She must have. “Youth is its own excuse.”
“As good as any, I suppose. But thank you.” He had a feeling she’d just excused more than adolescent intellectual blathering. “Now, would you care to tell me why we’re here? To reminisce?”
“No, actually. I thought I would come look for the bloc na nollag.”
She hadn’t planned on choosing a Christmas log so soon. Something in his face, however, as he’d faced her over the dining table, had put the idea in her head. Gareth needed to be out of the house. That hadn’t changed. Beyond that, he needed to see the estate again. Altogether too soon, it might be his. Best to start with the good memories, and the woods were the best place to start.
“There.” She pointed to a fallen branch. “How about that one?”
He guided her over, snorted at her choice. “Too small. It needs to fill the hall hearth.”
“Very well, then. That one.”
Too thin, too lumpy, too rotted. They tromped over the mossy earth, surveying log after log. Any number would have done, but they had slipped back into the amicable bickering of years past. As Gareth rolled his eyes at yet one more of her choices, Alice smiled to herself. Then laughed scornfully at his.
Perhaps, she thought, perhaps he would stay. Perhaps. And perhaps they would be friends again.
“There! That is our log.” Gareth removed her hand from his arm, lifted her by both elbows, and swung her to face a massive, craggy beast of a log. It was nearly as tall as the fireplace and easily twice as wide. Alice told him so. “We’ll cut it to fit,” he announced. “Now tell me it’s perfect.”
“It’s perfect.”
Nodding in satisfaction, Gareth drew a handkerchief from his pocket and, with a flourish, spread it over the top of the log. Then he lifted her again and settled her on the makeshift seat. Alice regarded her feet, dangling a good foot from the ground, and laughed.
“I must look like a little girl!”
He stepped back, stared at her. “You look,” he said eventually, voice low, “like a wood elf among the greenery.”
Her pulse skittered. “Gareth—”
“Yes, yes, I know. You dislike being called an elf.”
True, she always had. Until now. And he so obviously hadn’t meant anything by it. Certainly hadn’t meant to . . . unsettle her. She slid down from her perch and handed him his handkerchief.
“I’ll send some boys out to fetch this.” She patted the log, then dusted her hands briskly on her skirts. “I should be getting back. There’s so much to do. The gift baskets, menus, gifts . . .”
Gareth stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged and tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “You’ve taken on too much, you know.”
“It’s Christmas. Someone has to manage things.”
She hadn’t meant to sound as sharp as she did. He’d rattled her. And she, apparently, had just needled him.
“It isn’t me, Alice,” he said shortly.
“Not yet, perhaps. But the estate, the title—”
“Arthur’s. Arthur’s baby’s. I don’t want it. Any of it. I never did.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But you might not have a choice.”
For a moment he looked ready to yell. Then, slowly, his lip uncurled, his shoulders relaxed. “Don’t prod me, Alice. And don’t try to bolster me into some noble resignation. You’ll only be wasting your time and your breath.”
“Fine.” For a moment she wanted to yell. “Fine.” She sighed instead and managed a smile. “Shall we go home?”
She thought she heard him mutter something about home, but took his advice and neither prodded nor commiserated. She took his arm, warm and corded with muscle beneath her hand, and started back toward the house. In the distance, she could see a farm wagon wending its way toward Kilcullen village.
“Tell me something,” Gareth commanded as they went.
“If I can.”
“Why was your grandfather in Tommy Sullivan’s field last night?”
She had expected him to ask sooner or later. She debated lying, but couldn’t see why.
“He was dueling.”
“What?”
“Dueling. Or at least pretending. He and Thaddeus O’Neill try to blast at each other at every opportunity.”
“Good Lord, why?”
Alice shrugged. “I’ve never been entirely clear on the matter, but it has something to do with an argument they had. Forty-three years ago. Or was it forty-four?” She smiled at his incredulous expression. “Yes, well, they both consider it an enduring matter of honor.” And pleasure, she thought. Both entertaining and serious enough to have them sneaking about like brigands on their illegal ventures.
