The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(20)
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?