grandfather,” Alice called after him. “Your dinner—”
“Send up a tray! And none of that warm milk rubbish. I’ll have a bottle of claret.”
When he’d disappeared into the gallery, Alice turned to the right-hand ox. “Where did you find him?”
“My west field. Knee deep in mud.”
“And Mr. O’Neill?”
“Danny Leary’s seeing him home. No harm done.”
Alice nodded. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I . . . we are so very grateful. Will you come in for a glass of something?”
The ox shook his head. “Best not. The missus will be waiting up for me.” The grin he’d clearly been working hard to suppress spread across his face. “He’s determined, he is, Miss Ashe. Nearly curled my ears, cursing at me.”
“Yes, I am sorry—”
“Ah, now, don’t you be apologizing. No blood shed and ’twas as lively a night as I’ve seen this fortnight and more. Eh, Finn?” His companion grinned and nodded. Sullivan bowed awkwardly. “We’ll be off then. M’lady. Miss Ashe.” And, belatedly, to Gareth. “Sir. ’Tis a grand thing to see you’ve come home.” Then, still chuckling faintly, he left.
Gareth had no idea what had just transpired, but he was weary enough from travel and homecoming not to care. Besides, the man’s parting had been as pleasant as Clarissa’s welcome. The number of people glad to see him home had just equaled the contrary, even if one was a stranger . . .
“Was that Tommy Sullivan? That behemoth? But he can’t be more than sixteen . . .”
“More like twenty-four,” Alice said coolly.
“Good God. Amazing what happens when a fellow leaves home.”
“Isn’t it? Years pass, families alter, boys grow to men . . .”
He searched her face for anger. All he saw was cool calm. “Alice . . .” He wasn’t certain what he was meant to say, but decided best to get it out of the way. He had a whiskey decanter nearly in his sights. “Perhaps we—”
“If you will excuse me, sir. I leave you in the lady of the house’s capable hands.” Alice kissed her sister, kissed one of her own fingertips and brushed it over Clarissa’s bump, then headed for the stairs. She paused at the first step. “If you are hungry, I will arrange to have a tray sent up to your room.”
“No,” he replied, a bit sullenly even to his own ears. “Thank you.”
“As you wish. Good night, then. Breakfast is at eight. We don’t keep town hours here.” With that, she turned her back and disappeared up the stairs.
Well, he mused, what had he expected? A feast featuring a fatted calf? Open arms and starry smiles. Perhaps he had, he conceded. Or perhaps he’d known better all along.
He turned to find Clarissa studying him. Or, rather, surveying his attire, her pert nose wrinkled in obvious distaste. Perhaps his coat and breeches were a bit the worse for wear, but it had been a long day in the saddle, after several interminable weeks of travel. Seeing her in stark black, with that disconcerting bulge at her middle tugged at his conscience, though damned if he knew why. He’d come, hadn’t he?
“Perhaps you ought to take your grandfather’s advice and . . . er . . . sit down.”
She smiled. “I think I will retire, actually. I haven’t my usual liveliness of late. You will be here in the morning, won’t you?”
“Of course.” For the moment, at least, he had nowhere to go.
“Good. Sleep well, Gareth. I am glad you’ve come home.” She dimpled at him and he smiled back. “Alice is wonderful, to be sure, but she is not the most diverting creature. You are certain to amuse me endlessly.” Then she, too, was gone, leaving Gareth standing alone in the middle of the cold foyer.
“Welcome, and be damned,” he muttered aloud, startling the maid who had appeared from the back hall.
He promptly sent her off to find him a bottle of whiskey, then followed her upstairs. She led him to the room he had occupied until he’d left home. It was just as elegant as he remembered, reasonably comfortable, and completely devoid of anything personal. He wondered what had happened to his possessions: his models of ships, his books, the special globe that opened to show a map of the heavens painted inside.
Weary, but knowing he wouldn’t sleep, he crossed the room and drew back the curtains. The sky was still heavy, opaque from the day’s rain. But he knew what he would see had it been clear. The constellations: Draco, Perseus, Cassiopeia, the two Bears. And their stars, the names as mysterious and exotic as the lands he had eventually followed them to: Arcturus, Miram, Betelgeuse, Alula Borealis. And of course Polaris, the North Star. The star of sailors and explorers and long-departed wanderers. He had followed Polaris, in a way, as he’d come from Greece. Westward leading Polaris, guiding him back to a place where he had never really belonged and had no desire to be now.
Bottle in hand, careful not to spill any of its precious contents, he dropped back onto the bed and stared at the canopy. God help him if Clarissa’s child was a girl. If it was, the best case scenario was that he would forget thirty years of stargazing and take to howling at the moon.
Down the hall, Alice turned away from her own window. She drew her dressing gown more tightly around her. She was cold, despite the fire still burning merrily in the grate. She’d been standing by the icy window for too long, looking at the blank sky. Perseus, Cassiopeia, Andromeda. How many nights had she and Gareth stood under the stars, naming them, trying to outdo each other at recounting the myths connected to the constellations—the more dramatic and bloody and lovelorn the better. She had cherished every minute.
Alice had adored Gareth Blackwell from the first time she saw him, striding into his mother’s drawing room wi
th all the brash confidence of his twelve years, whistling and trailing mud in his wake. He’d been so beautiful, so totally unconcerned with his mother’s pinch-lipped annoyance. Alice, eight years old, newly orphaned and handed into her grandfather’s loving if inept care, had been dazzled.
Perhaps it was that he was the younger son, second in everyone’s attention to his brother. Left behind when Arthur went to Eton, left in general to the care of indifferent tutors and fond but unchallenging servants. Perhaps he had genuinely liked her. Either way, he had cheerfully accepted her adoration, allowed her to tag after him whenever they met, eventually become her dearest friend. She had adored him from the first time they met. She had fallen head over heels in love with him six years later.
It had taken a further two years, two years of her wishing upon daisies and dandelions and stars. Two years of walks in Kilcullen woods and nights watching the skies, of the neighborhood winking and smiling and whispering young love. But at last he’d kissed her. Once. Days before he left. Her last view of Gareth until tonight had been of him racing toward Dublin and beyond on his father’s best horse, his laughter trailing in his wake.
Alice had had eight years to plan for this. Eight Christmases from the first, the first he didn’t come home. It had taken her two to accept he wasn’t coming back to her, three more to stop longing. But she had stopped longing. She’d had to. The alternative, that of years spent yearning for him, heartsick, had been too much for her practical head. So she had tried to forget how sweet her dreams had been, and when she couldn’t forget, tried to remember with the fond detachment of adulthood.
And how very successful she had been. When sporadic news came of him, she listened attentively but without emotion. She expressed her pleasure at his success in the navy, was relieved when he sold out without having been wounded, followed his sporadic missives to his family as he wandered the world.
And eventually, no one looked at her with pity when his name was mentioned. People stopped commenting on the irony of the elder Blackwell boy marrying the younger Ashe girl, when their siblings had been the ones expected to wed someday.
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 8
