Regency Christmas Wishes(48)
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.”