Chapter 5
With every fiber in his being, Henderson wished he had kissed Alice. One, if he had, he would always remember how she tasted, how soft her lips were. Two, he would know for a certainty if she felt the same way about him that he felt about her. And now, he would never know either. He’d spend the rest of his life wondering. It was just as well. His promise to Joseph was ringing in his ears as he approached her, fully intending to kiss her properly, and in the end, with her looking up at him so damned innocently, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, to turn what they had into something else. For what if she’d been angry, or worse, repulsed? He would have carried that memory with him forever too. Still, now he would never know what it was like to press his lips against hers.
“You bloody idiot,” Henderson said aloud as he strode from the Hubbards’ home. She was leaving in the morning and he was fairly certain he would never see her again. If she stayed in St. Ives and he lived in India for years as he intended, it was almost a certainty they would not meet again. When he was gone from England and back in the hot misery that was India, he at least would have had the sweet memory of that last kiss. Now when he would think back on this kiss, it would only be with humiliation and the terrible memory of how soft and sweet her mouth looked. He supposed part of him had hoped she would melt against him and beg him to stay. As Henderson walked toward his hotel, he looked up at heaven and wondered if Joseph were having a grand ol’ time looking down at him.
* * *
Over the next two weeks, Henderson, already in a foul mood, felt his mood darken exponentially following his meeting with each highly positioned gentleman. He tried pleading, flattery, and as a last and terrible resort, he brought out pictures of those poor starving souls. They looked more corpse than human. Women with sunken eyes, skulls clearly and grotesquely showing beneath a thin layer of flesh. Men, eyes empty of hope, unable to stop their children from starving to death. And worse, small children, curled up on hot, dirty streets, waiting to die. Those images, which had brought him to tears even though he had seen such atrocities with his own eyes, were looked at with either disgust or scorn. By the time he left the seventh home, he had lost his faith in humanity and was sickened by his country’s apathy.
Exhausted, he climbed the shallow stone steps that led up to the arched entry of Pratt’s Club. The club was a favorite among titled gentlemen, especially those who thought themselves friends of the Duke of Devonshire. He had gained admission years ago through Joseph’s father, who petitioned the club for his entrance. The son of a duke held impressive power, and Henderson never forgot the gesture. The main room was nearly empty but for one table where several youngish toffs were sitting talking animatedly. Henderson recognized a few, including Mr. Thaddeus Tiddle, Belleville’s obnoxious heir, so he steered clear of the group. He didn’t know how often father and son talked, but he did know the very last thing he wanted was for Tiddle to mention Henderson’s meeting with his father.
A thin haze of cigar smoke clung to the ceiling, where heavy, rough-hewn beams divided the room into two distinct sections—one for card playing and socializing and one for quiet reading or contemplation. Gathering up a copy of the Times laid out neatly on a heavily carved side table with serpents twisting up its legs, Henderson headed toward the small sitting area and waved a footman over so he could order a brandy. The brandy and cigars, not the company, made Pratt’s his favorite club. Though he was always aware that he didn’t quite belong there, he refused to allow himself to be intimidated by the other members who held lofty titles and vast estates. He might not have a title, but his grandfather was a wealthy, well-respected man who had never made him feel less because of his birth. Still, he felt the separation between him and the other young men sitting across the room as severely as if they were first class on a ship and he in steerage. Though he was nearly the same age as the young men talking so animatedly at the table, he felt worlds older.
Settling down into a comfortable leather chair, Henderson snapped the newspaper open, trying his best to shut out the gregarious laughing of the group of men on the other side of the room. Until he heard one say, “Bad luck bride, eh? More like lucky groom, if you ask me. I say Northrup realized what he was in for and ran for the hills.”
The other men laughed, and Henderson slowly put the newspaper aside and stood up—a movement that was noticed by one of the men at the table, who shot Tiddle a warning look. Plastering a smile on his face that was by no means pleasant, Henderson walked to the table of young men and stood silently until the laughter slowly dissipated. “Do you think it is amusing that a young lady was humiliated?”
He looked from one man to the next, not bothering to hide his anger, and each had the good grace to look ashamed. Except for Tiddle. “What of you, Mr. Tiddle?”
