by Jane Goodger
“Room four twenty-one, Mr. Southwell,” the clerk said. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask. We’ll have your bags delivered to your room shortly.”
“And a bottle of brandy.”
“Of course, sir.”
After a day such as he’d had, a bottle of brandy was just the ticket.
Mrs. Henderson Southwell. Alice Southwell.
Alice could still remember giggling at her scribblings, then crumpling them up quickly when she heard her brother’s voice right outside her door. The very last thing she needed was for Joseph to discover that she was madly in love with his best friend. She was just fifteen then, and Henderson was already in university.
It happened quite quickly, and was far different from anything she’d ever felt for a boy. For one thing, Henderson Southwell was a man. Or close enough to one. He was tall and handsome and his smile, it was enough to make her heart pound madly in her chest every time she saw it. She fell in love that first night when Henderson had come into the library and spied her there reading. Instead of apologizing and leaving, he had settled into a chair opposite, his own book in hand, and said, “I find reading late at night, when the house is quiet and dark, allows me to enter the author’s world more readily. Don’t you?”
Her heart had stuttered to a stop. This man had actually spoken to her as if she were an intelligent, thoughtful person. Which she was. But no one had ever done so before, at least no man. Her father would have sent her to bed, her brothers would have teased her about what she was reading. But Henderson had asked her opinion, and that was the instant she fell in love.
Of course, no one could ever know, least of all Henderson. Having witnessed the discovery and humiliation of a girl in the throes of a terrible crush, Alice had been adamant that no one, not even her good friend Harriet, would know. It was Harriet’s sister, Clara, who had made a cake of herself over Earnest Franklin, a dashing young man from a well-placed family. He was a bit of a rake, always throwing compliments at girls whether they were homely, pretty, fat, or whisper thin. A single dance with Clara at her come-out and she lost her mind over him. She mooned after him during balls, tried to manipulate seating assignments so she was seated next to him at dinners, and generally was about as discreet with her feelings as a peacock showing its feathers. Alice and Harriet would spy on Clara as she tracked Earnest the way a hound tracks a fox, leaving the two younger girls doubled over in laughter. It all came to a terrible head when Clara snuck into Earnest’s room during a house party and waited in his room. Naked. Earnest, being an honorable man, took one look at Clara in all her glory, and ran down the hall to fetch the girl’s mother, who immediately sent Clara to live with a maiden aunt on the border of Scotland for two years. Thankfully, the Anderson family was able to keep the incident under wraps. Harriet had sworn Alice to secrecy when imparting this scandalous end to Clara’s infatuation, and as far as anyone knew, no one had ever spoken of the event. Not even Earnest.
Alice had never wanted to be laughed at or pitied, and so she kept her wildly beating heart to herself and tried with all her might not to look up and stare each time Henderson walked into a room. Those nights in the library, with just the two of them reading or talking, were the most difficult but she was quite certain she never let on how much those evenings meant to her. How she would wait in anticipation for the rest of the house to go to bed and fly on slippered feet down to the library, breathless and excited. Tucking her feet beneath her dressing gown, Alice would pretend to read, her entire body singing with expectation. And on those nights when Henderson joined her, she would give him a slight look of annoyance for interrupting her reading, sigh, and put her book aside reluctantly to wish him a good evening, while inside she was a jumble of happy nerves. She believed with all her heart that if Henderson had even the smallest inkling that she was in love with him, he would stop coming to the library. And so, she made very sure he was none the wiser.
Chapter 4
Lord Alfred Bellingham was first on the list. He’d met the baron at a summer party he had attended with the Hubbards years ago, and remembered only that he seemed a stern and austere man, one whom Richard Hubbard had disliked, though Henderson had never learned why. Lord Hubbard was one of those gentlemen who seemed to like everyone, and the fact he found Bellingham disagreeable was quite telling. Dr. Cornish had added Lord Bellingham as an afterthought, warning Henderson that it was highly unlikely he would find an ally for his relief efforts in the man. But Henderson had to try. His list of eight, from most likely to support his cause to least likely, was deemed the List of Lost Hopes by Dr. Cornish, who had grown cynical over the years. Every effort the doctor made to save the starving masses was met by resistance from Lord Lytton, the viceroy in India. Cornish had argued passionately that the rations given to those in the work relief camps were hardly adequate to sustain life, but Lytton refused to authorize an increase until pressured to do so. Even then, the rations were hardly adequate and only half of what Cornish had recommended.
