The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(36)
Henderson walked to a massive oak door, its hinges made of thick iron, and pulled back on a knocker in the shape of a steed’s head. Letting it drop, Henderson couldn’t help but smile at the loud, echoing sound that could no doubt be heard throughout much of the house. What a marvelous place this was, he thought, looking down at the granite beneath his feet, slightly worn by centuries of footsteps. His grandfather’s home was newly built, and while a grand place, it didn’t hold the tangible history of this keep.
The heavy door swung open, revealing a butler with a rich shock of white hair gleaming in the shadows of the entryway.
“Mr. Southwell here to see Lord Berkley. I have an appointment.” He handed over his card, which the butler took before backing up and allowing him entry. Henderson stepped into the cool interior, marveling at the thickness of the ancient walls, and stopped dead. The inside of Costille was completely unexpected. What he had expected was ancient splendor but what he saw was modern and extremely feminine furnishing. The walls were covered with flowered wallpaper, the floors were a pinkish Italian marble, the ceiling heavily carved and ornate with gold leaf accents. Everywhere he looked were embellishments and color—pink, yellow, red—a cacophony of floral décor. It was almost as if someone had gone into a hothouse, gathered up all the petals of all the flowers within, and thrown them into the air. As he followed the butler down the wood-paneled hall, he took in the ornately etched gas light fixtures, the frescoed ceiling depicting little cherubs flying in and out of puffy clouds, and was, frankly, baffled by what had been done to the old place. It resembled more of a brand new, and rather tacky, hotel than an ancient medieval keep.
The butler opened the door to a similarly decorated study, where the new Lord Berkley sat on a pink-cushioned chair behind a gold leaf desk carved with cabbage flowers. Berkley stood as Henderson entered, and his first impression of the man was that he did not fit his surroundings. He was big and burly, with hard chiseled features and dark gray eyes that one could only describe as menacing.
“Lord Berkley, a pleasure,” Henderson said, looking around the room. “Interesting décor.”
Lord Berkley smiled grimly. “A gift from my late wife.” The irony in his tone was nearly palpable. From his tone, Henderson had a feeling it was not a welcome gift. “How can I help you, Mr. Southwell?”
“I’m not certain you can,” Henderson said. “For the past four years I’ve been living in India, working for the sanitary commission in Madras. You are aware of the famine there?”
Berkley nodded. “I am.”
As responses went, it was not the most promising answer, but something in the earl’s manner gave Henderson a glimmer of hope that he’d finally found a reasonable man. From experience, Henderson had learned that glimmer could quickly be doused with a single derisive word, so he went forward with caution, gauging the other man’s reaction.
“I’ve been back in England for nearly a month in an attempt to garner support for famine relief efforts. There has been some support, of course, but we’ve met with resistance from many.”
Berkley tilted his head. “Why is that?”
“A variety of reasons, the largest one being the fear that the citizenry will become dependent upon handouts and will not be self-sufficient once the famine is over.”
“A sound argument.”
The glimmer of hope flickered like a candle in a drafty hall. “Perhaps. But the enormity of the problem makes it inhumane to ignore India’s plight.” Taking a bracing breath, Henderson repeated the words he’d said so many times to so many other men. The railroads, the stockpiles, the slow deaths, the children. Through his entire speech, Berkley was silent, showing little emotion, and even less interest.
Finally, feeling desperation growing, Henderson drew out his photographs and placed them with near reluctance in front of the earl. Berkley took them up, flipping through them one at a time, studying them, his face impassive. Henderson tried to read something in the man’s dark eyes, but he could not. Not disgust. Not compassion. Not even curiosity. When he was done, Berkley handed the photographs to him, holding back one and laying it on his desk facing Henderson. It was a picture of a small child, lying dead in the street. Next to the child lay a dog, sleeping.
“Why is the dog so well fed? Do these people feed their animals instead of their children?”
Henderson’s gaze took in the stark scene, and he clenched his jaw briefly. “The dogs, my lord, feed on the corpses of the dead.” He felt the bile rise to his throat as one such horrific memory came to vivid life in his mind.
“My God.” And then the most remarkable thing happened. Though Berkley’s expression hardly changed, his eyes filled, and he swallowed heavily. He pushed the photograph toward Henderson with the tips of his fingers. “And no one you’ve seen has agreed to help?”
“No. I think part of it is that these people are seen as not quite human. The pictures I think dehumanize them, but I wanted to show the extent of the suffering. Words do little, but to see the families, the children. I thought it would move people to action, but all it has done is create disgust. I’m afraid I have failed in my mission because I failed to adequately explain what has happened. I’ve seen these people in real life. These are good people. They are poor and uneducated and difficult to look at.”
“And they are not British.” Berkley let out an angry puff of air. “My father would have felt very much the same as I. He was a great persuader, a force in the House of Lords at a time when that institution holds little power. I, on the other hand, am unknown. I have not taken up my father’s seat. Rather daunting task, actually. As much as I would like to help, and I will do what I can, I fear I will have little influence.”