Chapter 4
Lord Alfred Bellingham was first on the list. He’d met the baron at a summer party he had attended with the Hubbards years ago, and remembered only that he seemed a stern and austere man, one whom Richard Hubbard had disliked, though Henderson had never learned why. Lord Hubbard was one of those gentlemen who seemed to like everyone, and the fact he found Bellingham disagreeable was quite telling. Dr. Cornish had added Lord Bellingham as an afterthought, warning Henderson that it was highly unlikely he would find an ally for his relief efforts in the man. But Henderson had to try. His list of eight, from most likely to support his cause to least likely, was deemed the List of Lost Hopes by Dr. Cornish, who had grown cynical over the years. Every effort the doctor made to save the starving masses was met by resistance from Lord Lytton, the viceroy in India. Cornish had argued passionately that the rations given to those in the work relief camps were hardly adequate to sustain life, but Lytton refused to authorize an increase until pressured to do so. Even then, the rations were hardly adequate and only half of what Cornish had recommended.
Bellingham, who had spent several years in India, was seen as someone who might very well be sympathetic to the plight of the starving. Henderson refused to believe that when confronted with the facts of the tragedy, anyone could deny him.
Lord Bellingham’s London home was located in Berkeley Square in Mayfair, whose gardens featured a nymph and whose homes held some of the more influential men in London. Henderson knew enough to make an appointment with the gentleman, and was frankly surprised that Bellingham had accommodated him so quickly, given it was a certainty that the peer would not know who he was. It boded well, he thought, and with a decided bounce in his step, he walked toward the home, an ornate building with intricate carvings above an oversized entrance. The sun shone fully on the mansion’s façade, and Henderson chose to see this as another positive sign.
Henderson was ushered into the home by an ancient butler, so stooped over he didn’t get a good look at the man’s face. He waved away the man’s request to take his hat and coat, for he knew he would not have the patience to wait for his items should things go badly. Shuffling slowly down a long hall, the butler bade Henderson to follow with a wave of his bony hand, finally stopping outside a heavily carved door.
“Mr. Henderson Southwell, my lord,” he intoned with a surprisingly strong voice.
“Yes, I am expecting him, Johnson.”
Henderson hadn’t seen Bellingham in years, but he looked much the same. Perhaps his jowls hung a bit more loosely and the bags beneath his eyes were a bit more pronounced. As Bellingham looked him over, Henderson had the ridiculous urge to suppress a shudder, for his dark, expressionless eyes reminded him of the dead-eyed stare of a marsh crocodile he’d seen once in India. It was somehow predatory, that look, as if Bellingham was sizing up an opponent and finding him unworthy of his attention. Bellingham did not stand when Henderson entered, nor did he hold out his hand in greeting, and Henderson’s earlier optimism took a decided turn.
“Thank you for meeting with me, sir,” Henderson said, laying his coat and hat on one of two chairs positioned in front of Bellingham’s large and meticulously organized desk. He felt rather like a boy confronting a school master and was unsure whether he should sit or remain standing. Choosing the former, Henderson sat on the edge of the room’s other chair. After exchanging awkward niceties about the Hubbards, their single mutual acquaintance, Henderson got to the point. “I understand you lived in India for several years.”
“Yes. Foul place,” Bellingham said.
Ah. This did not bode well at all. “Yes, I’ve just come from India myself. Are you aware of the famine, sir?”
The older man’s eyes narrowed to the point Henderson wondered if he could see at all. “You’re not one of those fools looking for relief, are you?”
Henderson could feel his cheeks heat—with anger. He smiled tightly. “As a matter of fact, I am. And I believe if you had been in India these past two years, you would feel very much the way I do.”
Bellingham folded his hands on his desk with exaggerated care. “I would not.” His words were succinct and brooked no misinterpretation. “Are you familiar with Charles Darwin?”