“For forty-odd years? Good Lord, that seems rather a lot of hatred to carry with you.”
“Hatred? Oh, they’re very fond of each other. They’re also proud, determined, and endlessly foolish.”
“Why did I never hear of this?” Gareth demanded.
“You haven’t been here. As it happens, for decades, Mr. O’Neill was either in Dublin or Tullamore, so it was just a matter of keeping an eye on them on the several days a year when he passed through. But Mr. O’Neill’s grandniece married the Earl of Clane several years ago, and they spend the holidays at Clane. It’s close enough that Grandfather and Mr. O’Neill are able to meet nearly as often as they like.”
Gareth stopped and stared down at her. “Let me see if I understand this. Nearly half a century ago, they had a spat and have been dueling at every opportunity since. Correct me if I am wrong, but the purpose of a duel is to settle the matter in one shot, so to speak.”
“You are absolutely correct. But neither has been shot, so they feel they must keep at it.”
“Good Lord, Alice. You seem almost amused.”
“Resigned, perhaps. Never amused.” She shrugged again, certainly not about to explain to this man how each time her grandfather went missing, she feared the worst. Went cold with the thought of losing yet another man she loved. “With each passing year, the chances of them actually striking each other has diminished. My grandfather is seventy-nine, Mr. O’Neill a few years older. And someone always brings them home.”
“Brings them home. Not as yet stretched out on a board. Honestly, Alice.”
Exasperated, she faced him squarely. “Do you believe adventurous spirits belong only to the young? You probably do.” She blew out a breath. “What would you have me do, Gareth? We cannot prevent people from doing foolish things just because we wish it. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“Now, elf—”
“Don’t,” she said sharply, then carefully softened her tone. “I haven’t the energy or desire to argue with you, Gareth. May we declare an entente and simply be pleasant to one another?”
“Of course.” He offered his arm again, the picture of politeness.
As they went, Alice couldn’t help but notice that the trees above them were full of mistletoe. Gareth didn’t look up at all.
4
Gareth arrived back at the house just in time to change his clothes and join the Ashes in the drawing room. He’d escorted Alice home, then headed straight for the stables. He found his old horse, Cinn, contentedly munching oats in a box stall. And he found Macatee: still head groom, still ginger-haired and ruddy-faced, still shouting at his underlings, so glad to see Gareth that he lifted his cap with enough enthusiasm to send it flying. Then he barked at his minions, sending them scattering, and ushered Gareth into the warm tack room.
They shared a bottle of nutty local ale, something they had done so many times before, quietly, the earl’s son and the earl’s servant. And Gareth, lounging in a battered chair, legs up on a saddle rest, basked in the welcome. More fatherly than his father, Macatee had been the one to teach him to ride, to drink, to sing bawdy tunes. And to care for the four-legged denizens of the estate. Even now, several dogs of indeterminate breed snored on beds of horse blankets. A little ginger cat leaped into Gareth’s lap. He
stroked it absently as he recounted his travels to Macatee.
He had ridden wild horses in Andalusia, swum with dolphins among the Cyclades. He hadn’t been quite so keen on Egyptian camels; they smelled. But he’d made a peace of sorts with the one that carried him along the banks of the Nile. And had been reluctantly reminded of Alice each time the stubborn creature batted its impossibly long eyelashes just before head-butting him.
After his time with Macatee, he saddled Cinn himself and did a slow tour of the estate. Nothing really had changed. He supposed it was new grass greening the hollows, new moss blanketing the trees and the standing stones. But it looked just like the old moss, and the standing stones hadn’t changed in thousands of years.
As a youth, Gareth had been able to embellish Kilcullen land with his fantasies. Now it just stretched before him out of sight. Rather like the years, he couldn’t help but muse, should he inherit.
