She was also expecting her first child by Twelfth Night. The very social, very vain Lady Kilcullen would be spending the jolliest days of the year confined to her sofa, balancing her cups of tea and eggnog on her very round belly.
Alice secured the last spray of berries to the garland and climbed down from her perch. She’d spent the better part of the day up and down ladders, in and out of various niches and alcoves. Preparations for an Irish Christmas began early, could easily fill every day in December, and really didn’t end until January. As much as Alice loved the season, she found herself mentally ticking off each day until this one would be over. She was tired. She needed tea, a long, luxurious bath, and several days on an overstuffed sofa with a good book.
She would settle for the tea. Between the holidays and the impending birth, there was too much left to be done for her to grow lazy now. And besides, Lady Kilcullen had taken up residence on the best seat in the house at the beginning of the month. She showed no signs of vacating it in the immediate future. Alice chose a hard-backed chair nearby.
“You look terrible, dearest,” Lady Kilcullen commented. With neither relish nor malice, Alice knew, but it wasn’t a pleasant sentiment, for all its honesty.
Garbed all in dull black, heavy with child, the countess was still easily the loveliest creature in Kildare. She always had been. Tiny, slender, flaxen-haired, ivory-skinned. A fey fairy in a land where fairies were revered. True, she wasn’t precisely slender at the moment, but pregnancy had brought a glow to her skin, a brightness to her already startlingly blue eyes. And there was little doubt that she would be back to form within weeks of the birth. She’d decreed as much. And what Clarissa Kilcullen wanted, she got. Always. Had Alice not loved her completely, she might have loathed her utterly.
But no, that wasn’t in Alice’s character. From the moment she had first seen Clarissa, mere hours old in their mother’s arms, she’d loved her in the way only sisters can. Despite the immediate bossiness, the tantrums, the sometimes comical refusal to use what was a perfectly good head. From infancy, Clarissa had needed only to rely on her beautiful face.
“Rouge,” she went on wistfully. Clarissa needed such cosmetics as rouge like a duck needed a rudder, but she’d always loved playing with the little pots and bottles. “You need color.”
“The window trim could use a coat of paint,” Alice said mildly. “I’ll see about slapping a bit of it on myself.”
Her sister sniffed. “You needn’t be quite so plain, Alice. If you would but put a bit of effort into the matter, you would be entirely passable. For heaven’s sake, just look in a mirror occasionally! You will see how very right I am.”
Alice knew precisely how she looked. Small, like all the Kildare Ashes, like her sister. But the resemblance ended there. Alice’s hair was an earth brown, with a tendency to curl wildly when left to its own devices, her eyes more the gray of a stormy sky than celestial blue. She had an unremarkable, straight Ashe nose, a wide mouth at its best when smiling, and skin prone to brown in the sun and mottle with emotion.
Alice knew she had been pretty . . . once. But in the shadow of her sister’s glory it hadn’t really caused much notice. And in the last eight years had faded enough to be more or less forgotten.
She used the looking glass to make sure her clothing was neat and her hair wasn’t too wild. Even if she’d had the inclination to gaze longer at her reflection, she really didn’t have the time.
The mantel clock chimed four times. “How the days do drag,” Clarissa sighed. Alice sympathized. Between mourning and her advanced state of pregnancy, Clarissa was forced to endure long days without either paying visits or receiving them. True, their cousins paid the occasional call, as did the vicar’s wife. But both were endlessly dour, both invariably were looking for money in one form or another, which annoyed Alice to no end. And despite the toadying and flattery that went with such visits, Clarissa was always happy to see the end of them, too.
The cousins, she commented, came to gloat over her rotund form. Mrs. DeVere came to gulp the expensive tea and devour the fine cakes, neither of which were to be found at the vicarage. Then she would launch into the need for new stained glass, new altar cloths. New prayer books, for heaven’s sake! Can you countenance it, Alice. Why on earth should I fund new prayer books when I have never read the old ones!