It was all Henderson could do to keep his temper in check. He had heard this argument before—the aristocrats, including Lord Lytton himself, invoked the name of Charles Darwin as an excuse not to save starving people. Survival of the fittest. A way of culling the weak from the herd. What these men seemed not to understand was that they were talking about people, people with children, people who had lost everything, including their humanity, in a desperate attempt to survive.
“I am very much familiar with his teachings, but I hardly think they pertain to men. Or children.”
Bellingham let out a low, mean laugh. “Are you going to tell me that it is up to the British Empire to make certain every human being on this planet who is starving is fed? There are droughts all over the world. Shall we send our funds and our citizens to feed them? If we were to do this, sir, it would spell the end of the empire.”
Henderson could feel his heart beating thickly, his face heating, his fists clenching, so he forced himself to relax, to try to talk sense into this man even though he knew it was likely a lost cause. But faced with such ignorance, he could not stop himself. “I am not suggesting we feed all the world’s hungry and poor, but I am suggesting that we take care of a people that the British Empire helped to starve.”
Bellingham’s face tightened. “How dare you.”
“How dare I? How dare England allow millions of people starve to death when there are mountains of grain being guarded and then shipped to our shores so that we may have our bread at breakfast?”
“You tread very close to treason, Southwell. I would watch what you say.”
Henderson swallowed, willed himself to calm. “If you had seen what I have. People begging the soldiers guarding the grain for just one pot of rice. Mothers selling themselves so they can buy food for their children. They die within feet of a mountain of rice that they themselves might have helped to grow.” He could feel his throat tighten and was horrified at the emotion he’d allowed into his voice.
“People too lazy to grow their own food,” Bellingham said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“No, sir. These people worked in fields, grew the crops, which was then put on trains and rails we constructed to ship here. Before we came and built the rails, villages kept their grain, sold it to the people for a price they could afford. But now they ship all the grain here for profit and what food is available is priced so high, very few can buy it.”
“Is there something wrong with profit?” Bellingham asked loudly, his tone belittling.
“I see you will be of no help.”
“Let them help themselves. What will they learn if we feed them and clothe them? They will come to rely on us and they will never do anything for themselves. They will become like children, dependent on us for everything they need. And where will it stop? No, sir. That kind of policy would ruin this country. If they die, they die too lazy to do anything about their lot. I pity fools like you, Southwell, I truly do. You will spend your life defending the rights of those people and it is meaningless. In the end, those who are meant to die will die, and there is nothing you or I can do about it.”
Henderson stood and took up his coat and hat, glad he’d had the foresight to keep the articles with him. It had, indeed, gone very badly. “I thank you for your time, sir. Good day.”
He had about reached the door when Bellingham called out. “Take some advice, son. Don’t waste your time asking others for help. No one cares whether a bunch of blacks die. No one.”
Henderson stopped and turned slowly. “There you are wrong. I care.”
When he reached the street, Henderson pressed the heels of his palms hard into this eyes. He’d known it would be difficult; he’d faced such prejudice and ignorance in India, from the British and the wealthy Indians. But he’d convinced himself that his impassioned words could sway hard men. He’d been wrong. At least with Bellingham.
Taking out his well-worn list, Henderson looked at the names, mentally scratching out most of them. And these were purported to be the men who would be most sympathetic? Dr. Cornish must have been too long away from England if he thought these men would have even an ounce of sympathy.
Without thinking about where he was going, Henderson started to walk until he realized with a start that he was standing in front of the Hubbard home. As a youth, he hadn’t spent very much time in the Hubbards’ London home, but it still seemed like a haven to him. A home, when all he had ever had was a house filled with bitter disappointment. He wasn’t aware of how long he stood there, and so was a bit embarrassed when Mrs. Hubbard opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop.
“Would you like to come in, Henderson?” she asked, a knowing smile on her face.
Henderson grinned. “I would, actually. Is Oliver about? I thought we might go to Pratt’s.”
