The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(29)

“How is your mother?” Elda asked once they had all settled in the main parlor for tea. Henderson had just popped a cherry tart into his mouth and grimaced—not from the tart, as they were his favorite, but from the question. Though Henderson had never spoken at length about his family, Alice knew he didn’t like to discuss his home life. She sensed he loved his grandparents but his relationship with his mother was particularly strained. She had gleaned this information during one of their long talks, and it had seemed like a gift to Alice at the time, a tiny piece of Henderson that he so rarely gave away.

“I have no idea,” he said after swallowing the confection. “As far as I know, she’s still wallowing in bitter disappointment,” he said with irony. Henderson had been an only—and very lonely—child, Alice guessed, with a mother who could hardly look at him without letting her feelings of disgust show. It had been Henderson’s grandmother who had insisted they keep him rather than send him to one of the foundling homes where so many bastard children ended up. He’d often said his grandmother’s heart was too soft, but he’d been glad of it.

“And your grandparents?”

Alice gave her mother a telling look, which her mother ignored. “Well. I write to them regularly. It was my grandmother who wrote to say Miss Hubbard’s wedding was imminent. That’s when I immediately found a ship and headed home to stop the wedding.” Henderson grinned and Elda laughed.

“I thought it must be something like that,” Elda said, a twinkle in her eye that told Henderson she knew he was jesting.

“If it puts your mind at ease, I have been dutifully writing my grandparents since the day I left England, and they have dutifully responded.”

Alice had often wondered what it had been like for Henderson to grow up in such a home. Yes, he had been sent away to school since he was seven (still another thought that drew sympathy from her), but when he was younger he had been home for summers and holidays. Whom had he talked to? Played with? In the Hubbard home, there had always been someone to talk to, play a game with. Joseph had been a wonderfully indulgent brother and Alice had taken advantage of his kind heart and giving nature. He had set the tone for the Hubbard children, who loved each other and were uncommonly close. The remaining Hubbard children were still close, of course, but there was always a feeling that a large part was missing and would never be replaced, no matter how much time passed. At least she had wonderful memories of Joseph and their happy childhood. What did Henderson have?

“His mother blames Henderson for the fact she never married and—”

Her mother gave her a sharp look and nodded subtly in Christina’s direction, and Alice stopped abruptly.

“It’s all right, Mama, I know all about Mr. Southwell’s birth,” Christina said, giving Henderson an apologetic look.

“Alice, really.” Elda always seemed surprised that her daughters shared so much information. “Christina is only eighteen.”

“I knew when I was eighteen,” Alice said logically, and Elda let out a small puff of exasperation.

Henderson let out a low chuckle. “Yes, she knows about my mother and her fall from grace.”

“Do you ever wonder where your father is? If I were your grandmother, I would have hunted him down,” Christina said, grabbing up the last tart, “and made things right. Your mother must have been so hurt.”

“I doubt my mother could garner the energy to feel such strong emotion,” Henderson said, laughing lightly.

“I’m sure she feels emotion—she simply does not put it on display,” Christina argued.

“Perhaps,” he said, a hollow note in his tone.

“We love you,” Elda said.

Henderson’s eyes flickered briefly to Alice before he smiled at her mother. “That is very kind, Lady Hubbard.”

“I was not being kind, young man. I was stating a fact.”



*



Alice and her sister and mother gathered each evening before a fire even in the summertime, for the nights in St. Ives could be quite chilly. Unless they were attending an entertainment, the family kept early hours, dining at seven and turning in for the evening by ten. Elda was perpetually knitting socks and sending them off to a veterans’ home in London and this evening was no different. After an early supper of ham, potatoes, and beet salad, Henderson had gone back to the village to meet up with some friends he hadn’t seen in four years, promising to return before midnight.

“I suppose a house full of women isn’t much fun for a young man,” Elda said, laughing, while Alice tried not to feel too disappointed. Her thoughts of the day’s events mingled with the soft clacking of her mother’s knitting needles and the occasional rustle of a page from the book her sister was reading. A book sat on Alice’s lap as well, but it was impossible to read with her thoughts whirling about her head.

“You seem distracted this evening, Alice,” her mother said, looking up from her knitting.

She glanced down at her book. “Oh, no. Just tired.” Liar.

“It’s the fresh sea air,” Elda said. “There is something about being close to the sea that is so fatiguing.”

“It’s a good sort of fatigue. That’s why I’m living here forever,” Alice said feelingly. “There is nothing like St. Ives.”