The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(88)
“I don’t mean to be terrible, but I’m awfully glad your mother is traveling,” Alice said, giving her friend a hug. Her belly got in the way a bit, and Harriet laughed at the feeling.
“You’re so round,” she said. It had been a few weeks since Harriet had seen Alice, who had recently been in London.
“I know. My mother is already admonishing me not to go out. ‘No one wants to see that,’ she says.” Alice laughed. “If Queen Victoria could go out in public en famille, then I can too. That’s what I told her anyway.”
“And how did your mother respond?”
Alice wrinkled her nose, her green eyes bright. “She said Queen Victoria set a bad example for all women.” This she said in a whisper, as if she were committing some sort of treasonous act.
Once they were all seated, they caught up on each other’s news. Alice, of course, had the most to relay, having been recently to London and being newly married. For the first time in her life, Harriet was jealous of a married woman. Perhaps it was because Alice seemed so completely happy, as if a new and brilliant light shined from within her. Or perhaps Harriet was, for the first time, aware that she might never find what Alice had. Any awkwardness she’d felt over Alice marrying Henderson had long since dissipated. When Harriet was a girl, she’d had a terrible crush on Henderson. Though her friends had treated it as a lark, Harriet had truly liked him, had dreamed that perhaps one day he would return to St. Ives and realize he liked her too. Instead, he’d returned and realized he was in love with Alice. Harriet hadn’t been devastated by any means, but it had served as a reminder to her that she might not find love.
When conversation lulled, Rebecca pulled out a silk scarf and said, “Let’s play the game, Harriet, shall we?”
Harriet groaned, even as her friends expressed their support of Rebecca’s suggestion. Despite her groan, Harriet was secretly pleased; her memory was the only singular thing about her. She would never be the most beautiful or talented or lively one in the group, but no one could recall details the way she did. As a girl, she hadn’t realized she held any special talent for memorization. It was little things, like her sister misplacing a book, or a maid unable to find a particular hair piece that gave her the first clue. Harriet always knew where everything was, because the minute someone would mention a missing article, a picture appeared in her head of its exact location. Recognizing her ability, one day Clara blindfolded Harriet and started quizzing her. What color tie does the man in the painting wear? Is the blue vase to the left or the right of the statue on the mantel? It didn’t matter how small the detail, Harriet knew it. And so was born the game.
Rebecca jumped up and placed the scarf across Harriet’s eyes, and the three other women started peppering her with questions. Around them, the other patrons grew quiet as they watched the game unfold.
“What color flowers are in the vase on the counter?” someone called out.
Harriet started, realizing others were listening, but she smiled. “Come, now, that’s hardly a challenge. Yellow.”
More patrons called out their questions, and Harriet laughed. For a girl who did not like to be in crowds, this was somehow wonderful. Perhaps it was because she was blindfolded and could not see them gawking at her. Or perhaps it was because she was among her friends. Normally painfully shy, she felt almost not herself.
“On the shelf, there are three containers, each with a different picture. Tell me, in order from left to right, what picture is on those containers.”
Harriet straightened, and beneath the blindfold, she furrowed her brows. That deep baritone, commanding and somehow tinged with something close to…fear? She knew that voice.
“Lord Berkley,” she said, slightly louder than a whisper. They had met once, at the John Knill ball. Alice’s husband had introduced them, and the earl had muttered a proper greeting, thoroughly distracted by the sight of Clara, who had been especially pretty that night. It had been a small moment, a snippet in time, but Harriet still remembered feeling suddenly more alive than she had in her life because he was just that beautiful. And then he’d walked away, without ever really looking at her.