Elda looked down the square toward the gentleman’s club and frowned. “It’s nearly tea time. Why don’t you come in and join us? Alice is leaving tomorrow for St. Ives and I’m certain she’d like to say good-bye before you go back to India.”
“Yes. I’ll only be in London a few weeks before I return and I hardly think I’ll have time to go to St. Ives to say good-bye.”
Her smile faltered just a bit before she stepped back, like a well-trained butler, and ushered him inside.
* * *
The moment her sister walked into the room clutching the Town Talk newspaper, Alice knew something terrible had happened. It was silly to think no one would have commented on the fact that the granddaughter of the Duke of Warwick had been jilted—again—but Alice had hoped. As society weddings went, Alice’s wedding to Lord Northrup was a small affair and one of little note. Her first wedding had been a theatrical event, with articles written in advance detailing nearly every aspect of the ceremony, from the design of her gown to the flowers her mother chose for the church. A throng of Londoners had gathered outside St. Paul’s Cathedral waiting for the bride and groom to make their appearance. But for her wedding to Lord Northrup, no one lined the streets and the gossip columns held nary a mention. Thank goodness.
So Alice had hoped a non-wedding might be of as little consequence as the actual wedding.
She closed her eyes briefly as Christina, her eyes livid and her mouth tight, held the paper in a hand that trembled.
“I thought you should know,” Christina said as she handed over the paper.
Alice quickly scanned the column, her green eyes darting back and forth until she stopped, recognizing instantly the small part that was about her. Two sentences. Two sentences that sealed her humiliation like a blob of wax on the letter of her life.
Poor Miss H has failed again to say her wedding vows. The bad luck bride, indeed.
“It’s of little consequence,” Alice said, even as she felt her entire body burn with humiliation. It was almost worse than the moment the reverend began walking toward the end of the church to tell them there would be no wedding ceremony that day.
“Oh, Alice,” Christina said, throwing herself into Alice’s arms.
“I’m so glad to be going home,” Alice said fiercely. “I’ve never wanted to go home more in my life. And I’m never, ever leaving. I loathe London.”
Christina leaned back, her mouth open in shock. “But you mustn’t stay away from London forever. Mother said I could have my season next year and I have to have you with me. I could never do it without you by my side.”
Alice pulled away and continued to place items in her trunk for the journey. “I think you must consider that I will not be an asset, Christina.” She looked up and immediately realized Christina hadn’t considered what it meant to be the younger sister of the bad luck bride. It was a clever little moniker that would no doubt stick to her for the rest of her life.
Shaking her head, Christina said, “No one would hold that against me.” And then in a smaller voice, “Would they?”
“I only know that the ton can be unforgiving,” she said, placing her jewelry box in her trunk before turning to face her sister. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that could hurt your chances of wedding a fine gentleman. It would break my heart, Christina, if I thought…” Her throat closed up, but she swallowed hard. “I don’t want to come back to London at any rate.” Forcing a smile, she said, “Goodness, no one knows London society better than Mama. You’re in very good hands, you know. Heavens, she found me three husbands when some girls can’t find one!” The two laughed, and Alice felt infinitely better.
Christina turned to go but hesitated. “Was it right that I showed you the article?”
“Yes. It would have been far worse if someone said something to me about it and I didn’t know. Now I can prepare several witty remarks that show I have not a care what a silly paper like the Town Talk has to say about me.”
Christina smiled, obviously relieved, and left Alice to prepare for her journey home. She looked about her room and realized she was very nearly done packing. Alice placed her most prized possession, her portable rosewood writing desk, into her trunk, nestled between her riding habit and her light cloak. The desk had been a gift from her late grandmother, the duchess, given to her with the admonition to write at least monthly. Alice, then fifteen, thought it such a grown-up sort of gift and had religiously written to her grandmother twice per month until the old lady’s death. No one was allowed to use it or even open it, and Alice kept its key either on a chain she wore around her neck or in the desk’s secret compartment at all times.
