The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(7)
She sobered rather quickly, though it was clear she was still trying not to laugh, and said, “Of course you did.” She turned to her mother. “Mother, my reputation is saved.”
“I, for one, do think it’s rather callous of Mr. Southwell to be making a jest of things so early,” Christina said, and Alice was touched by her sister’s fierce loyalty.
“I apologize,” Henderson said, giving Alice a small bow. From the narrowing of her eyes, she knew he was mocking her, and to be perfectly honest, at that moment, when his heart had just taken a small beating, he did not care.
Oliver gave him a long look, which Henderson pointedly ignored. “You were joking, weren’t you, Henderson?”
“What sort of a man would show up after four years and do such a thing?” It was not an answer but no one pointed that out, for which Henderson was grateful.
The group was silent for a few beats before Mrs. Hubbard suggested they not waste the fine breakfast the cook had prepared in anticipatory celebration of the bridal party returning to their home. Looking over at Alice, Henderson noted her color was high, no doubt caused by the small reminder of the expense her parents had once again undertaken.
“I’m not very hungry, Mama. If you don’t mind, I think I will go up to my room to change. Have the staff returned from the church yet?”
Henderson tried not to look at her, but it was nearly impossible. He wanted, more than anything, to draw her into his arms and take away the pain that she was so clearly trying to hide. She might not be heartbroken, but the fact that she’d been left at the altar—again—had to be devastating.
“Of course. I think I heard someone moving about downstairs.” Her mother pulled on a velvet cord and moments later Mr. Owens appeared, his face even more solemn than usual.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Could you have Hazel go up to Miss Hubbard’s rooms?”
After Mr. Owens left to find Alice’s maid, Alice kissed her mother’s cheek, then her father’s.
“Are you certain you don’t want me to find him and pummel him?” Oliver asked, and Alice let out a small laugh.
“I am certain.” She swallowed and before she turned to leave the room, Henderson was sure her eyes filled with tears. He took a step toward her but stopped abruptly, realizing how strange that would seem. It didn’t matter that he’d thought about her every day since he’d left; it was clear she hadn’t thought of him. Then again, what had he expected? That she would wait for him when he hadn’t even had the courage to ask her to?
He’d left without a word, without even a letter of explanation, thinking it was better. Everything was so raw, so horribly, horribly wrong after Joseph’s death. When that first wedding invitation reached him, two weeks after the supposed event, Henderson had felt something shift in his heart. He’d lost her because he’d been too ashamed, too filled with guilt and remorse and that awful promise he’d made to Joseph. And he’d lost her. Word that her fiancé had died before the wedding gave him a small amount of hope—until the second invitation reached him just a year later.
That was the last he knew until one of his grandmother’s infrequent letters reached him and mentioned Alice and her third attempt at matrimony. Apparently, it was unusual enough to spark even his grandmother’s interest. Something came over him in that moment as he held his grandmother’s letter in his hand, something fierce and raw. It was almost as if God were up in heaven giving him chance after chance and Henderson was simply too stupid to take a hint. Or perhaps it was Joseph manipulating things down on Earth so that his best friend could finally be with the only woman he’d ever loved. It was a fanciful thought, but it began to grow and grow until it was a physical thing inside him, this need to leave India, to return home and stop Alice from marrying again. A miracle happened then. Dr. Cornish, sanitary commissioner for Madras, urged him to return to England, to rally support for famine relief, to give first-hand accounts of what was happening, to try to use any influence he had to get someone, anyone, interested in the millions of lives that were being lost.
Henderson had left that meeting with a feeling of inevitability, and as he’d looked up at the gray sky over Madras, he’d smiled. “Thanks, Joseph.” He could picture his friend up there, rolling his eyes, and saying, “It’s about time, Southie, you stubborn fool.”
Four weeks later—a week after his original arrival date thanks to several delays—he was stepping off a ship, his heart pounding like mad. Alice was getting married in one hour. A hack was waiting, as if for him, and Henderson climbed aboard, feeling his heart swell with what he recognized as hope. It bloomed inside him, nearly felling him. He’d rehearsed on his journey home what he was going to say, but as he approached the church, his brain got all muddled and the only thing he knew was that he had to stop it. Had to. Then, disaster struck. The hack’s wheel shattered, leaving it listing far to one side on a crowded London street. Pulling out his watch, he realized with sick dread that he was going to be late. He jumped from the hack, throwing the driver a coin, and began frantically looking about for another. Nothing. The streets were clogged with traffic, the noise suddenly unbearable. And so he began to run, knowing even as he did that he would be late. After four bloody years of pining away for her and doing nothing, he was going to lose his one chance to act, to make her his.