The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(71)
*
Sebastian’s fiancée, Cecelia Whitemore, lived in a modest home on the outskirts of St. Ives village but with a view of the Atlantic that took one’s breath away. The charm of the house, situated on a bluff and surrounded by cabbage trees and roses in full bloom, was ruined by the large black wreath adorning the door, a tribute to the man their daughter would never marry. Henderson stopped at the stone arbor, where a riot of roses obliterated the stone, and paused when he saw the obvious sign of mourning, the second such wreath he’d encountered in recent weeks. And as before, Henderson decided it was vital that he ignore it and continue with his interview. Perhaps it was insensitive of him, visiting Sebastian’s fiancée so soon after his death, but Henderson could not wait.
Henderson stepped onto the ancient stone step and turned the bell, a clever little design in the shape of a limpet shell, the sound overly cheerful given the black wreath. A man with diminutive spectacles and impressive muttonchops, speckled with a fair amount of gray, opened the door and looked at him curiously before turning and saying, “I have this, Mrs. Spratt.”
Henderson waited for the shadow of the woman to disappear before introducing himself. “Hello, sir. My name is Henderson Southwell and I was a friend of Sebastian Turner. I was wondering if I might speak with your daughter. I do realize this is a terrible time for her and your family, and I would not have disturbed her for anything had I not deemed this extremely important.”
“I am her father,” he said in a distinct Cornish accent, though Henderson had already guessed as much. “You are correct, Mr. Southwell, this is a terrible time for us. Do you mind telling me why you need to speak with my daughter?”
“I wanted to know if Sebastian had ever told her about a Mr. Stewart.”
Suddenly, the door opened wider, and Cecelia was there, her eyes wide. She was a pretty girl, with dark brown hair parted severely down the middle, but the style somehow suited her even features and pale, smooth skin. She looked to her father and back to Henderson, one hand still clutching the door as if she might fall if she let go. “We need to talk to him, Father,” she said.
Mr. Whitemore led him to a small, sunlit parlor with comfortable furniture and a fireplace of golden stone that dominated one wall. After indicating he should take a seat, Cecelia left to fetch her mother and Mr. Whitemore sat, silently, as they waited for the women to return. It was a damned uncomfortable minute, one in which Henderson looked about the room as if finding everything about it fascinating, while Mr. Whitemore stared at the carpet at his feet. When the women entered, Henderson sprang to his feet, nearly knocking his hat, which he’d placed beside him, to the floor.
After introducing him to her mother, Cecelia sat down serenely and stared at him with her calm, brown eyes. “Why did you ask about a Mr. Stewart?”
“This may seem a strange call, but Sebastian mentioned this Mr. Stewart when I saw him last, the night before he passed. He asked me if Joseph Hubbard had ever mentioned a Mr. Stewart to me. It struck me as odd because he said if Joseph had, I would certainly remember it. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I don’t know who Mr. Stewart is and I told him so, and that was the end of the conversation. And then, three days ago, at the John Knill ball, I ran into Gerald Grant. He was one of the lads who was sometimes part of our group. When I saw Gerald, he asked me if Sebastian had spoken of a Mr. Stewart that last night before he passed.”
Cecelia looked impossibly pale. “You truly don’t know who Mr. Stewart is?”
Henderson looked at each person in the room, completely baffled why they were, to a one, looking at him as if they were seeing a ghost.
“Mr. Stewart died years ago,” Mr. Whitemore said, his deep voice sounding overly loud in the small room. “A tree limb fell on him as he was riding beneath it.” Mr. Whitemore looked at his daughter and nodded.
“Everyone knew the story,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Mr. Stewart owned a shop in the village and was well-liked by everyone. I even recall going to his funeral. Everyone went. No one knew what really happened. But I know because Sebastian told me.”
*
Five boys were in the forest that day, building a fort in an oak tree. Joseph, Peter Jeffreys, Tristan Cummings, Sebastian Turner and Gerald Grant. Gerald was the youngest, only twelve years old and trying to prove to the older boys that he was worthy of their company. It had been Joseph’s idea to build the fort, something that didn’t surprise Henderson, for he was always coming up with some adventure, even when they were older and in university. Henderson could almost picture them, boys on the cusp of being men, likely competing to see who was the strongest of the bunch, heaving up thick limbs high into the tree to build their fortress in the sky.
And then there was Gerald, too young to be with boys who had already started growing peach fuzz on their faces, who already were beginning to develop the muscles required to handle such heavy branches. He’d just been a kid who was trying to prove himself. The older boys teased him as older boys will; he was such an easy target and his face would get so red when they made him angry. He grabbed the largest of the limbs, told the other boys he needed no help, and so they sat back and watched, likely shouting encouragement or needling him or doing what boys will do when they’re all together having a grand time.
Gerald had almost gotten that branch up to the fort, gaining the grudging admiration of his friends, when they heard the soft sound of hooves on the dirt road below them. Peter, who wasn’t even supposed to be out of the house, begged the other boys to remain quiet as Gerald hung on to that branch with all his might. Sebastian was watching Gerald, ready to give assistance if it looked like the younger boy needed help, and he swore to Cecelia that Gerald simply let go, just as Mr. Stewart was beneath him.