Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  “Good day,” he greeted them.

  “G’day, sir.” The youngest, a girl, reached out a hesitant hand to touch Cinn’s muzzle. She laughed as the horse gave her fingers an affectionate nibble. “ ’E’s pretty. What’s ’is name?”

  “Cinniúint,” Gareth replied, and was startled by a cackling laugh from behind him.

  An old woman walked toward them, arms full of kindling. She was tiny, weathered, but gave an impression of surprising vitality. “Cinniúint is it? And what would you be knowing about Fate, young man?”

  “Probably not nearly enough, madam,” he replied, and dismounted.

  She approached him until her nose was a mere six inches from his coat buttons. To Gareth’s surprise, she reached out a bony finger and prodded him in the chest. “You’re after denying yours,” she snapped. “Always have done.”

  “Madam—”

  “Tost!” she shushed him. “Do you know what a second chance looks like?”

  Amused, deciding this fortune teller was far more diverting than most, Gareth shook his head. “I fear I do not, madam. Perhaps you will tell me.”

  She snorted. “As if I’d be knowing that. I’ve never needed one, m’self. But you’d best have a care. Fighting what’s meant to be is more dangerous than trying for the stars. The door’s closing, young man. Best decide which side you’re to be on.”

  Gareth waited. When she said nothing further, he demanded, “That’s it?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that I’m to have my heart’s desire by the New Year—or tumble into a well on Twelfth Night? Come now, madam.”

  She poked him again, but chuckled. “Saucy boy. Well, as to the first, ’tis possible, I suppose, though I’ve no faith in the quickness of your head. As for the other, watch how much ale you swill. Or stay away from wells. Sin é. That is all.”

  Gareth reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. She waved them away. “ ’Tis the season for charity, so have my words and welcome.” Then she gathered up her wood and trundled off.

  He handed a half crown to each child. “Happy Christmas, sir,” they chorused.

  “Happy Christmas,” he said absently and, remounting Cinn, continued on his way.

  Well, he mused as he crested the hill, advice and fortunes alike were worth precisely what one paid for them. He thought Alice would have been most diverted by the encounter. Perhaps he would tell her about it.

  Then again, he thought, perhaps not.

  No sooner had he decided not to speak to Alice than she drove into view. Bundled in copious wool head to toe, scarcely visible among the piles of baskets filling the dog cart, she was unmistakable. And if the pace with which she was driving her pony was any indication, she was in something of a hurry.

  Alice almost lost her grip on the reins when Gareth loomed up nearly in her path. She pulled the pony to an ungainly halt and pushed several feet of wool muffler off her face. “It isn’t wise to leap onto the road like that. Someone might mistake you for An Cú and shoot you.”

  Oh, he was handsome when he laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled; his wonderful mouth curved like a harp. “The Hound, if I am not mistaken, rides only at night. And I daresay you’re doing his job for him, taking from the rich and delivering to the common folk.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps then he will take his job back.”

  Alice hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but she was tired, rushed, and having Gareth dash up like, yes, a romantic and fabled highwayman was wreaking havoc on her calm. He leaned in; she skittered away from him and got a raised brow for it.

  “Would you like some help, Alice?”

  “Help?”

  “Mmm. You know: assistance, aid, a strong back and ready hands.”

  She liked his hands. “I know what it means, Gareth.”

  “Yes, you’re a clever elf. You know what it means, but seldom ask. It’s not a sin to need help on occasion.”

  Not a sin, of course, but if she didn’t fill her time, if she weren’t the one to be relied upon . . . what would she have left?

  Alice let out her breath in a soft sigh, took a tiny leap of faith. “Thank you. I would be glad of your assistance.”

  “Splendid. Lead on.”

  They carried on, Gareth keeping pace with the cart. “What time shall we leave tonight?”

  “Tonight . . . ?”

  “For the Christmas join. I’ve received no end of invitations and assumed you would be attending.”

  “I . . . yes, of course. And you intend to go?”

  “Certainly. Food, drink, singing carols and Donal Clancy on the bodhran. Who would want to miss it?”