Bellingham, who had spent several years in India, was seen as someone who might very well be sympathetic to the plight of the starving. Henderson refused to believe that when confronted with the facts of the tragedy, anyone could deny him.
Lord Bellingham’s London home was located in Berkeley Square in Mayfair, whose gardens featured a nymph and whose homes held some of the more influential men in London. Henderson knew enough to make an appointment with the gentleman, and was frankly surprised that Bellingham had accommodated him so quickly, given it was a certainty that the peer would not know who he was. It boded well, he thought, and with a decided bounce in his step, he walked toward the home, an ornate building with intricate carvings above an oversized entrance. The sun shone fully on the mansion’s façade, and Henderson chose to see this as another positive sign.
Henderson was ushered into the home by an ancient butler, so stooped over he didn’t get a good look at the man’s face. He waved away the man’s request to take his hat and coat, for he knew he would not have the patience to wait for his items should things go badly. Shuffling slowly down a long hall, the butler bade Henderson to follow with a wave of his bony hand, finally stopping outside a heavily carved door.
“Mr. Henderson Southwell, my lord,” he intoned with a surprisingly strong voice.
“Yes, I am expecting him, Johnson.”
Henderson hadn’t seen Bellingham in years, but he looked much the same. Perhaps his jowls hung a bit more loosely and the bags beneath his eyes were a bit more pronounced. As Bellingham looked him over, Henderson had the ridiculous urge to suppress a shudder, for his dark, expressionless eyes reminded him of the dead-eyed stare of a marsh crocodile he’d seen once in India. It was somehow predatory, that look, as if Bellingham was sizing up an opponent and finding him unworthy of his attention. Bellingham did not stand when Henderson entered, nor did he hold out his hand in greeting, and Henderson’s earlier optimism took a decided turn.
“Thank you for meeting with me, sir,” Henderson said, laying his coat and hat on one of two chairs positioned in front of Bellingham’s large and meticulously organized desk. He felt rather like a boy confronting a school master and was unsure whether he should sit or remain standing. Choosing the former, Henderson sat on the edge of the room’s other chair. After exchanging awkward niceties about the Hubbards, their single mutual acquaintance, Henderson got to the point. “I understand you lived in India for several years.”
“Yes. Foul place,” Bellingham said.
Ah. This did not bode well at all. “Yes, I’ve just come from India myself. Are you aware of the famine, sir?”
The older man’s eyes narrowed to the point Henderson wondered if he could see at all. “You’re not one of those fools looking for relief, are you?”
Henderson could feel his cheeks heat—with anger. He smiled tightly. “As a matter of fact, I am. And I believe if you had been in India these past two years, you would feel very much the w
ay I do.”
Bellingham folded his hands on his desk with exaggerated care. “I would not.” His words were succinct and brooked no misinterpretation. “Are you familiar with Charles Darwin?”
It was all Henderson could do to keep his temper in check. He had heard this argument before—the aristocrats, including Lord Lytton himself, invoked the name of Charles Darwin as an excuse not to save starving people. Survival of the fittest. A way of culling the weak from the herd. What these men seemed not to understand was that they were talking about people, people with children, people who had lost everything, including their humanity, in a desperate attempt to survive.
“I am very much familiar with his teachings, but I hardly think they pertain to men. Or children.”
Bellingham let out a low, mean laugh. “Are you going to tell me that it is up to the British Empire to make certain every human being on this planet who is starving is fed? There are droughts all over the world. Shall we send our funds and our citizens to feed them? If we were to do this, sir, it would spell the end of the empire.”