“Everyone knows she’s made of ice, Southwell. I know you’re a friend of the family, but you have to admit it’s a bit amusing that a girl is jilted three times.” Tiddle looked over at his companions as if to make certain they were finding him amusing.
“Her first intended died moments before the ceremony. Do you find that amusing, sir?”
Tiddle had the audacity—and stupidity—to chuckle. “I suppose allowing oneself to die to escape marriage to Miss Hubbard is a bit drastic, but I must say I commend the man his determination.” Nervous laughter followed, quickly stifled. The other men sitting around the table tensed, because though Tiddle was seemingly oblivious to the blinding rage that Henderson barely had in check, they were not. One of Tiddle’s friends leaned toward him and whispered something Henderson could not hear, but he suspected it was something like “shut the hell up, you idiot.”
Tiddle gave his friend an annoyed glance, then looked up at Henderson with an ugly smirk. “I say, Mr. Southwell, I do think it’s amusing. Damn amusing.”
Hell, Henderson had just wanted to relax, read the paper, and savor a nice snifter of brandy, and now he was going to have to beat this man to a pulp.
“She might be a nice little piece, but she’s a cold bitch. I can attest—”
The rest of Tiddle’s sentence was lost as Henderson moved with frightening speed to clutch the young whelp’s lapels, heave him up, and slam him against the richly paneled mahogany wall behind him. The other four men stood, but none stepped forward to assist Tiddle; they stood silently, watching warily as Henderson pulled him back and slammed him against the wall again.
“Get your hands off me, Southwell. You don’t even belong here, you ba—”
“If you keep talking, I’m just going to have to keep driving you into the wall until you can no longer speak. Do you understand me?”
Tiddle stared at Henderson belligerently. “I could have you arrested for laying a hand on my person.”
“You are not to speak of Miss Hubbard again,” Henderson said, ignoring the threat. “If I hear one whisper, I can promise you it will be the last thing you say against anyone. And please do not make the mistake of thinking I am bluffing. I would happily go to the gallows knowing I had silenced you forever.”
Tiddle’s eyes widened, and he looked behind Henderson to his friends. “He threatened to murder me. Did you all hear that? Murder. I say, that’s a crime.”
“I didn’t hear him say any such thing.”
Henderson jerked his head around and grinned to see Oliver standing behind the group of men. “You didn’t hear anything, gentlemen, did you?” he asked. They all remained silent.
Henderson shoved Tiddle away with disgust. “Go home, Tiddle, and sober up.”
Tiddle huffed and straightened his coat before grabbing up his walking stick. He clutched it, his knuckles white, and for just a moment Henderson wondered if he intended to brain him with it. Instead, he left the room walking stiffly, his back rigid.
“I hope you gentlemen will refrain from speaking ill of any lady.”
The four young toffs nodded and resumed their seats as Oliver slapped him on the back. “I think it’s a very good thing for Tiddle that I didn’t hear what was said,” he remarked, drawing Henderson toward the exit. “What did he say, anyway?”
“Did you see the piece in Town Talk?”
Oliver grimaced. “Who hasn’t?”
“Tiddle found it amusing. More amusing than I did,” Henderson said blandly. His heartbeat was just now returning to its normal rate. “It is times like this when I wish I were born in the last century so I could have called him out.”
“I’m gratified that you were here to set the bastard straight. Someone needs to. Come, I’ll join you for a brandy so you can tell me what you’ve been doing for the past four years.”
* * *
By the time Henderson was back in his hotel room, he felt as if he could sleep standing. These past two weeks had been an exercise in frustration, only adding to the insidious desperation he felt each time he thought of the poor souls in India.
If he’d held a lofty title, Henderson would have the sort of influence needed to address parliament. But with no power or influence, he was lucky to get two minutes of time with the men who blithely allowed millions to die under the mantle of the crown. One name remained on his list. One.