  Who indeed, Alice thought, stunned that he was even considering joining the join. Who indeed. It was just the sort of entertainment she would have expected him to shun: rustic, traditional, and tied so thoroughly to Kilcullen. “Gareth, are you teasing me?”

  “Teasing you?”

  “About tonight. You are not truly going—”

  “I’ve said I was. For heaven’s sake, Alice, what are you going on about . . . ? Ah. I think I understand. Whether I wish to go is less important than whether others wish me to stay away. Fine.”

  “No!” she nearly shouted. Then again, more gently, “No. That isn’t it at all. You’ll be welcome and no question. In fact, I think it marvelous that you wish to attend. I am merely surprised.”

  He actually looked hurt, an emotion Alice didn’t think she’d ever seen in him before. “Is it as laughable as I suspect? The thought of me finding a moment’s peace of mind in Kildare? Finding that there is an essence of home for me?”

  “Not at all. Don’t be silly. There isn’t a door here that isn’t open to you.”

  “What did you say?” he demanded sharply.

  “There isn’t a door . . . Oh, you don’t believe me. I’m sorry for that, sorry for questioning you. But I’ll show you.”

  And she did. In each house they entered, they were welcomed warmly. There was deference in people’s attitude toward Gareth, of course there was. He was the son of the old lord. He was perhaps the next one. But there was friendly interest, too, and an acceptance past earls had never received.

  Gareth, for his part, lost a little more of his reserve with each basket they delivered. At the Nolans’, he stood stiffly inside the door while she delivered the basket and chatted with the family. At the Whites’, he graciously accepted the offer of a cup of cider and seat at the scarred table. And in the midst of the chaos that was the MacNeils’, he crouched in the dirt yard for a few minutes to play mumblety-peg with three of the couple’s sons, then joined the adults inside for eggnog and a plate of Mrs. MacNeil’s gingerbread.

  Alice wasn’t in a hurry anymore. In fact, she wished she hadn’t delivered most of the baskets during the past two days. She was savoring every minute, and the minutes flew by.

  Too soon, they were home again. Gareth handed cart and Cinn over to Macatee and followed Alice to the back door. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for the help.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  She believed him. Enough to press, “None of it is so bad as you feared, is it? The people like you, Gareth. They were deferent to your father, respectful of Arthur, but they welcome you. I cannot speak for your peace of mind, but Kilcullen is your home.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a humorless laugh. “I suppose it might once have been. If things had been different. But not now.”

  “Gareth—”

  “I’m not what Kilcullen needs, Alice,” he muttered. “I am not Kilcullen.”

  What a terrible shame he thought so, she mused sadly as he stalked away. Because, as far as she was concerned, he was precisely what and where he should be.

  6

  The last ball Gareth had attended had been in the Welsh castle belonging to the Duke of Llans. He’d served with the duke’s brother in the navy, and it hadn’t taken much coaxing on his friend’s part to get him to go. T
he guests had come from as far afield as Russia. For Gareth, whose ship was moored at Port Enyon, it had been a short trip and an extremely decadent one. For more than a sennight, he had reveled among the highest aristocracy of the land, not to mention two deposed sovereigns of foreign lands and one current one. The clothing had all been in the first fashion and frequently jewel-encrusted, the food prepared by chefs who’d fled Versailles, the music composed for the occasion by the German composer Beethoven. Gareth had been paired at whist with a Russian princess, had discussed the war with an exiled French marquis. He’d eaten tiny quail eggs stuffed with caviar and drunk wine smuggled from the Spanish royal cellars. He had fallen a little bit in love with his hostess, Susan, the Duchess of Llans.

  None of it compared to the spectacle before him now.

  The upstairs room of Kilcullen’s little inn was filled to bursting, without so much as a baron in sight. Instead, potato farmers rubbed elbows with clerks. The vicar was forehead to forehead in conversation with the knacker. All were garbed in Sunday best, scrubbed and brushed and polished. It didn’t matter in the least that copious amounts of soap and water hadn’t quite erased the aroma of the farmyard.