Christina used to beg to see what was inside, but Alice never relented. It was here that she hid away her true thoughts, her life after Joseph died. And after Henderson went away. Though she never let him know of her infatuation with him, hidden away in her writing desk were nearly fifty letters never sent. How could she have sent them when she didn’t know where Henderson had gone? She didn’t want to take the chance of sending them to his mother for fear she would read them. And so Alice kept them, those heartfelt outpourings of grief and loneliness. When she’d begun packing to return to St. Ives, Alice considered throwing them away. What was the purpose of them now? She could never show them to Henderson. Instead, when she closed the top with its intricate brass inlay and turned the lock, the letters remained inside.
Alice looked around her room, wondering if she’d ever return to their London home. St. Ives was the home of her heart, and she was fiercely glad to be returning there—even carrying the baggage of humiliation with her. She missed the smell of the sea, the constant racket of seagulls, even the smell of bait fish that the fishermen used.
“Nearly ready, I see.” Alice turned to see her mother standing at her bedroom door. Ever since she’d been jilted at the altar, her mother’s face had held an expression Alice could only describe as pensive.
“It will be good to get home.”
“Have you written the girls?”
The girls, as they had been called in her home since Alice was ten years old, were her small group of friends. “Only Harriet. She loves being the bearer of bad news.” Her mother chuckled at the truth of those words. Harriet read the London Times each morning, clipping out the articles she knew would shock the most, murder being her favorite topic (the more macabre the better), followed closely by executions. Though Harriet was one of her dearest friends, ruination and jiltings were also a favorite topic, friend or no. In a perverse way, Alice almost wished she was there when Harriet imparted the news from her letter.
“Henderson is here. I found him standing outside the house. Or rather pacing. He’s come to say good-bye.”
Funny how the words “Henderson is here” made her heart speed up and “he’s come to say good-bye” caused it to tumble to her feet.
“Hazel, will you be able to finish on your own?” Her maid smiled as she placed a box filled with her embroidery materials into the trunk.
“Yes, miss.”
“Good. Then I shall say good-bye,” Alice announced, as if saying good-bye was something she was looking forward to. As she walked toward the door where her mother stood, Alice resisted the urge to look in the mirror, knowing her mother would notice. When she’d been young, it had taken a great deal of fortitude to keep her feelings to herself; she’d done such a fine job of it that even Oliver never teased her. “I wonder when he’ll be returning to India.”
“He mentioned he was going back in three weeks,” her mother said, moving down the hall. Behind her, Alice quickly pinched her cheeks before smoothing her hair.
Alice ignored the way her stomach fell. She might very well never see Henderson again. Not that it mattered, or rather, not that it should matter. For some reason, it did. “My goodness, he’s hardly arrived and he’ll be going back so soon. I do hope he takes the time to visit his grandparents; I’m sure they’ve missed him.” Alice thought back on the small bit of information she knew about Henderson and his family. He’d rarely talked of them, even when their conversations had turned away from books and toward more personal topics. “I would think he would at least visit for a time. Can you imagine how you would feel if Oliver had gone abroad for four years, returned to England, and didn’t bother saying hello?”
“I think your father would hunt Oliver down and drag him home,” Elda said as they walked into the main parlor.
“What has Oliver done now?” asked Henderson, who rose from his seat when the two women entered the room.
“I was just telling Mama how very vexed she would be if Oliver were gone for four years but didn’t bother to visit before leaving again.”
“Ah. I’m being chastised for not being a good grandson,” Henderson said pleasantly. “Neither of my grandparents cares much for visitors.”
“You’re hardly a visitor, you know. You’re their grandson.”
“A visitor, none-the-less.”
“Mama says you’ve come to say good-bye. That was very thoughtful of you.”
Henderson looked a bit discomfited. “I was in the neighborhood. Or rather, not far. I had a meeting in Mayfair with Lord Bellingham. Charming fellow.” It was clear from Henderson’s tone that he was being sardonic.
Alice knew Lord Bellingham and his insipid son and knew they were anything but charming. “I take it your meeting did not go well?”
