Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  “Alice.”

  She had grown so accustomed to having him about. Accustomed to the sight of him, tousled and not quite awake at breakfast, to the sound of his boot heels ringing in the hall as he hurried into the drawing room at night. Accustomed to him saying her name.

  “Alice.”

  “Hmm?” She blinked, then turned to find his face close enough to hers that she could see the faint lines that fanned from his eyes. Time in the sun, she thought, on board a ship or traversing a golden desert. Oh, yes, they were the eyes of a roving lad: sun-touched and bright and just a little wicked.

  “Dance with me, elf,” he said softly, and Alice’s pulse thrummed.

  “I . . . I don’t think—”

  “No, don’t. If you do, you’ll recall that I have two left feet and no sense of timing. Just come along. Excuse us, sirs,” he said to their companions, both of whom were otherwise occupied with draining their tankards, and pulled Alice to her feet.

  He danced very well indeed. Guiding her through the lilting country dance, he was graceful, confident, and a pleasure to behold. As Alice wove in and out of the set, returning again and again to the warmth of his grasp, she silently corrected half of his assertion. He had two perfectly good feet, suited for dancing—and for wandering the world. His sense of timing, however, was poor indeed. He had come back into her life after eight years out of it, come back when she was calm and content. He had swept out of her past like a mischievous wind and blown her serenity to pieces.

  How could she ever have thought she wouldn’t fall in love with Gareth Blackwell a second time? She’d never stopped loving him in the first place.

  Stunned, heart pounding in her chest, she missed a step, then another. Gareth grinned at her and clasped her hand more firmly in his. “Tired, elf?” he teased, and it was all she could do to stay in the set. She wanted to run. Instead, she concentrated on the movement of her feet—step, turn, slide, step, turn, slide—until the music ended.

  She tugged her hand free. “Thank you,” she murmured, eyes on the floor. “I should . . . I must . . .” Then she fled.

  Gareth watched her go, bemused. He hadn’t stepped on her toes. He hadn’t teased or even made a dull comment on the weather. One moment she’d been beside him, little hand warm and nearly lost in his, and then . . . “Well,” he muttered, and started off after her.

  He didn’t get more than ten feet before the vicar’s wife appeared in his path. He’d met the woman twice. She prattled and, he suspected, used her impressively long nose to poke into everyone else’s affairs. Now she was nattering away and gesturing to a figure cowering behind her. “ . . . Miss Powers . . . without partner. Surely, sir, you would not shirk a gentleman’s duty . . .”

  The very young Miss Powers looked both mortified and hopeful. Gareth sighed and forced a smile. “It would be my honor.”

  By the time he had partnered Miss Powers, a Miss Skeffington, two Miss MacLeishes, and several giggling girls whose names he missed, an hour had passed. Alice, he saw, was seated in a far corner, flanked by two old ladies, a sleeping infant on her lap. He started briskly toward her, and nearly flattened little Mr. Dunleavy, the postmaster.

  “A moment of your time, Mr. Blackwell?” the man squeaked. “I’m thinking of putting a sty back of my house—bit of bacon now and again, you know, nothing too adventuresome—and was wondering if you had any words you might care to impart on swine . . .”

  Midnight had long since come and gone before Gareth found himself near Alice again—in the carriage on the way home. She sat, still and silent, beside her grandfather, who was snoring gently into his jabot before they’d left the inn’s yard. Gareth’s head was reeling from both the endless stream of farm talk and never-empty glass. It wasn’t a time for chatting. It was a time to mind his stomach and hope it didn’t betray him on the bumpy road. He was tired, nauseated, and convinced he hadn’t had a better night in a very long time. He had left the party with a steady stream of slaps on the back, wishes for a happy Christmas, and a slew of gifts from Kilcullen’s tenants. They were piled on the seat next to him, mainly things for Clarissa’s baby that kind souls had brought to the join: soft wool blankets, carved wooden animals, and tiny knitted caps. Gareth hadn’t even found it in himself to care that some of them were pink.

