The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(77)
Northrup looked up and immediately stood, his smile slowly fading as her words and tone hit him.
“Ah,” he said, and there was so much unsaid in that single syllable.
“I am sorry. I do want you to know that I admire you and hold you in the highest—”
“Please,” he said. “You don’t have to continue. I cannot say I am surprised. I suppose I was holding out hope you would come to care for me as much as I care for you. That is it, isn’t it? You do not love me in the least.”
Alice shook her head, feeling horrible. “I wanted to. I thought we would suit, but so much has changed in the past few weeks. I have come to realize I would make you a terrible wife, that you need someone better, not as apt to argue or be cross.”
He smiled sadly. “You would have made me a wonderful wife. Had you loved me.” He swallowed, and for a fleeting moment Alice thought he might break down, but he gathered himself, straightening his jacket as if putting his emotions in order.
“Thank you so much for understanding. I do feel horrible and mean, but I know this is the right thing to do.” This was far more dreadful than Alice had thought it would be; Northrup seemed truly distraught and Alice found herself fighting tears.
“The right thing for now,” he said, and touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “If you should change your mind, please do write me.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to assure him that would not happen, but instead she simply smiled and said, “Thank you.”
As Alice watched Lord Northrup leave the parlor, no doubt heading up to his room to pack, she was hit with a powerful rush of relief that left her nearly giddy. One chapter of her life was over, a very dreary and upsetting one, and now she could get on with the rest of it. Hugging herself to hold close the complete joy she felt, Alice slowly walked from the parlor, stopping suddenly when she spotted her mother descending the stairs.
“I just saw Lord Northrup,” she said. “Oh, Alice, how could you? How could you throw away such a chance?” She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears, dousing that fierce joy Alice had been feeling just moments before.
“I am sorry, Mama, truly I am. But I don’t love him. I never have. I thought we would suit, that liking him would be good enough. It isn’t. Now that I know what it is to love someone—”
Her mother let out a sound of exasperation. “A good marriage requires so much more than love, Alice. I thought you understood that.”
“I do understand. It’s about understanding and laughter. Sharing dreams and values. Henderson and I are friends, the best of friends, and we have been for a very long time.”
Elda shook her head and looked so sad, Alice felt her heart wrench. “He didn’t write for four years, Alice. And now he’s suddenly in love? How can you be so na?ve? Do you think it’s pure coincidence that he had to come to St. Ives? I like Mr. Southwell, you know I do. But I fear he’s a bit more opportunistic that either of us realized.”
Narrowing her eyes, Alice said, “Opportunistic? You think his secret plan all along was to somehow trick me into marrying him? That he returned to England for me and not for his relief efforts?”
“Perhaps.”
“No. You don’t believe that, Mama. I know you don’t.”
Elda let out a long sigh. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” she said, sounding weary.
“Then I shall do all the thinking for us,” Alice said, making her mother chuckle lightly.
“Come here, my little sunshine,” she said, using Alice’s childhood nickname for the first time in more than ten years. Letting out a small sound, Alice threw herself against her mother and burst into tears.
“I dislike arguing with you, Mama. It is purely awful.”
“I know. I do not care for it either.”
Lifting her head, she asked, “Does this mean you are accepting Henderson?”
“Not yet,” Elda said, but Alice leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder and smiled.
*
That night, Alice went to bed feeling better than she had in days. Everything would work out—she just knew it. In her heart, she knew her mother would relent; it was her father who was her real worry. After all, her father was the one who’d asked that Henderson leave, who’d struck Henderson, who felt most keenly his obligation to maintain Alice’s social rank. But he would come around. As she lay in the darkness, she fought that terrible feeling in her stomach when she recalled her father’s anger, his ugly words, memories that only served to feed her doubt.
Her window was open, letting in the cool night air, and she gazed out at a nearly full moon, trying to push away her doubts. She really should get up and shut the window, for it was quite chilly, but instead she snuggled deeper beneath the covers and closed her eyes, only to re-open them less than a minute later.
Someone—and she had quite a good idea who—was tossing pebbles at the windows of the empty room adjacent to hers. Really, she thought, if Henderson was going to do something as foolish as come to her window in the middle of the night, at least he should have been careful about which window to hit. If he’d erred on the other side, he would have awoken Christina.
Throwing off the covers, she tiptoed to her window, making sure to stay out of sight of whomever was out there. Sure enough, Henderson stood in her garden gathering up more pebbles from the gravel path. Though it was full night, the moon cast a silvery light on him; she would have recognized his form anywhere. Alice grabbed her light robe and the blanket from her bed and hurried across her room and out the door, pausing only briefly to be certain no one was about. On silent bare feet, she padded quickly past her mother and father’s rooms, hugging her blanket against her, breath held, heart beating madly, and made her way down the stairs and to the back of the house, where a set of French doors led to a small terrace and their back garden.