“It did not.”
“Bellingham is the last sort of fellow who would help any cause that did not involve lining his pockets,” Elda said. She was drawn to a flower arrangement and proceeded to pluck a few dead blooms from their moorings. “Is this about famine relief?”
Henderson stared at the discarded blooms, lined up neatly on the well-polished table, as if he found them somehow repulsive. He snapped his attention to Elda, apparently realizing his distraction. “It is. I have a list of men I plan to appeal to.”
Elda held out her hand. “May I see it?”
“Of course,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “A colleague in India helped me to create it, but I fear he’s been away from England so long, he is a bit out of touch.”
He handed over the list and Alice watched her mother curiously; she hadn’t thought her mother was interested in the famine relief cause. Elda read down the list, her eyes widening just slightly, before handing it back. “I’m afraid I can be of no help,” she said. “I’m familiar with many men on the list, but I don’t know their politics.”
“I fear this may be a lost cause,” Henderson said with a weary note. “Bellingham actually accused me of treason, or very nearly so.”
“What did you say to him?” Alice asked, horrified. She couldn’t imagine Henderson saying anything so controversial to be interpreted as treasonous.
Henderson let out a humorless laugh. “I may have implied that the famine was caused by England and our greed and not entirely by the drought, which seems to be the commonly held belief.”
“Oh.” Alice could not imagine Henderson, who had always seemed so laissez-faire, inciting someone to such an accusation.
“I was forewarned by my associate in India, a Dr. Cornish, but I suppose I thought my impassioned speech could sway any man.”
“Ego,” Alice blurted, then felt her cheeks warm when Henderson looked at her rather oddly. “Men and their egos. You should have told him that everyone who supports the cause will get a statue of themselves erected. Or some such thing.” The way Henderson looked at her made Alice want to squirm. It was as if he were weighing each of her words, then rearranging them to see if they made sense. “It’s just that with men like Bellingham, you cannot appeal to their moral integrity. I doubt…” She let her voice trail off because he was still staring at her.
A smile slowly grew on Henderson’s face, and for just a moment, Alice found it difficult to draw in a breath. She’d forgotten how handsome he was, how he affected her.
“You should come with me.” Alice shook her head, rather vigorously, but Henderson persisted. “I get angry too quickly and the thought of stroking someone’s ego does not appeal in the least. You could be a young Florence Nightingale.”
“I’m returning to St. Ives tomorrow morning. And as respected as Miss Nightingale is, her entreaties about India have been mostly ignored. More to the point, I hardly think someone who is a laughingstock in London at the moment could possibly be taken seriously.”
“Alice does have a point,” Elda said, agreeing with her daughter so quickly, Alice was momentarily taken aback.
“Mother!”
“You said it yourself,” Elda said, chuckling. “Do not get yourself all in a tizzy, Alice. But it is too soon for you to go out soliciting aid, and I suspect Henderson, given his schedule, needs to complete his task as soon as possible. And I do not want you to suffer the same fate as Miss Nightingale.”
“I hardly think I could become ill urging men to become involved in famine relief.”
“No, but it could end badly, just the same. It is Miss Nightingale, after all,” Elda said, plucking another brown bloom from the arrangement. “If you have any chance of getting married, you cannot involve yourself in grand causes, my dear. It is not at all attractive.”
“Perhaps I shall accompany you, Henny, as I have absolutely no intention of ever getting married,” Alice said between gritted teeth. Sometimes her mother made her want to scream, and now was one such occasion.
“You would only slow Henderson’s progress, Alice,” Elda said cheerfully, as if she were completely unaware of how very annoyed Alice was.
“I’m not on a strict schedule,” Henderson said, hesitantly. “Though I am concerned that the longer relief is delayed, the more people will perish.”
After glaring at her mother, a completely unnoticed glare, Alice softened her features and turned toward Henderson. “Was it very terrible?” she asked. Something bleak flickered momentarily in Henderson’s eyes, a darkness that inexplicably made her throat tighten.