  And there was more. A motley collection of foodstuffs filled the tables: pots of colcannon, roasted beets, mutton, and plum puddings. Gareth had himself peered into a pot containing something that smelled delectable, but looked like worms. The ale flowed freely; one’s glass never reached the half-empty point without someone hurrying to fill it.

  His musical comrades from the pub were there, joined by more fiddles, uillean pipes, goatskin bodhran drums. A tiny space had been cleared off to the side for dancing. It had expanded to cover half the floor and even now a little man with a solemn face and elbows like knives was doing a high-stepping jig that bounced him repeatedly off Gareth’s side. Children darted in and out among the revelers, sneaking biscuits, gingerbread, and the occasional sip of ale from the tables.

  Gareth wondered if first his parents and later Arthur had been invited to these Christmas celebrations. Perhaps, but they certainly wouldn’t have come. They might have sent a keg of something, or a side of beef, but the Earls of Kilcullen had never mingled among their tenants. The idea of breaking bread with a farmer would have been laughable.

  “Ah, you’ve no plate, Mr. Blackwell!” Clucking her tongue, Mary Sullivan disappeared for a moment, only to return bearing a plate so laden with meat and potato and onion that she was using two hands to carry it. “There you go, then.” She beamed and shoved it into his grasp.

  “Silly woman!” her husband chided, grinning. “Are you after making him sick? There’s enough there to feed the lot of us.” He deftly removed the plate, replacing it with an overflowing tankard of cider so potent that Gareth could smell it coming. “This’ll see you right.”

  This, Gareth decided, would see him flat on his back within the hour. He took a few sips, then found himself empty-handed, but only momentarily, as old Mrs. White replaced the tankard with a massive slab of Christmas fruitcake. “ ’Twill make you sweet,” she informed him, eyes twinkling, “and the girls will follow you like bees to honey.”

  Heeding no message his brain was sending, Gareth’s eyes slewed to Alice. She was dancing, had been dancing almost from the moment they’d arrived. She had scarcely put a foot inside the door when Mr. Halloran, the prim, black-clad solicitor, had swept her out onto the floor and into a merry reel. From there she’d gone into the hands of the vicar and a country dance, through another several sets with young men too hale and hopeful for Gareth’s taste. And now she was hand in hand with three other women, doing a series of graceful, quick-stepping moves that spoke of centuries of Irish céilís and boundless hearts. Gareth had no idea where Alice had learned traditional Irish dance. He had a very good idea that he could watch her for a very long time.

  Pink-cheeked, eyes bright, her hair slowly freeing itself from its pins, she looked like a wild Irish girl, the sort that bards and poets and distant sailors sang of. She looked very much like she belonged in the midst of these cheerful, simple people. But then, Gareth mused, one of Alice’s great strengths had always been her ability to bend with the wind. She would no doubt seem just as much at home wherever she was, whomever she was with. That was Alice.

  The song ended. Alice and her companions skipped to a laughing halt. Gareth saw several young men approach and thought he might have to interfere. But Alice shook her head and slipped from the floor. Gareth lost sight of her in the crowd. He wasn’t much of a dancer, had never been given instruction or had a great inclination to learn. He thought he could manage a country dance, however, and would coax Alice into dancing it with him.

  He was distracted for several minutes as people thrust more food and drink in his direction. Tommy Sullivan bent his ear on the subject of building a paddock; Finn O’Toole wanted to hear again how in Africa, goat was a staple food. When Gareth looked for Alice again, it was to see her sitting with her grandfather and a brilliantly white-haired gentleman who was dressed to the nines in fashions of the last century: green brocade coat, yellow satin knee breeches, ruffles at his throat. He ought to have looked out of place in the gathering, but he had a plate of mutton stew on one knee, a tankard balanced on the other. He was nodding along to the music, completely off the rhythm, and appeared happy as a stoat. Curious, Gareth made his way over.

