The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(15)

“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.