“It was worse than that. It was beyond imagination. I’ll leave it at that.” He smiled, but it was his new, distant smile, the one she hadn’t seen when they were younger, and suddenly Alice wished she knew what it meant, what had happened that had created that false, hard smile.
“Why don’t the two of you take a turn around the garden?” Elda suggested brightly. “It’s a lovely day. I’ll have tea brought out to you there.”
“Won’t you be joining us, Mama?”
“Oh, no. I’m having tea with Mrs. Stuart, poor thing. She gets so lonely.” Mrs. Stuart was their ancient neighbor whose children rarely visited her, so the Hubbard family made a point of making her part of their lives when they were in London.
Alice knew her mother was simply ending the conversation, but she allowed it. She truly had no desire to go before any of the men on Henderson’s list and beg for influence in the famine relief efforts. They would be polite, they would listen, but Alice knew they would only be thinking one thing: This is the girl who tried to get married three times and failed. Perhaps she could have done it if that small piece hadn’t run in the Town Talk, but Alice knew she was the subject of gossip and she simply couldn’t bear to see the looks of sympathy, or worse, the snide remarks she knew a visit from her would elicit.
“Shall we?” Henderson said after her mother had left the room. “Or we could go to the library for old time’s sake.”
Alice smiled. “We never sat together in this library. Do you know I didn’t go to Tregrennar’s library for months and months after you left?” Henderson looked at her sharply and Alice wished she hadn’t said such a thing. “The whole house felt different.” His expression grew solemn, as he assumed she was speaking of Joseph’s death, not his departure, when Alice had meant nothing of the sort. The library held no particular memories of Joseph for her. Indeed, it was one of the few rooms in the house that didn’t remind her of her brother. Yet she still couldn’t bring herself to enter a room in which she had spent so many happy hours.
The Hubbards’ London garden was a neat rectangle split down the middle by a gravel path that led to a gate and the muse across a narrow lane. It was July, so the garden was in its glory. Fragrant waxflowers spilled onto the gravel, their small white blooms filling the air with sweet scent. Her mother’s roses were in full blossom and the vibrant blue of sea holly stood in bright contrast.
Beside her, Henderson took a deep breath. “God, I’d forgotten how lovely London smells in the summer. At least this part of London.”
As he looked around the garden, Alice took the chance to study his profile, noting the sharp line of his jaw, the way one curl tucked itself against the lobe of his ear. She closed her eyes briefly with the intent of memorizing this moment, of keeping it safe when she needed to bring it out in those times she knew she would think of him. “It is good to see you, Henderson. Are you very certain you cannot come to St. Ives before you leave? The girls would love to see you. Harriet especially.” This last was said with a bit of a teasing note, a reminder of when they were young and Harriet followed him about like a small, eager puppy.
Henderson chuckled lightly, no doubt remembering how ridiculous Harriet would act whenever she was visiting and happened to see him. It had been torture to hear Harriet go on and on about Henderson when she herself had been in the throes of a terrible infatuation. “I’m surprised she’s not married, pretty girl and all that.”
Even now, the ugly heat of jealousy tinged Alice’s cheeks. “None of us are. All old maids.”
“I hardly count you old, any of you.” He gave Alice a sidelong look. “Harriet, you say? Perhaps I can find time for a visit.”
Suddenly, Alice was seventeen years old and dying inside all over again. She remembered distinctly talking about Harriet when they had been ensconced in the library, whispering their secrets so as not to alert anyone in the house of their conversation. Against all reason, Alice had mentioned to Henderson that Harriet had a bit of a crush on him. Perhaps it was to see his reaction or maybe elicit some sort of declaration from him—but it’s you I adore, Alice—or some such thing. She would never forget that terrible feeling when Henderson had sat up, curiosity piqued, and had asked to hear more.
“It would be lovely if you could come to St. Ives,” Alice said, wanting to kick herself all over again.