At the moment Clarissa was staring glumly at the copy of the novel Emma. It had been a present from Alice the year before. Sheer desperation had made Clarissa take it from the shelf in the last weeks. Perhaps in another year, Alice thought, she might actually open the cover.
Clarissa brightened. “I know. We’ll have a game of cassino! Fetch the cards and play with me, Alice.”
Play with me, Alice. Help me dress my doll. Push me in the swing, Alice. Alice had been dressing dolls and pushing swings for the last twenty-three years. The most recent demand for a push had been the week before, despite a thin sheen of frost on the wooden seat. Clarissa’s advanced state of pregnancy had ultimately put an end to the request, but not without a few sighs and pouts. And there would be a new little creature to dress soon enough. Alice smiled with that thought. Then shook her head sternly.
“I cannot. The linen should be sorted today for laundering.” Kilcullen House, with its fourteen bedrooms and countless cupboards, had a rather impressive collection of linens. “There are gift baskets to be filled for the tenants. And Cook needs to discuss the menus for the holidays. I’ve more than a full plate.” Alice gave her sister an even stare. “Unless, of course, you’d care to take on one of the tasks.”
“Don’t be silly!” Clarissa waved a delicate hand over her belly. “How could I possibly?”
“Of course.” Alice smiled wryly as she rose to her feet. True, the day-to-day managing of a house would be difficult for a woman in her sister’s present state. Which did not explain the previous twenty-three years of helplessness, but was a tidy excuse now. “Here.” She lifted a half-completed chair cover from the floor where Clarissa had tossed it. “If you’re diligent, you might have the set complete by the time the child departs for a grand tour . . . or sets up her own household.”
Alice nearly dropped the frame when Clarissa seized her wrist. “Oh, Alice, it must be a girl! It must. I could not bear . . . I cannot stay . . .”
It was a familiar refrain, becoming more so as the birth approached. “Clarie.” Alice gently pulled her arm free, clasped her sister’s hand in hers. “Of course a girl would be lovely. Just like you, all gold and cream. But just think: a little boy, a solid little fellow with a rolling bear on a string behind him. A boy like Arthur—”
“To tie me to this place! I could not bear it, Alice. I cannot bear another year. If I’d known—”
“Hush, dearest. You’ll only upset yourself.”
Alice squeezed Clarissa’s hand in understanding. Losing Arthur at Waterloo had been hard for her sister, but not perhaps for the expected reasons. Not that the marriage had been a bad one. The earl had been kind, if a bit dull and distant. Certainly distant. During the three years of his marriage he’d never been home for more than a fortnight or maybe two, at the most. He’d been compelled by his duty to his country and joined His Majesty’s army. He’d done his duty to his title and estate, marrying the beautiful, well-born neighbor and getting her with child on one of his leaves from his regiment. Then he’d made her a widow—a widow who’d done her best, really, to mourn a man she hadn’t quite known.
The Ashe girls had been acquainted with Arthur and his family since arriving in the neighborhood nearly twenty years earlier. No one had expected Clarissa to marry the young earl, no matter how beautiful she was, no matter how wealthy and eligible he was. Their characters had been so very different; their paths had so rarely crossed once he’d gone off to school. But eventually Arthur had come home to Kilcullen, Clarissa had decided that his title and fortune—and posh London town house—would suit her perfectly.
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!”
Alice found her own serviceable wool cloak and followed the crowd out the door. The household, Clarissa included, was gathered around a battered wagon that was tented with colorful panels of canvas. Just visible among the throng was the Gypsy family: father with a bright kerchief on his head and a gold hoop glinting in one ear; stunning, black-eyed mother in a crimson shawl; several children in worn wool. It was a hard life the travelers led, Alice knew. Never resting for long, driven out of fields and towns far more often than they were welcomed. But at Christmas it was different. In Ireland at Christmas, one opened one’s kitchens and pockets for the Gypsy families.