  Alice disappeared as soon as they reached the house, bidding him a soft good night and mumbling something about Clarissa waiting up for a report and gossip. Gareth helped her weaving grandfather up the stairs and to his chamber.

  “Thank you, young man,” Sir Reginald said with solemn dignity. Then he went facedown onto the bed and proceeded to snore again. Gareth removed his shoes, wrapped the counterpane around his diminutive form, then left him alone.

  He made his way to his own chamber and promptly decided that he wasn’t ready for bed. He dismissed his valet for the night, found his warmest coat, and headed for the roof. The air was crystal clear and cold enough to make his face tingle. It was a perfect night for stargazing.

  A footman had located a battered wooden armchair for Gareth earlier in the week and he settled himself in it now. The rim of the telescope’s eyepiece was icy cold. He rubbed it with his gloved fingers until it was warm enough to tolerate against his skin. Then he looked for Polaris.

  Sailor, sage, astronomer—through the ages, all knew to locate the North Star first. The rest would follow. And there it was, twinkling merrily down at him. Star light, star bright, first star I spy tonight. The nursery rhyme drifted into his head. How I wish with all my might to have this wish I wish tonight.

  And on Christmas Eve, too. Little Mrs. Nolan had stopped him on his way out the door, twinkled up at him. “Remember to make yourself a fine wish,” she had instructed him firmly. “No wish made on an Irish Christmas Eve goes unanswered.”

  What to wish for, then? There were enough possibilities to keep him busy until Christmas morning. For Clarissa to have a boy child, of course. Hadn’t that been his most fervent hope since learning of his brother’s death and her pregnancy? For passage back to Mikonos, olives and ouzo on a whitewashed terrace overlooking the Aegean. For the coming year to bring spring rains and summer sun to Kilcullen’s crops . . .

  Gareth pushed the telescope to the side. He leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the sky. The lens was a wonderful thing, but when one’s view was so narrow, one missed the entire picture. He found Polaris again. The North Star that guided wise men and shepherds to Bethlehem. Guided sailors home.

  Draco, Orion, Cassiopeia. Andromeda, who had been chained to a rock as a sacrifice to a sea monster. It suddenly occurred to Gareth that Alice was chained, too, in her own way. To Kilcullen, a home not her own, as a sacrifice to Kilcullen’s mistress, to a child that wasn’t born and wasn’t hers, either.

  Star light, star bright . . . A wish. For Alice . . .

  Gareth woke up with a start. He blinked, oriented himself, and discovered that it was early morning. He was chilled, stiff, and couldn’t feel his posterior at all. Grimacing, he levered himself from the hard chair and stomped some feeling back into his feet. Absurd, falling asleep sitting up, and outside, too. He had had plenty of these mornings during his time in the navy, a few more during his travels when too much drink had drowned out comfort and common sense. He tossed the canvas cover over the telescope. He would crawl into bed and grab a few hours of sleep.

  He wandered to the edge of the roof to stretch and take a quick look at Kilcullen in the early morning light. It was a beautiful sight, the hills and fields dusted with frost, a lone figure treading over the faintly glittering earth . . . Gareth looked again then, cursing, hurried back across the roof and swung down the ladder.

  By the time he reached the spot where he had spied Sir Reginald, the man was nowhere to be seen. But Gareth knew the direction he had been heading and he followed, muttering under his breath all the while. Ridiculous. Inexcusable. Two grown—no, old—men waving guns at each other, making Alice tense with worry, no matter how hard she tried t
o hide it. Gareth was damned if he was going to let her grandfather ruin this day for her. He was going to get the old coot home, over his shoulder if he had to, and back into bed before anyone knew he was missing.

  Gareth crossed briskly through the shadowy stone circle, broke into the light of the bordering field. There they were, the old fools, pacing dramatically away from each other. Thaddeus O’Neill was wearing an emerald green, ermine-trimmed velvet cape. Sir Reginald was shrouded in hairy wool from head to toe, ancient dueling pistol grasped in a gloved hand. Both were weaving slightly, whether from effects of the night’s revelry, age, or the uneven ground.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gareth muttered, and struck out across the field. “Sir Reginald!” he bellowed.