“You know, Alice, I had a bit of a crush myself back then.”
Breathing had become rather an effort, so Alice sat down on a nearby bench. Henderson immediately sat next to her, even though the bench was quite small. “Then of course you should make time to visit St. Ives. Harriet is even prettier now.”
He let out a small sigh. “And I am, of course, much better looking.”
He was joking, she knew he was, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him, studying his face. He was much better looking now. His jaw was more defined, and the shadow of his beard was showing even though it was evident he had shaved earlier that day. His hair, a deep rich chocolate, wavy on top, short on the sides and back, made her fingers itch to touch it. “You are, you know. Much better looking.” She squinted her eyes to examine him, as if she were studying a specimen and her heart wasn’t clamoring in her chest.
With a heart-stopping grin, he stole that bit of her heart she was trying with all her being to reserve for someone who loved her, who didn’t think of her as a little sister, who wasn’t leaving for India in a matter of weeks.
“Alas, my dear old friend, I cannot take the time to travel to St. Ives.”
“There’s a new rail, you know. Just built. You could be in St. Ives in just a day.”
He tilted his head in that way she remembered that made her feel as if he was not only listening to every word she said, but was actually interested. “Is there?”
He seemed to ponder visiting for a moment. “Harriet would be so thrilled to see you.” God above, what was she doing? Trying to match her best friend with the man she loved? Was she mad?
A small smile touched his lips and for just a moment Alice thought she’d been able to convince him. “Still, no. I really must concentrate on my mission here and remove myself to India as soon as possible. As it is, I will have been gone for nearly three months by the time I return.”
“So this is truly good-bye,” Alice said, unable to keep her tone light. She looked straight ahead, not wanting to look at him for fear he would see just how bereft saying good-bye left her. She could tell he was looking at her and she schooled her features into a blandness she didn’t come close to feeling. How was it she still could love him when he’d been gone for so long? It was almost as if he’d never left, as if all those years of his absence, all her fiancés, all her days of feeling nothing, had disappeared. Alice pressed her lips together just slightly, irritated with herself.
“It is.” Beside her he took a bracing breath. “I thought this time I might say a proper good-bye.” He stood abruptly, and Alice rose as well, facing him, looking directly at him so she could recall his face, the distinct blue of his eyes. Like the sea holly that grew in a bundle behind the bench they’d just sat on. An impossible blue, and Alice was struck with the terrible thought that she would never be able to look at sea holly again without thinking of Henderson.
“Good-bye, Henderson,” she said, holding out her hand for him to take.
He looked at her hand curiously before saying, “My dear girl, a shake of a hand is not a proper good-bye.”
And before she could move, before she knew even what Henderson planned, he leaned toward her and all she could think was, He’s going to kiss me. He’s finally going to kiss me. Closer, closer, until his handsome face was nothing but a blur, until all she could see were those brilliant eyes. Her eyelids drifted closed and she held herself still.
“Good-bye, my dear girl,” he said softly, and she could feel the puff of his breath against her lips. Then, she felt his lips. Kiss her cheek. Alice very nearly laughed aloud at her own ridiculousness. So when Henderson pulled back, she was smiling, probably looking rather maniacal. He was still standing quite close, close enough so that, had she wanted to, Alice could have stood on tiptoe and kissed Henderson where she wanted to kiss him. His eyes held some intense emotion before he smiled and it was gone. At least it was a real smile this time. Stepping back, he took a deep breath and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, probably having no idea how very charming and boyish he looked at the moment. He nodded, an odd sort of nod that ended with him shaking his head, and let out a small laugh.
“I’ll go now. It was lovely seeing you, Alice.”
Alice swallowed down the ache in her throat. “Godspeed, Henderson.”
She watched him leave, fighting the urge to run after him and… And what? Beg him to stay? Beg him to see her as a woman? Beg him to kiss her properly? Instead, she simply stood there, mute, and watched him disappear into the house and out of her life.