She watched the transactions. There were amulets and charms: horseshoes and Bridget’s crosses woven from rushes, little velvet bags filled with herbs and mysterious stones. She watched as one maid bartered over an ointment meant to remove freckles. Another purchased a poppet filled with clove and sage, meant to bring love. Nearby, the groom on whom she had her heart set was having a hushed discussion with the father. Alice rather suspected there was something naughty in the pouch that changed hands.
She waited until the staff had made their choices before stepping forward. Clarissa was sorting among a collection of fragrant sachets, prettily sewn with lace and ribbon. Alice eyed the holiday wreaths. She could have made any of them herself, but buying from the travelers was a tradition she intended to keep. She was just reaching for a wide circlet of holly berries when a hand closed tightly around her wrist.
The woman it belonged to was even tinier than Clarissa, with silver-white hair and a face like a walnut. In the midst of the wrinkles was a pair of the sharpest, blackest eyes Alice had even seen.
“ ’Tis the time of year for charity,” she informed Alice tartly, her voice an odd if appealing combination of country Irish and distant Continent. Alice promptly reached into her pocket for her money pouch. The old woman cackled cheerfully. “Nay, nay, I’m not meaning that, though you’ll make a good choice with the wreath.”
She tugged at Alice’s arm, pulling her closer. “Heed me well, cailín. Search your heart for kindness. ’Twill be needed as the holy days come.”
“Oh, Alice, is she telling your fortune?” Clarissa shoved an armload of pretty fripperies into Alice’s arms. “I haven’t so much as a penny with me. How careless. But you’ll take care of it, won’t you?” To the old woman, she announced, “You’ll tell my fortune, too. Alice will pay you.”
The woman gave Clarissa a quick glance. “You want me to tell you whether ’tis a boy or girl you carry.”
“There! Isn’t she clever, Alice! She knew precisely what I wished to hear. Oh, I do so love magic!”
Alice had every respect for the traveling fortune tellers. They were clever, indeed. One had to be to understand precisely what each listener should hear. She did not, however, think there was any magic whatsoever involved.
“Well?” Clarissa demanded. “Which is it to be?”
The old woman closed her eyes for a moment, then replied, “As much as you wish for one outcome, another wishes the opposite. Who has the most to lose will be the one to gain.” She smiled beatifically and folded her hands at her waist.
Clarissa blinked. “That is all you have to say? That cannot be right. You meant to say girl. Just that.”
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br /> “I see what I see. I can’t be doing more just to please you.”
Clarissa blew out a dismissive breath. Alice, however, was impressed. Of course there was no trick to the prophecy. There was always divided opinion over a baby’s sex, after all. But the rest really was clever. If Clarissa bothered to think on the matter, she would certainly decide that she had the most to lose by producing a boy. Hence, she would get her girl, and would pass the remaining weeks of her pregnancy contented and pleased with the prediction.
To Alice’s surprise, the Gypsy waved away the coins she offered. “I’ll take nothing for my words.” The younger traveler, however, was happy to accept payment for Clarissa’s baubles and Alice’s wreath. As soon as the last transactions were complete, the family would drive their caravan ’round back and the staff would welcome them into the kitchens. As the sisters turned to go, the older woman called, “Remember, find charity in your heart, cailín. You’re the bending sort, but you’ve wild winds blowing your way!”
Alice smiled. Wild winds, indeed. Heaven only knew what the house would be like once Clarissa’s child chose to arrive.
“Fate sets us on our paths, cailín, before we’ve the way of guiding our feet. Change what you can; accept the rest!”
Alice stopped in her tracks. But when she turned, the old woman had disappeared into the wagon. Clarissa prodded her in the arm. “Do move your feet, Alice! I’m cold and ever so hungry. Do you suppose Cook has made an apple tart? I do so want my daughter to have rosy cheeks . . .” Apparently, she had already found her message in the gypsy’s words.
Alice carried the woman’s message to her through the rest of the evening, through dinner where Clarissa prattled away about dolls and dresses and their grandfather made no appearance, through an hour of cassino and another hour of reading Emma aloud, waiting for Clarissa to go to bed.
Fate sets us on our paths, cailín, before we’ve the way of guiding our feet.
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