How could he return to India with nothing to show for his efforts except pity and scorn? He sat down heavily on his bed, staring blindly at the creased piece of paper he held in his hands—the names crossed off, each a mark of failure. A darkness and self-loathing that he hadn’t felt since Joseph’s death made it nearly impossible to scratch Lord Thrompton, his latest failure, off his list. With no small amount of disgust Henderson realized, as he held his pencil to his battered list, that his hand trembled. Clenching his hand around the wood, he roughly drew a line through Thrompton’s name, grimacing when his lead pierced the paper. One left. Frederick Lawton, Lord Berkley. He knew nothing of the man, but if he were the sort of person to bet, Henderson would wager that another door would be closed in his face. Nothing had gone right for him since his return. The one thing that had happened in his favor, Alice being left at the altar, only worked to torture him all the more. It would be better to know she was happily married. Liar.
* * *
Lord Berkley lived in the newly fashionable Cavendish Square. It was a neighborhood where nannies strolled with their charges, where sidewalks were well-swept and gardens well-tended. He knew nothing of Lord Berkley but that he was supposed to hold great influence over the liberal party. When he’d mentioned to Oliver at Pratt’s that Berkley was on his list, Oliver had let out a low whistle and said, “That’s a tough nut to crack.” He should just cross the man’s name off his list now and be done with it. Why go through the torture of pleading his case to someone whose belly was full of food and whose mind was full of superiority?
Feeling defeat was only a few minutes away, Henderson climbed the steps and adjusted his satchel so he could more easily grasp the large knocker, in the shape of a scowling lion, and swing it down. Momentarily, Berkley’s butler opened the door and immediately stepped back to allow Henderson into a large foyer that gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun streaming down from a skylight overhead.
“May I help you, sir.” The butler held out a sterling silver basket in which Henderson placed his card. He wore a black band around his sleeve, and Henderson wondered who had died. The house was not in mourning, so he assumed it was someone of little consequence.
“I would like an audience with Lord Berkley.”
“I’m afraid that is quite impossible”—He looked down at his card, and for a moment Henderson thought that perhaps his lordship was dead—“Mr. Southwell. His lordship is not at home.”
“I see,” Henderson said, feeling a stab of disappointment mixed with relief that he had not committed some sort of social faux pas. He wanted this business over with. “Is his secretary here? I should like to make an appointment with his lordship.”
“Lord Berkley is at one of his country estates, my lord. Costille House.”
Henderson furrowed his brow, for the name of the estate was vaguely familiar. “And where is that, sir?”
“St. Ives, my lord.”
Henderson blinked slowly. “St. Ives.”
“Yes, my lord. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
His bark of laughter startled the butler, but Henderson couldn’t stop the grin that stayed on his face. “St. Ives. St. bloody Ives. Thank you, sir.”
As Henderson left Cavendish Square, his steps were decidedly lighter. “What the devil, Joseph. What are you about, old chap?” A young lady pushing a pram gave him a cautious look, probably thinking him a bit touched. “I’m going to St. Ives,” he shouted, and laughed as she hurried her steps as if she were about to be attacked by a raving lunatic. “By God,” he said to himself. “What are the chances?”
* * *
Harriet Anderson, Alice’s oldest and dearest friend, entered the parlor cautiously as if she might be interrupting some terrible bout of tears and hysteria. She wore a plain, gray dress, not particularly unusual for Harriet, who tended to dress more like a stern governess than the daughter of a wealthy man, but this one smacked of mourning. The dress matched her friend’s expression, for her moss-green eyes were looking at her as if she were walking into a sick room.
“Oh, stop, will you?” Alice said, grinning. “I am not dead, you know. Please stop looking at me as if I’m lying in my coffin. Or soon will be.”
Harriet smiled and rushed to her friend, her hands outstretched. “I’m sorry, Alice, but I’ve been so worried about you.”
Alice waved a hand, dismissing her friend’s concern. “I’ll live. And I’d very much appreciate it if you would never look at me that way again, not you. Unless I actually am dying, and then I would quite appreciate a sad look or two.” Alice let out a gusty sigh. “Everyone is trying to be kind, tiptoeing around me as if I’m constantly on the verge of tears, and it’s getting a bit tiresome.”
“I shall endeavor to treat you with complete callous disregard.”
“Thank you,” Alice said on a laugh.
