The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(13)
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?”