  Alice’s heart gave a cheery little thump at the sight of him. She couldn’t help it. His cravat was loose, a lock of midnight-dark hair had fallen onto his brow, and he had a spot of what might have been apple tart on the lapel of his coat.

  “You appear to be enjoying yourself,” she commented.

  He grinned. “I am being fed into submission.”

  “Yes, well, that’s an Irish party. Ah, you haven’t met Mr. O’Neill.” She gestured to the man beside her grandfather. “Mr. O’Neill?” Then louder, “Mr. O’Neill?”

  The man jumped. Alice suspected her grandfather had just prodded him in the ribs. “Eh? Ah, the prodigal son. Reggie’s been telling me about you. Home to stay, I trust. Man can’t gad about all his life. Bad for the heart.”

  Gareth darted Alice a look, but bowed politely as she made the introductions. “Mr. O’Neill is the music critic for the Freeman’s Journal in Dublin.”

  “Is that so? Are you enjoying the music tonight, sir?”

  “Nay, nay, not at all, young man. I’m here for the music!” To her grandfather, O’Neill muttered, “Shove over, Reggie. Let the boy sit.”

  Gareth did. Alice could have taken pity on him, but she decided to let him attempt conversation with the rather deaf O’Neill. And he tried, gallantly, for several minutes. Only after his query as to the man’s journey from Clane had been met with the reply, “Fish? Only on Friday, boy,” did he give up.

  The musicians struck up a familiar tune. Treasa Clancy took a seat beside her husband and began to sing in a sweet, strong voice that carried above the chatter and laughter. One by one, people fell silent. Then, one after another, new voices joined in.

  “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two turtle doves . . .”

  Alice would have loved to sing along, but she knew better. She had a voice like a wet cat in a tin drum. Instead, she let the more able do the singing and mouthed the words to herself.

  Gareth leaned closer. “This is a rather English tune for an Irish gathering,” he commented dryly.

  She smiled. “Not at all, actually. Where were you through all the caroling of your childhood?”

  “Knowing my parents, you need to ask? They’d send a servant out with a few coins to pay the wassailers not to continue.”

  “What a pity.” Yet again, Alice’s heart ached for the lovely, lively little boy who’d been forced to grow to manhood in such a cold home. “Well, the ‘Twelve Days’ is an Irish song to the core, written when Catholicism was a crime. Each gift stood for a teaching of the Church. The song could be sung right beneath the noses of the Protestant interlopers without them
having any idea how they were being fooled. Very clever and rather wonderful.”

  “You seem to forget that our ancestors were the Protestant interlopers.”

  She shrugged. “Times change. And I love the song.”

  “Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree . . .”

  “Tell me,” he coaxed and she wondered if she would remember it all.

  “The partridge in the pear tree is Christ in the manger—or on the Cross. The turtle doves are the Old and New Testaments. The three hens are Faith, Hope, and Charity; the four birds the four Gospels.”

  “Five golden rings . . .”

  She ticked the rest off on her fingers. “The first five books of the Old Testament, the six days of creation, the seven sacraments, eight beatitudes, nine orders of angels. Ten commandments, eleven faithful apostles, and the twelve articles of the Apostles’ Creed.”

  “Well, I’m impressed, Miss Ashe. You would have made a good Catholic.”

  “No,” she shot back tartly, “I should probably have made a very poor one, but I like a good story as much as anyone.”

  Once upon a time, there was an elf who lived in the ash tree woods near a great castle. She fell in love with the prince who lived there, but he left to go out into the world to seek his fortune . . .

  Alice shook her head, annoyed with herself. It had been a great many years since she had thought to live a fairy tale. Since she’d lost her father, certainly. He had been the one for fairy tales. She had tried to carry on, to spin magical stories for Clarissa, who had expected her life to go happily ever after. Alice had grown pragmatic. Clarissa, she thought fondly, still believed.

  “On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .”

  If all went as expected, Clarissa would have her baby by Twelfth Night. By that twelfth day of Christmas, so much would be decided. Boy or girl, Kilcullen or London. Whether Gareth would stay a bit longer or leave as soon as the christening was done.