The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(12)

“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.