“We were all very angry with Lord Northrup. I do wish we were there. I would have hunted him down and given him a piece of my mind. The cad.”
“No, it was much better that you were all here. I don’t know I could have borne it if you were witness to yet another humiliation. To be honest, Harriet, it’s my pride that stings more than anything. And the realization that I must abandon the future I had so carefully planned for myself.”
“Don’t say such things, Alice.”
“It’s only the truth and the sooner I come to accept my fate, the better. I hardly think any man will even look my way now. Three fiancés, Harri. Three. And not a single marriage.” Alice smoothed her skirts and looked down to her lap. “Did you see Town Talk?”
“No one reads that drivel and if they do, they don’t pay attention to anything it—” Harriet stopped abruptly when Alice jerked her head up and gave her friend a hard stare. “Oh, very well. Everyone has read it and everyone is talking about it. But it will pass, Alice. These things always do.”
Alice shook her head. “No, they do not. When I am eighty years old, little children will point and say, ‘there goes the bad luck bride.’ Oh, I could shoot whoever wrote those words. Wasn’t it bad enough that my chances are all but ruined of ever finding a husband? With those words, my fate was sealed.”
Harriet was silent for a moment, and Alice realized she’d hoped that her friend would dismiss her predictions. When she did not, it made her situation somehow more real. “Then we shall be two old maids together,” Harriet said, “for I doubt I shall ever marry, given that no one has even so much as asked me for a dance except as an act of charity.”
“That’s not true, Harri,” Alice said fiercely. When Harriet was with her friends, she was vibrant and witty, but this was not the case during social events. She withdrew, grew quiet, and had a terrible tendency to keep her eyes lowered and averted whenever a man happened to look her way. The first time Alice had seen her friend outside of one of their group’s houses, she’d been dismayed by how quiet and reserved Harriet was, as if she was an automaton that had wound itself down and could no longer move.
Harriet, who was pretty but not beautiful, who could sing but not well, who fumbled on the pianoforte and produced needlepoint that was always a bit messy, lived in the shadow of her older sister. Clara was all that Harriet was not, and it was impossible to dislike her because she truly was the loveliest girl, inside and out. Their mother, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide the fact she had no patience and little affection for her younger daughter. It had been evident from Harriet’s birth. Merely the fact she had not been a boy, when Mrs. Anderson had so fervently wanted one, might have been overlooked if Harriet hadn’t come short of Clara in nearly every category. Only with her friends could she be herself, could she allow her wit to shine. Seeing her outside their cocoon of friendship was devastating.
“You’ll never guess who I saw,” Alice said, desperate to change the subject. “Henderson.”
Harriet’s face lit up. “Is he in St. Ives?”
Alice tried to stop her stomach from clenching. “No. He’s in London. Or perhaps already on his way back to India. He’s working on famine relief and is very passionate about it.”
“Oh.” Harriet didn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. Unlike Alice, who would have died before letting her feelings for Henderson be known, Harriet had no such compunction. In fact, it had become a bit of a joke between the girls, for Harriet fully and gleefully admitted her crush. “Is he well?”
“Yes,” Alice said with the smallest bit of hesitation. “He’s changed, though, become more serious. Grown up a bit, I suppose.”
“We all have.” Harriet furrowed her brow slightly. “Have you seen Eliza and Rebecca since your return?”
Alice shook her head. “I think they’re afraid to see me, but you can assure them I am well and would love their company. I promise not to cry or fall into hysterics.”
Harriet grinned. “As if you would. I know if it happened to me I’d be in bed with the curtains drawn for a year. But here you are looking as calm as ever, as if it never happened. I wish I could be so.”
Alice tilted her head. “I’ve never seen you cry or fall into hysterics and I’ve known you a long time.”
Her friend looked away and toyed with a bit of lace on her dress before lifting her head and smiling impishly. “You do know my mother forbids any show of emotion. Particularly joy or happiness.”
Alice laughed, even though she knew this to be true, for the times all four girls had been in the Anderson home, her mother had looked at them sourly whenever they burst into laughter, as if the sound somehow offended her. It would be horrible, indeed, if Harriet couldn’t escape her mother by marrying someone who adored her as she should be adored.