  He saw the man flinch, watched as he turned, nearly bobbled the gun, and caught it in both hands. Gareth heard the boom, saw the flash. He didn’t feel the impact. He did feel himself flying backward, felt the thump of his head against the earth. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he thought, perfectly clearly.

  Then everything went black.

  7

  Alice had risen with the rooster’s crowing and knelt now on the nursery floor among the gifts from the night before. How very generous the people of Kilcullen were. Clarissa had spoken to no more than a handful during her time as the Countess of Kilcullen, but dozens had given gifts to her unborn child.

  Colm Nolan had carved a set of little wooden sheep, no mean feat considering that his hands were gnarled from arthritis and half a century of hard work. His wife had knitted a cloud-soft wool blanket in an intricate pattern of traditional Celtic knots. There were more of these blankets, and tiny buntings, knitted with designs as old as the standing stones. And there were more wooden animals: sheep, cows, ducks, some painted, some on wheels with cords so they could be pulled along. Kilcullen itself was in the gifts: the trees and the animals, the rushes woven into St. Brigid’s crosses.

  Alice smoothed a little blue cap against her skirts. It was Nora Bergin’s work, and no surprise. The Bergins had five boys; there hadn’t been a pink object in that house in twenty years. Alice traced a finger along the soft edge. She couldn’t remember when she had given up the hope of having her own children. Some years ago, certainly. If she were honest, and this was one area where she’d been remarkably successful at lying to herself, she had put away her dreams the moment she’d realized Gareth wasn’t coming home. She had wrapped up her heart and her hopes and gone on with her day. Alice the Reliable. Alice the Adaptable. She had adapted to a life without Gareth; she’d kept her family from fraying at the loss of her parents, the loss of Arthur.

  She would hold herself together now.

  The blue cap joined the pile of boy’s clothes. She lifted a pink blanket to her cheek. So soft. Like the little person it would swaddle.

  “Isn’t that pretty.”

  Alice turned to see her sister in the doorway. “Mary Sullivan sent it. You’re up early.”

  “I’ve been sleeping so poorly.” Clarissa moved slowly into the room, one hand pressed to her back, and lowered herself into the rocking chair that sat beside the Kilcullen family cradle. “My back has been paining me all night.” She touched a hand to the cradle’s side, setting it to rocking slowly. “What a monstrosity.”

  It was a bit excessive, all frills and flounces and carved family crest. Alice smiled. “Ours wasn’t much better. I remember how very tiny you looked among all the lacy cushions. Mama was forever pretending she couldn’t find you so I could be the one to lift you out.”

  Clarissa stretched out her free hand and brushed it over Alice’s shoulder. “I know I’m a troublesome creature, Alice, and I want you to know that I do appreciate all you’ve done. All you’ve always done for me.”

  Alice felt tears welling in her eyes. These moments were rare for Clarissa, but all the more precious for their rarity. “You are a joy, darling. You always have been.”

  Clarissa rocked for a moment. “So much blue,” she sighed. “They all want me to produce the next earl.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s more a matter of what people think you want.”

  “But I never said I wished for a boy!”

  “Not to us, dearest, but the Nolans hardly know that.” Alice moved the pile of blue blankets to the side. “Anyway, it was never in your hands, nor theirs.”

  “No.” Clarissa rubbed a hand absently over her belly. “I shall take what I am given, I suppose. Ah, and don’t you be kicking me like that,” she murmured, “or I’ll be forced to believe you are a boy.”

  Alice walked over to rest her hand where her sister’s had been. “I have a difficult time believing there’s any room at all in which to kick.”

  “Tell that to the baby.” Clarissa linked her fingers with Alice’s. “I’m frightened, Ally.”

  “I know, darling. But you’ll be fine.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Clarissa relaxed her grip and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes. The sun had risen to the level of the window by now and lit the honey wood of the floor, the samplers of letters and animals and fairies that decorated the walls, the work of generations of Blackwell girls.

  “I have a promise of my own,” Clarissa finally said.

  “And that is?”

  “I will never teach my daughter to embroider chair cushions!”

