The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(35)
Conversation lulled for a time, and the room was silent but for the clicking of their needles.
“I always thought he might have a tender for you, Alice.” This from Eliza, whose quiet nature hid a sharp intelligence.
Alice let out a forced laugh, that thankfully sounded as if it were filled with genuine amusement. “Did you? Why ever would you say such a thing? I can assure you, Henderson thought of me, when he did, as an annoying little sister.”
The needles clacked, but Alice could tell the others were waiting to hear why Eliza thought Henderson might have romantic feelings toward her.
“Do you remember the Smythe ball?”
Alice wrinkled her brow, trying to think back on that event nearly five years prior. She could remember nothing unusual that had happened. She couldn’t even recall whether Henderson had danced with her that night, as he often did. Joseph was always making certain his friends asked her to dance, even though she’d hardly been a wallflower. “I suppose I remember it. It was like any other ball, was it not?”
“You were dancing with William Powers. The waltz. I was at the refreshment table with my mother, and I happened to look out to see you dancing with him. And then I saw Henderson. He was looking at you, too, and I shall never forget the look on his face. It was…singular.”
Harriet raised an eyebrow. “Singular? Yes, I can see how you would immediately believe Henderson was in love with Alice. Really, Eliza.”
Eliza pursed her lips together, obviously annoyed by Harriet’s dismissal. Of all her friends, Eliza and Harriet were the least friendly to one another. Alice wondered if Harriet was actually jealous of whatever imagined look Henderson had given her. Did she actually believe herself in love with Henderson? Alice had always thought it had been a lark, a silly game, not something that involved any true feelings for him.
“Yes, Harriet, singular. It was despair and longing and fierce joy, all wrapped into that one singular expression,” Eliza said bitingly.
Despite her vow to remain uninvolved, Alice felt her cheeks heat.
“Are you certain it wasn’t indigestion?” Rebecca asked, sounding for all the world as if this was a serious inquiry. Rebecca was like that. One could overlook her, as she wasn’t much of a chatterbox, but when she did speak, she was often remarkably funny.
“Quite certain,” Eliza said, laughing. “At any rate, that look stayed with me.” She shrugged delicately.
“I’m sure you were mistaken,” Alice said. “I’d know, wouldn’t I, if Mr. Southwell was in love with me? I can assure you, he was not. I think poor Mr. Southwell would be mortified by this conversation.”
“Yes, we’ve much more important things to discuss,” Harriet said, giving Alice a quelling glance. “Such as why on earth Lord Northrup is even at this moment gallivanting off to Scotland, free as a bird, when I daresay he should be strung up somewhere, perhaps dangling over a pit of venomous snakes.”
“Harriet,” Alice said with a note of warning.
“We are all just worried about you,” Eliza said, putting aside her knitting and any pretense that the girls were there for any reason other than to find out about Lord Northrup. No doubt her three friends had already convened and discussed in detail how the events had transpired.
“There is no need for your worry. I am perfectly well and quite content to be back in St. Ives where I belong.” Her friends all looked doubtful, and Alice didn’t know what she could possibly do to convince them otherwise. “Truly.”
“Have you heard from him?” Eliza asked softly, as if the words would somehow hurt her.
“No,” Alice said, trying to keep any emotion from her voice. While she hadn’t loved Lord Northrup, she had been quite fond of him, and the fact he hadn’t even bothered to write her a note of apology or explanation did hurt. It was almost as if he hadn’t liked her at all, that his claims of love—and he did claim to love her more than once—were completely untrue. “And I don’t wish to hear from him,” she lied. All three friends stared at her, clearly not believing her.
“Oh, very well. Yes. I am bothered that he hasn’t written. Are you all happy?”
“Of course not,” Eliza said. “We’re just worried.”
“One would think you’d all be used to this by now,” Alice said, trying at humor. “The Bad Luck Bride strikes again.” Her friends didn’t laugh, and Alice let out a long sigh. “Would it make you all happy if I were to start weeping?”
“Yes,” Rebecca said.
Alice shot her friend a withering look. “All right then,” she said. “Boo hoo. Sob. Sniff, sniff. There, are you satisfied?”
They all laughed.
“I was upset, but I’m perfectly well now. If Lord Northrup walked through that door right now, I wouldn’t even rise to greet him. My heart would not pick up a beat. My cheeks would not turn red.”
“Did that ever happen?” Eliza asked.
“Yes,” Alice said. But she didn’t say that all those things happened when another man entirely walked in the room.
*
Most of Costille Castle had been built in the early seventeen hundreds, though the remnants of the original castle, a monstrous tower that seemed completely out of place in the Tudor style manse that was built around it, rose above the stone and granite, a monument to power if not grace. Henderson walked through the smaller of two towers, its stone arch unchanged in three centuries, and into a courtyard now surrounded by the more modern home. Though “modern” was not a word most would use to describe the ancient architecture. Mullioned windows, narrow and tall, had been carved into the great slabs of stone. High above, he could see the top of the main tower, and it was easy to imagine archers standing at the ready, guarding the castle from marauders.