“The John Knill celebration is next week, you know. Do you think you’ll be up to going?”
Everyone in town would be there for the historic celebration, and Alice wasn’t sure she wanted to be the object of pity or scrutiny, so she wrinkled her nose.
“You must go. It’s only every five years and you’ll create more gossip by not going than by attending.”
Alice gave her friend a skeptical look. “Very well. Perhaps I will wear Tragedy as a mask at this year’s ball, even if it’s not a masquerade.”
“Or a horse shoe around your neck,” Harriet said.
“Ah. Good luck for the bad luck bride? Perhaps a wreath of four leaf clovers?”
Harriet shook her head. “Too difficult to find that many.” She snapped her fingers. “A black cat on a leash. Oh, perfect!”
Laughing, Alice said, “You are the meanest of all my friends.”
“And the only one who you know will tell you the truth at all times.”
“What is my truth, then?”
Harriet looked her over as if taking her question seriously. “The reason you haven’t gotten married is simply because you haven’t fallen in love.”
Alice couldn’t help but feel a small bit of anger. Love had nothing to do with her ill-fated weddings. She could have very well been in love with all three of her fiancés, and would have been a far more tragic figure. It would have been unbearable to lose even one man she loved.
Some of her anger must have shown, for Harriet leaned forward, her expression stricken. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I suppose I meant that if your fiancés loved you—except for Lord Livingston; he couldn’t help that he died—you would have been married by now. Normally, when one loves a man, they love you in return.”
“Not necessarily,” Alice said softly.
* * *
Two weeks after Henderson believed he was saying good-bye to Alice possibly forever, he flung open his mullioned window, its warped glass distorting the lovely view outside, and breathed in the sweet smell of the sea, tinged only a bit with the less sweet smell of fish. It was a gloriously pretty day, the kind that seemed common when he was a youth exploring the beaches and hills with Joseph and the other local lads. Unlike the northern coast of England, the water here was warm and stunning blue-green. Though he’d never been, he’d heard it compared to the waters in the Caribbean. He knew the narrow, cobbled streets of St. Ives better than his own village, and couldn’t help but think of it as home. And yet, it was strange to be here in St. Ives knowing that Joseph was not. Stranger still to know Alice was less than a twenty-minute walk away and he couldn’t gather the courage to visit. It wasn’t as if she had thrown herself into his arms and proclaimed her undying love. For God’s sake, she had talked about Harriet, as if she might play matchmaker between them. If anything, Alice had seemed rather cool and reserved, as if their friendship had not been the grand thing he remembered. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps he was looking at the past through the damaged lens of time. Nothing would be worse than letting Alice know how he felt and having her look at him with pity or surprise. She would be kind, and he simply couldn’t bear it if she gently explained to him that she thought of him as a brother and that the idea of marrying him was the furthest thing from her mind. After all, she had been engaged three times since he’d left. In those four years, he may not have been celibate, but every time he’d even begun to consider a girl to marry, he would remember Alice and that would be that.
A seagull carrying a live crab in its mouth wheeled wildly in the sky in an attempt to get away from another gull that screeched in its wake. Henderson followed the gulls’ progress, trying to determine whether he was rooting for the seagull with the crab or the one who was trying to steal its meal. It was better to consider such a mundane event rather than think about his own life.
“I should have kissed her,” he said aloud, glaring at the seagull in the lead as it dropped its meal and the other bird followed the crab down to the streets below. He was in St. Ives and she was just twenty minutes away. If he were going to kiss her, he would have to do so in the next few days. Henderson pushed away from the window to stare bleakly as his small, neatly made bed, his valise still sitting atop it packed.
With efficient movements, he unfastened the leather straps and opened his valise to take out his writing materials. First, he would write a letter to Lord Berkley requesting a meeting. He considered writing to Alice and letting her know he was in St. Ives. But what if that letter did not immediately elicit an invitation to Tregrennar? Perhaps he should simply show up at her doorstep, a happy surprise. He had to find out before he left for India if she felt even a little of what he did. After all, how could he know how she would react to a kiss unless he kissed her?