He took a late luncheon in a small pub, served by the owner himself, who said little but beamed all the while. Then he rode back toward the house, into the forest, and climbed an ancient oak tree, where he passed the end of the afternoon wondering when he would see the sea again. He had never seen stars like those he’d found while sailing the Mediterranean. As the months passed, he found every constellation he had ever known. And he thought every December to write to Alice, to tell her. But each time he abandoned the idea. He hadn’t known what he could possibly say, as it would never be that he was coming home.
In the end, as he made his way north from Greece, he ended up following the stars.
Now, in fresh clothing, pleasantly tired and hungry, he wandered downstairs to join the Ashes for the requisite predinner gathering. He hadn’t noticed before, but the house looked slightly different than it had when he’d left. The paint looked fresh, the wood paler and glossier. A few notable pieces of the heavy Gothic furniture his parents had favored had disappeared from the hallways. In their places were smaller, lighter tables and chests he recalled from his early childhood when his grandmother had still been in residence.
There was a massive, full-length portrait of his brother on the stairway landing. It was an Arthur Gareth had never known: a bit portly, uniformed, whiskers coming to a point nearly halfway to his nose. And next to that picture was one of Gareth himself. It was the last one painted, the year before he left. God, how young he looked. It was a good picture, he mused now. The painter had been talented, and astute. The window behind the boy he’d once been was open, with green fields stretching to the horizon; his hand rested on his heavens-and-earth globe. His eyes didn’t meet the viewer’s, but looked toward something beyond.
He wondered who had hung the pair there. Their old portraits had been in the gallery when he left: Arthur front and center, he well off to one side. His parents wouldn’t have bothered moving them. It was their images that had adorned this space. Perhaps Clarissa . . .
“I hope you don’t mind.”
He glanced down to find Alice at the bottom of the sweeping stairs. She had changed into a pale yellow dress that glowed slightly in the waning light. “Mind?”
“That we moved your parents. It seemed right at the time.” Her lips curved. “And, with all due respect to the departed, it grew a bit wearing to be frowned upon each time one went up or down the stairs.”
He knew exactly what she meant. “A nice landscape might have been a better choice.” But he smiled back. “The house is different.”
“Oh, not so very,” she insisted quickly. “We’ve only moved a few things, changed some upholstery—”
“Alice.” He walked down to join her. “You don’t have to explain. I don’t particularly care. And it is Clarissa’s right to do as she pleases. Although”—he stared intently into the little upturned face, so pretty and so easy to read—“I daresay Clarissa has done little, unless she got it into her head to redo the countess’s chambers in pink and gilt, with rampaging cherubs and red-cheeked china spaniels.”
Alice laughed. “Shepherdesses, actually. She doesn’t much care for dogs.” She gestured toward the drawing room. “I was just going in. Clarissa and my grandfather will be glad to see you.”
Clarissa, certainly. Gareth wasn’t so certain of Sir Reginald. Their only meeting thus far had involved vague threats of violence.
Alice watched the emotions play across his face: amusement, resignation. Clearly he wasn’t looking forward to the evening. She wondered if he was looking forward to anything, save leaving. As they headed to the drawing room, she darted a quick glance up at the portrait, then at the man beside her. Still so handsome, but grown so hard. She regretted snapping at him earlier. It served no purpose and only made her feel small. And tired, as if she were going head-on into a stiff wind.
“Gareth!” Clarissa brightened at the sight of him. “At last. I am so terribly bored and no one seems to care. Alice will keep flitting in and out of the room and Grandfather has not yet come down. Do come tell me what you did today!”
He crossed the room to take a seat beside the sofa. “I toured the estate, actually.”
“How dismal. And what else?”
“Well, I helped your sister find a Christmas log in the woods.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Oh, Gareth, how dull that must have been.”
Perhaps for him, Alice thought, but not for her. For her, it had been illuminating. And rather lovely while it lasted.
“It wasn’t a day in London,” Gareth replied with a smile. Clarissa’s eyes lit, as they always did, at the mention of London. “But it wasn’t a bad day at all. Would you care to hear more? I wandered through the village, saw a few members of the neighborhood, and a great many sheep.”
