The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(85)

Henderson had left India before the monsoons had arrived, and was unaware that the long-awaited rain had returned. Even had he known, the news would not have altered his mission, for he knew, as the general population of England did not, that one year of rain could not help the ongoing starvation. Food prices remained high, and those with land had nothing to farm with, having sold off every animal, every bit of equipment, in a futile effort to keep their families fed.

As proof, he had a letter from Dr. Cornish, expressing his deep frustration with the government as millions of Indians continued to suffer. Their cause, he’d written with deep regret, was a lost one. Even Henderson realized the futility of asking for relief when the vast majority of people wholeheartedly believed relief had already come in the form of much needed rain. It was Dr. Cornish’s letter, more than anything, that made the decision not to press the issue of relief to a group of men who were unlikely to change their minds, even had Berkley given his impassioned speech. Quite a large number of the House of Lords had attended the durbar pronouncing Queen Victoria Empress of India, a lavish and long affair that hardly bespoke a nation suffering from starvation. Nonetheless, it was the most difficult decision of Henderson’s life.

“Will you be returning to St. Ives, then?” Alice asked Lord Berkley. “I miss it already.”

Indeed, despite his disappointment that all his efforts were for naught, Henderson had been relieved to hear they would be staying in England, for Alice was already showing.

“As soon as physically possible. In fact, I will bid you good evening and farewell, as I plan to leave on the first train tomorrow morning. Stay here as long as you wish. In fact, buy the place, for I have no wish ever to return.”

Henderson laughed uncomfortably, for his friend sounded unusually bitter and he wondered if his pronouncement had something to do with his late wife. The décor, he realized, was much the same as Costille.

Once Berkley had departed, Henderson drew Alice against him. He always found it difficult not to touch her and cursed the dictates of society that prevented him from constantly caressing her. After two weeks of marriage, he still could not believe she was his wife, that he could make love to her any time he liked, that she was as willing as he was to shed her clothes and take him into her. That she was carrying his child. How could a man be so blessed?

For so long, it seemed as though fate were conspiring against him, and now all was falling into place with frightening ease. A large and handsome house in St. Ives that Henderson had long admired, one overlooking the sea with an impressive plot of land, had become available, and Henderson’s offer was immediately accepted. Gerald Grant, once confronted by Robert Bennet, confessed, then, sadly, took his own life, freeing Alice of any concern that he might harm Henderson.

“I’m ready to go home as well,” Henderson said, dipping his head and stealing a kiss.

“I like the sound of that. Home. Our home. I still cannot believe we are married. Each morning I wake up and have to pinch myself.”

Henderson chuckled. “When are you going to tell your mother about our little one?”

She bit her lip. “I suppose I’ll have to say something when we return. It’s getting rather obvious. Perhaps I can say I ate too much cake in London.”

“You have been eating rather a lot of cake,” he said, pretending to consider her idea.

She batted him playfully. “I cannot help it if my daughter likes cake as much as I do.”

“Daughter?”

“Or son. You do have a bit of a sweet tooth yourself.”

“We shall have to steal Mrs. Godfrey away so she can make tarts daily.”

That night, after Berkley’s efficient servants had packed their belongings, Alice went to her well-organized trunk and pulled out a large rosewood box, running her fingers over its surface lightly. With a small flick of one finger, a secret drawer opened up and Alice pulled out a key.

“This,” she said, making certain he understood the importance of the moment, “is the key to my heart.” With that, she opened up the desk and pulled out a neat stack of letters. “These are the letters I wrote to you after you left. You don’t have to read them now, but I would like you to read them. Please keep in mind that I was just a girl.”

He reached out for them solemnly, but she pulled back. “I need a promise from you.”

Smiling, he said, “Anything.”

“I want you to play for me.”

“You mean the violin.” She nodded. “I’m not very good anymore. I haven’t played, really, in years.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sharing all of me with you.”

“And you want me to share all of me?”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough.” He kissed her lightly, then looked down at the stack of letters in his hand, written by the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago. Opening the first, he looked at Alice, then down to the words she had written just days after Joseph’s death.

“Dear Henny,” he read, then chuckled at the use of his nickname. “Without you here, it seems a part of me is missing. The large and hopeful part, the only part, really, that makes me smile.” Henderson swallowed past a growing lump in his throat, and put the letter aside. “I don’t believe I’ll be able to read these aloud to you. Or read them at all without bursting into unmanly tears.”