Henderson could feel his heart beating thickly, his face heating, his fists clenching, so he forced himself to relax, to try to talk sense into this man even though he knew it was likely a lost cause. But faced with such ignorance, he could not stop himself. “I am not suggesting we feed all the world’s hungry and poor, but I am suggesting that we take care of a people that the British Empire helped to starve.”
Bellingham’s face tightened. “How dare you.”
“How dare I? How dare England allow millions of people starve to death when there are mountains of grain being guarded and then shipped to our shores so that we may have our bread at breakfast?”
“You tread very close to treason, Southwell. I would watch what you say.”
Henderson swallowed, willed himself to calm. “If you had seen what I have. People begging the soldiers guarding the grain for just one pot of rice. Mothers selling themselves so they can buy food for their children. They die within feet of a mountain of rice that they themselves might have helped to grow.” He could feel his throat tighten and was horrified at the emotion he’d allowed into his voice.
“People too lazy to grow their own food,” Bellingham said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“No, sir. These people worked in fields, grew the crops, which was then put on trains and rails we constructed to ship here. Before we came and built the rails, villages kept their grain, sold it to the people for a price they could afford. But now they ship all the grain here for profit and what food is available is priced so high, very few can buy it.”
“Is there something wrong with profit?” Bellingham asked loudly, his tone belittling.
“I see you will be of no help.”
“Let them help themselves. What will they learn if we feed them and clothe them? They will come to rely on us and they will never do anything for themselves. They will become like children, dependent on us for everything they need. And where will it stop? No, sir. That kind of policy would ruin this country. If they die, they die too lazy to do anything about their lot. I pity fools like you, Southwell, I truly do. You will spend your life defending the rights of those people and it is meaningless. In the end, those who are meant to die will die, and there is nothing you or I can do about it.”
Henderson stood and took up his coat and hat, glad he’d had the foresight to keep the articles with him. It had, indeed, gone very badly. “I thank you for your time, sir. Good day.”
He had about reached the door when Bellingham called out. “Take some advice, son. Don’t waste your time asking others for help. No one cares whether a bunch of blacks die. No one.”
Henderson stopped and turned slowly. “There you are wrong. I care.”
When he reached the street, Henderson pressed the heels of his palms hard into this eyes. He’d known it would be difficult; he’d faced such prejudice and ignorance in India, from the British and the wealthy Indians. But he’d convinced himself that his impassioned words could sway hard men. He’d been wrong. At least with Bellingham.
Taking out his well-worn list, Henderson looked at the names, mentally scratching out most of them. And these were purported to be the men who would be most sympathetic? Dr. Cornish must have been too long away from England if he thought these men would have even an ounce of sympathy.
Without thinking about where he was going, Henderson started to walk until he realized with a start that he was standing in front of the Hubbard home. As a youth, he hadn’t spent very much time in the Hubbards’ London home, but it still seemed like a haven to him. A home, when all he had ever had was a house filled with bitter disappointment. He wasn’t aware of how long he stood there, and so was a bit embarrassed when Mrs. Hubbard opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop.
“Would you like to come in, Henderson?” she asked, a knowing smile on her face.
Henderson grinned. “I would, actually. Is Oliver about? I thought we might go to Pratt’s.”
Elda looked down the square toward the gentleman’s club and frowned. “It’s nearly tea time. Why don’t you come in and join us? Alice is leaving tomorrow for St. Ives and I’m certain she’d like to say good-bye before you go back to India.”
“Yes. I’ll only be in London a few weeks before I return and I hardly think I’ll have time to go to St. Ives to say good-bye.”
Her smile faltered just a bit before she stepped back, like a well-trained butler, and ushered him inside.
