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.