Regency Christmas Wishes(25)

Perhaps had Arthur lived, there would have been travel, seasons in London, life away from calm, provincial Kildare. But life had a way of dealing the hand least expected. Alice, who had grown up to be flexible and who had been dealt one particularly dream-shattering hand herself, was philosophical on the matter. Clarissa, accustomed to getting precisely what she desired, was not. A boy child, she alternately sighed and ranted, would tie her to Kilcullen. A girl would not.

Alice refrained from commenting that this was a blessed event in a joyous time of year and perhaps should be approached with a tad less self-interest. And she would never, ever be so small as to retort that at least Clarissa would have a child, whatever the sex.

“There’s nothing we can do about the matter now,” she announced, as usual half soothing, half matter-of-fact. “Worries are for later. I believe . . . yes, a pot of chocolate is for now. And a game of cassino. When,” she added sternly at her sister’s happier squeak, “I have seen to the linens.”

She rang the bell, requesting chocolate and a sweet from the maid who answered. A visibly cheered Clarissa even poked her needle a few times into the chair cover. But as Alice reached for the door, she announced, “You mustn’t stop me every time I speak on it, you know. I do wish everything had been different. And I’m allowed to make any wish I like, Alice.”

“Of course you are, love. Of course.”

Alice closed the door behind her and, just for a moment, leaned her back against it. She, too, had spent so many joyless hours wishing everything to change, to go back to the way it had been. But such wishes were futile and eight years was a long time. Ample time to forget—and adapt.

She never would have imagined herself at nearly seven and twenty to be living, as she was, in this house. Not as she was: a reluctant housekeeper to the house’s reluctant mistress. But when Arthur had died, leaving his helpless young wife to wait out her pregnancy in the huge, empty house, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for the elder sister to move into Kilcullen House and take command. Well, of course Alice will go, friends and neighbors declared, never so much as considering otherwise. Unmarried, almost certainly never to be so. Alice is such an adaptable girl. She’ll bend to the task. Besides, what else has she to do?

What else, indeed? She had nowhere else to be, no one else to answer to. Just Clarissa, and their grandfather. She had been running their little household as long as she could remember. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world—or so she reminded herself in such moments as these—to pack a few dresses into a valise and travel the half mile to the great house.

Their grandfather had been happy enough with the situation; he’d been great friends with Arthur’s father and had spent countless happy hours on the estate. Now he had the vast acreage, well-stocked library, and even better-stocked wine cellars essentially to himself. “A bit of a holiday,” he’d chortled when Alice suggested the temporary rearrangement. “Now, where did I put my gun case?”

And so they’d come, satchels in hand, to await the coming of Clarissa’s baby. Such a joyous event, new life in the dead of winter, the late Earl of Kilcullen’s lasting mark on the world. Alice was busy. She was needed. Perhaps a bit too much so. But after all, what else had she to do?

She had sheets to count.

Sighing, she levered herself away from the door. She had far better things to do than feel sorry for herself. It occurred to her that she ought to find her grandfather. He’d been distracted at luncheon and she hadn’t seen him since. But then, it had been raining steadily for the last several hours. Chances were he was tucked up happily somewhere with a book. She would send a maid to find him.

It was an hour later when Sorcha, the youngest among the house’s downstairs staff, appeared. Alice, kneeling amid several towering piles of table linen, promptly lost count of the napkins when the girl announced, “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t find Sir Reginald anywhere.”

Alice felt a familiar sinking sensation in her belly. “And the study case?”

“Opened, miss.”

Apparently she hadn’t hidden the key quite well enough. “Don’t fret, Sorcha. Someone will bring him home. Someone always does.” True enough. And she would worry when she had to, not before.

“There is good news, though, miss. There’s a caravan coming up the drive. The travelers are here.”

“Early this year.” Alice got to her feet. “Go tell Lady Kilcullen, then alert the staff.”

The maid hurried out. When Alice entered the foyer a few minutes later, most of the servants were already spilling onto the drive, eyes bright and coins jingling in their pockets. Clarissa waddled into view, cheeks pink above a pink Kashmir wrap. “Well, hurry and put something on, Alice! It won’t do to keep them waiting!”