That, Alice decided, must not have been particularly interesting. In fact, it was probably enough to send him running back to the Continent. “You must have seen how Kilcullen has grown,” she offered. “The Ingrams have opened a bookshop and there is even a haberdashery of sorts.” As if an extra shop or two might make a provincial little backwater more appealing to a man who’d seen most of the capitals of Europe. “Lord Clane has been known to purchase gloves there when passing through. And Arthur was even able to have his uniforms made at Doolan’s.”
Gareth turned toward her. He looked mildly amused, as if he knew precisely what she was doing. Which he very probably did. “I’ve found I prefer Italian leather and French tailors, but should I find myself in need of anything, I shall know precisely where to go.”
Alice sighed to herself. Years ago she would have bantered back, taking him to task for wearing coats worn through at the elbows or boots so battered that they sagged. As a boy he’d been untidy, as an adolescent carelessly disheveled. Now, even had she still felt easy enough to tease, it would have been forced. In his dark blue superfine coat and fawn breeches, he appeared precisely what he was: a well-heeled gentleman far better suited to Rome and Paris than rural Ireland.
“I suppose you’ll have to give some custom to the local merchants,” Clarissa announced breezily. “Support the tenants, and all that. But of course you’ll be in London during the season. Arthur did so love to tell me about the session in Lords. Goodness, I wish he hadn’t. There is no conversation quite so dreadful as politics.”
Gareth’s mouth had thinned at the mention of Parliament. Yet one more duty that went with the title. He’d always declared himself a Whig, supporting Irish independence from England and sending his arch-conservative father into sputtering fits. Alice knew the Earls of Kilcullen had been Tories since time immemorial. She also knew that much as the young Gareth had believed in his ideologies, he had never once considered fighting for them on the benches of Parliament. If nothing else, the Honorable Gareth Blackwell loathed sitting still.
“Perhaps,” he said after a moment, tone deceptively bland, “I will merely be accompanying a nephew to Astley’s.”
“Escorting a sister-in-law and niece to Gunther’s!” Clarissa shot back and in that moment Alice had a very clear idea of how bumpy the r
ide ahead was going to be. Who has the most to lose will be the one to gain. Someone was going to be made very unhappy by the birth of this child. And that was very, very sad. Her eyes strayed to the holly garlands and pine boughs decorating the room.
Happy Christmas, she wished herself, and sighed.
Fortunately, her grandfather chose that moment to totter into the room. He’d glared at her over breakfast, grunted at her at luncheon, and patted her absently on the head now. He never held a sulk for long. Alice would have been delighted, had not his returned cheer usually meant he was plotting his next escape.
“What’s for dinner?” he demanded of Clarissa who, as usual, had no idea.
“Roast pheasant,” Alice informed him.
“Splendid, splendid.” He made his way to the drinks table and poured himself a large sherry. “Drink, boy?” he asked Gareth.
“I, ah . . . thank you.”
Alice had a very good idea that Gareth had expected a scolding, or to be threatened again with a good caning. He might still get it, but for the moment Sir Reginald seemed content with merely pouring him a considerably smaller draught of sherry than his own. Not that Gareth would mind that much. He had always been more of an ale sort. He accepted the sherry with only the smallest grimace.
Sir Reginald settled himself creakily into the chair beside Alice. “You look peaky, girl. Not getting ill, are you?”
“No, Grandfather. I am quite well.”
“You do look rather colorless,” Clarissa added her opinion, albeit fondly, “though I suppose not much more so than usual. Has she not altered greatly since you saw her last, Gareth? I am forever encouraging her to put a bit of color in her cheeks, but she will not heed me.”
He dutifully gave her a careful perusal and Alice wondered if her immediate flush would satisfy her sister’s demand for color. She wondered, too, how Gareth could possibly answer. As much as he had always teased her privately, he would never be so callous as to do so in public. Yes, she had changed and, for the first time, felt a sharp tug of sadness for her lost bloom.
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 10