* * *
The moment her sister walked into the room clutching the Town Talk newspaper, Alice knew something terrible had happened. It was silly to think no one would have commented on the fact that the granddaughter of the Duke of Warwick had been jilted—again—but Alice had hoped. As society weddings went, Alice’s wedding to Lord Northrup was a small affair and one of little note. Her first wedding had been a theatrical event, with articles written in advance detailing nearly every aspect of the ceremony, from the design of her gown to the flowers her mother chose for the church. A throng of Londoners had gathered outside St. Paul’s Cathedral waiting for the bride and groom to make their appearance. But for her wedding to Lord Northrup, no one lined the streets and the gossip columns held nary a mention. Thank goodness.
So Alice had hoped a non-wedding might be of as little consequence as the actual wedding.
She closed her eyes briefly as Christina, her eyes livid and her mouth tight, held the paper in a hand that trembled.
“I thought you should know,” Christina said as she handed over the paper.
Alice quickly scanned the column, her green eyes darting back and forth until she stopped, recognizing instantly the small part that was about her. Two sentences. Two sentences that sealed her humiliation like a blob of wax on the letter of her life.
Poor Miss H has failed again to say her wedding vows. The bad luck bride, indeed.
“It’s of little consequence,” Alice said, even as she felt her entire body burn with humiliation. It was almost worse than the moment the reverend began walking toward the end of the church to tell them there would be no wedding ceremony that day.
“Oh, Alice,” Christina said, throwing herself into Alice’s arms.
“I’m so glad to be going home,” Alice said fiercely. “I’ve never wanted to go home more in my life. And I’m never, ever leaving. I loathe London.”
Christina leaned back, her mouth open in shock. “But you mustn’t stay away from London forever. Mother said I could have my season next year and I have to have you with me. I could never do it without you by my side.”
Alice pulled away and continued to place items in her trunk for the journey. “I think you must consider that I will not be an asset, Christina.” She looked up and immediately realized Christina hadn’t considered what it meant to be the younger sister of the bad luck bride. It was a clever little moniker that would no doubt stick to her for the rest of her life.
&nbs
p; Shaking her head, Christina said, “No one would hold that against me.” And then in a smaller voice, “Would they?”
“I only know that the ton can be unforgiving,” she said, placing her jewelry box in her trunk before turning to face her sister. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that could hurt your chances of wedding a fine gentleman. It would break my heart, Christina, if I thought…” Her throat closed up, but she swallowed hard. “I don’t want to come back to London at any rate.” Forcing a smile, she said, “Goodness, no one knows London society better than Mama. You’re in very good hands, you know. Heavens, she found me three husbands when some girls can’t find one!” The two laughed, and Alice felt infinitely better.
Christina turned to go but hesitated. “Was it right that I showed you the article?”
“Yes. It would have been far worse if someone said something to me about it and I didn’t know. Now I can prepare several witty remarks that show I have not a care what a silly paper like the Town Talk has to say about me.”
Christina smiled, obviously relieved, and left Alice to prepare for her journey home. She looked about her room and realized she was very nearly done packing. Alice placed her most prized possession, her portable rosewood writing desk, into her trunk, nestled between her riding habit and her light cloak. The desk had been a gift from her late grandmother, the duchess, given to her with the admonition to write at least monthly. Alice, then fifteen, thought it such a grown-up sort of gift and had religiously written to her grandmother twice per month until the old lady’s death. No one was allowed to use it or even open it, and Alice kept its key either on a chain she wore around her neck or in the desk’s secret compartment at all times.
Christina used to beg to see what was inside, but Alice never relented. It was here that she hid away her true thoughts, her life after Joseph died. And after Henderson went away. Though she never let him know of her infatuation with him, hidden away in her writing desk were nearly fifty letters never sent. How could she have sent them when she didn’t know where Henderson had gone? She didn’t want to take the chance of sending them to his mother for fear she would read them. And so Alice kept them, those heartfelt outpourings of grief and loneliness. When she’d begun packing to return to St. Ives, Alice considered throwing them away. What was the purpose of them now? She could never show them to Henderson. Instead, when she closed the top with its intricate brass inlay and turned the lock, the letters remained inside.