The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(21)
Chapter 6
One of the things Alice loved about St. Ives was its light. She wasn’t certain whether it was the proximity to the ocean, the endless blue skies, or simply because she was happier there than anywhere else, but the light was divine. The renowned painter JMW Turner had discovered St. Ives in the forties, and his prestigious presence had drawn even more artists, who came to paint the sea, the quaint architecture, and its stunning vistas. Of course, Alice didn’t count herself among the artists, but she was pleased with her current work. She stood in their main parlor painting a watercolor of a vase of flowers, trying to capture the glorious way the sun was shining through a translucent blue vase overflowing with Irises, some of which were beginning to whither in a rather lovely way. Her mother was behind her going through her correspondence and commenting now and again about some news from friends and relatives, many of whom were still in London. Alice was quite certain, given the long pauses between sentences, that her mother was editing out any words of concern or sympathy having to do with Alice being jilted.
Christina was off laying flowers on the graves of veterans in St. Ives Parish Church’s cemetery, though Alice knew the real reason she and her friends had gone there was to get a glimpse of the new vicar, who was purportedly a fine-looking young man from an excellent family. Christina had begged Alice not to mention anything to her mother, though Alice suspected Elda most certainly knew why Christina and her friends had suddenly become so altruistic. They expected her back any minute, and so Alice was not surprised when she heard the rustle of her sister’s skirts behind her.
“How was your outing?” Elda asked.
“Uneventful.” Alice could almost see her sister’s pout. No doubt the handsome vicar had not been seen. “But the cemetery does look nice with the new flowers.”
“Which was the reason for your trip,” her mother pointed out.
Alice turned and gave her sister an impish smile before going back to her painting.
“I do have news, however,” Christina said as she sat down next to her mother. “Mr. Southwell is in the village.”
Alice stilled momentarily, unable to complete the delicate blue she was applying to one of her Irises, and she prayed neither her mother nor Christina noticed her brief inability to breathe. A sudden and fierce smile touched her lips and her heart hammered in her chest. Pressing her lips together and schooling her features, she turned and said (as if the news that Henderson had come to St. Ives was of little consequence), “Oh?”
“Yes. He didn’t see me. We were in the Downalong coming back from the cemetery and he was going into the new bookstore.”
“A new bookstore?” Alice asked. “How wonderful.” Henderson is here. Henderson is here!
“At any rate, he’s here. We should visit the bookstore tomorrow,” Christina said. “Would you like to go?”
“We should all go,” Elda said. “I wonder if they have the newest New Quarterly. It hadn’t been published yet when we were in London.”
Alice turned back to her painting, her heart singing with the knowledge that Henderson was so close. What was he doing in St. Ives? She furrowed her brow trying to think of one thing, other than he wanted to visit with the Hubbards, and perhaps particularly her, that could have drawn him to the village. Could it be possible he had been here for days and yet hadn’t written to let them know? Her heart, beating so happily not one minute before, slowed to a painful tempo. What if he had no intention of calling on them? What if his visit to St. Ives had nothing at all to do with her?
Squeezing her eyes shut, Alice had to accept that it was quite possible Henderson had absolutely no intention of seeing her, that his visit to St. Ives had nothing to do with her. That he hadn’t been close to kissing her when he’d left that day in England as she had so foolishly thought. She began frantically searching her mind for an excuse to go into the village immediately.
“Is something amiss, Alice?” her mother asked.
Alice realized with a start that she had been staring blindly at her painting, her brush drying in her hand, lost in her thoughts. “I’m having trouble with this bloom,” she said, locking her eyes on the painting. “Something is wrong with the perspective, I think.”
Christina came up next to her and studied the half-finished painting. “It’s lovely, Alice. I wish I could paint half as well.”
Alice laughed. “And I wish I could play the violin half as well as you.”
“Your voice is better.” Christina gave her a cheeky grin. “But I’m better at needlepoint. Are we finished?”
“No. I’m better at penmanship and you are better at archery.”
“Girls, stop,” Elda said, laughing. “You are both well accomplished in your own ways.” She set aside her correspondence as she looked at her daughters. “I wonder why Mr. Southwell hasn’t stopped by. I’m sure he knows he is welcome. And I don’t know why he would stay in one of the village’s little inns when he would be far more comfortable here.”
Alice turned her attention back to her painting. “He hasn’t been back since Joseph’s funeral. He was his particular friend and perhaps he feels a bit awkward staying here now.”
“Still, if we do see him, I shall issue an invitation. With your father and Oliver still in London, it would be nice to have a man in the house.”