  Alice laughed. “A good thing, too!” She glanced up as Sorcha appeared in the doorway, red-faced and breathless. “What is it?”

  “Oh, miss,” the maid gasped, “something terrible has happened!”

  Alice was already on her feet. “Grandfather.”

  “Nay, nay. ’Tis the master . . . er, Mr. Blackwell.”

  Fear like an icy fist clutched in Alice’s stomach. “Sorcha . . .”

  “They’ve just carried him in, Miss Alice. He’s been shot.”

  Gareth opened his eyes to muted light and shadows. His shoulder burned like fire; he felt as if someone had taken a mace to his head. He blinked to clear his slightly hazy vision. The canopy above his head was familiar; he was in his own bed. A noise to his right caught his attention. He turned his head slowly, carefully toward the window.

  Alice was there. She was quietly setting a candlestick on the window ledge.

  “Not starting the wake yet, I hope,” he grunted.

  She spun, dropping the unlit candle to the floor. She ignored it and hurried over to the bed. “Oh, thank heavens. Oh, Gareth!”

  She grasped his hand. He wanted very much to wipe away the single tear that slid down her cheek, but his free arm was attached to his injured shoulder. Instead, he squeezed her hand gently. “I’m all right, elf.” He tried rotating his shoulder and decided it wasn’t a wise move. “Your grandfather shot me.”

  “Yes, I know. He feels absolutely wretched about it.”

  Gareth grunted. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive him. He should have done it eight years ago when I abandoned you.”

  “Hush. Don’t be silly—”

  “No, Alice, I need to say . . .” He grimaced. “Christ, my head hurts!”

  “You hit it on a rock.”

  “Of course I did. I couldn’t have merely been shot. I suppose there’s as reasonable an explanation as to why my mouth feels as if someone swabbed it with a sheep.”

  Alice released his hand and poured him a glass of water from a carafe beside the bed. “Mr. Gladbury was a bit liberal with the laudanum, I imagine.” She gently helped him sit up and held the glass while he sipped. “He’s a great believer in it.” She plumped several pillows behind Gareth’s back and he leaned back with a muffled groan.

  “I always thought he was aptly named. Glad to bury his patients. Giving a man laudanum after he whacked his head. God help us.”

  Gareth remembered now: a lot of shouting, a lot of blood. And, to add insult to injury, he’d suffered through an intensely uncomfortable carriage ride into the village, the local physician with very cold hands and a
large draught of something wretched-tasting. He didn’t recall anything after that.

  Alice’s hand was cool on his forehead. “You should rest now. I’ll just light the candles and leave you.”

  He wasn’t about to let her leave, but she was already back at the window, collecting the candle and setting it carefully in the brass holder. There was one already sitting on the second windowsill. “I thought we’d decided to postpone the wake.”

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Candles in the window on Christmas Eve. To guide the spirits of those who’ve died in the last year home.”

  “Arthur.”

  “Mmm. And to guide anyone in need of shelter and hope.”

  That, Gareth decided, was him. He needed hope, needed it desperately. “Alice—”

  “Be sure to make your Christmas Eve wish before you go to sleep again.”

  He watched as she struck a flint and lit the candles. The soft light brought a glow to her skin, burnished the loose curls around her face. He knew he had never seen a lovelier sight. “I already made my wish, as it happens.”

  “Did you? Good. I hope it comes true.”

  “Oh, so do I.” Gareth saw another tear slip down her cheek even as she turned her face to hide it. “Alice. Come back here.”

  “You should rest . . .”

  “Please.” He patted the mattress beside his hip. She came back, perched herself tensely right on the edge, and stared down at her hands. “Don’t you want to know what I wished for?”

  “Oh, no. That’s for you—”

  “I wished for you.”

  She looked up then, eyes wide and shadowed in her elfin face. “For me?”

  “Well, for a second chance, anyway. I . . .” Years of loneliness and regret squeezed at his heart and he felt the prick of tears at the back of his eyes. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ll beg nonetheless. Please, Alice, let me love you. As I did . . . better than I did. Perhaps if I’m very good at it, in a few years you’ll come to love me again.”