The Bad Luck Bride for comp

by Jane Goodger

  “Yes,” Alice said with the smallest bit of hesitation. “He’s changed, though, become more serious. Grown up a bit, I suppose.”

  “We all have.” Harriet furrowed her brow slightly. “Have you seen Eliza and Rebecca since your return?”

  Alice shook her head. “I think they’re afraid to see me, but you can assure them I am well and would love their company. I promise not to cry or fall into hysterics.”

  Harriet grinned. “As if you would. I know if it happened to me I’d be in bed with the curtains drawn for a year. But here you are looking as calm as ever, as if it never happened. I wish I could be so.”

  Alice tilted her head. “I’ve never seen you cry or fall into hysterics and I’ve known you a long time.”

  Her friend looked away and toyed with a bit of lace on her dress before lifting her head and smiling impishly. “You do know my mother forbids any show of emotion. Particularly joy or happiness.”

  Alice laughed, even though she knew this to be true, for the times all four girls had been in the Anderson home, her mother had looked at them sourly whenever they burst into laughter, as if the sound somehow offended her. It would be horrible, indeed, if Harriet couldn’t escape her mother by marrying someone who adored her as she should be adored.

  “The John Knill celebration is next week, you know. Do you think you’ll be up to going?”

  Everyone in town would be there for the historic celebration, and Alice wasn’t sure she wanted to be the object of pity or scrutiny, so she wrinkled her nose.

  “You must go. It’s only every five years and you’ll create more gossip by not going than by attending.”

  Alice gave her friend a skeptical look. “Very well. Perhaps I will wear Tragedy as a mask at this year’s ball, even if it’s not a masquerade.”

  “Or a horse shoe around your neck,” Harriet said.

  “Ah. Good luck for the bad luck bride? Perhaps a wreath of four leaf clovers?”

  Harriet shook her head. “Too difficult to find that many.” She snapped her fingers. “A black cat on a leash. Oh, perfect!”

  Laughing, Alice said, “You are the meanest of all my friends.”

  “And the only one who you know will tell you the truth at all times.”

  “What is my truth, then?”

  Harriet looked her over as if taking her question seriously. “The reason you haven’t gotten married is simply because you haven’t fallen in love.”

  Alice couldn’t help but feel a small bit of anger. Love had nothing to do with her ill-fated weddings. She could have very well been in love with all three of her fiancés, and would have been a far more tragic figure. It would have been unbearable to lose even one man she loved.

  Some of her anger must have shown, for Harriet leaned forward, her expression stricken. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I suppose I meant that if your fiancés loved you—except for Lord Livingston; he couldn’t help that he died—you would have been married by now. Normally, when one loves a man, they love you in return.”

  “Not necessarily,” Alice said softly.

  * * *

  Two weeks after Henderson believed he was saying good-bye to Alice possibly forever, he flung open his mullioned window, its warped glass distorting the lovely view outside, and breathed in the sweet smell of the sea, tinged only a bit with the less sweet smell of fish. It was a gloriously pretty day, the kind that seemed common when he was a youth exploring the beaches and hills with Joseph and the other local lads. Unlike the northern coast of England, the water here was warm and stunning blue-green. Though he’d never been, he’d heard it compared to the waters in the Caribbean. He knew the narrow, cobbled streets of St. Ives better than his own village, and couldn’t help but think of it as home. And yet, it was strange to be here in St. Ives knowing that Joseph was not. Stranger still to know Alice was less than a twenty-minute walk away and he couldn’t gather the courage to visit. It wasn’t as if she had thrown herself into his arms and proclaimed her undying love. For God’s sake, she had talked about Harriet, as if she might play matchmaker between them. If anything, Alice had seemed rather cool and reserved, as if their friendship had not been the grand thing he remembered. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps he was looking at the past through the damaged lens of time. Nothing would be worse than letting Alice know how he felt and having her look at him with pity or surprise. She would be kind, and he simply couldn’t bear it if she gently explained to him that she thought of him as a brother and that the idea of marrying him was the furthest thing from her mind. After all, she had been engaged three times since he’d left. In those four years, he may not have been celibate, but every time he’d even begun to consider a girl to marry, he would remember Alice and that would be that.

  A seagull carrying a live crab in its mouth wheeled wildly in the sky in an attempt to get away from another gull that screeched in its wake. Henderson followed the gulls’ progress, trying to determine whether he was rooting for the seagull with the crab or the one who was trying to steal its meal. It was better to consider such a mundane event rather than think about his own life.

  “I should have kissed her,” he said aloud, glaring at the seagull in the lead as it dropped its meal and the other bird followed the crab down to the streets below. He was in St. Ives and she was just twenty minutes away. If he were going to kiss her, he would have to do so in the next few days. Henderson pushed away from the window to stare bleakly as his small, neatly made bed, his valise still sitting atop it packed.

  With efficient movements, he unfastened the leather straps and opened his valise to take out his writing materials. First, he would write a letter to Lord Berkley requesting a meeting. He considered writing to Alice and letting her know he was in St. Ives. But what if that letter did not immediately elicit an invitation to Tregrennar? Perhaps he should simply show up at her doorstep, a happy surprise. He had to find out before he left for India if she felt even a little of what he did. After all, how could he know how she would react to a kiss unless he kissed her?

  Chapter 6

  One of the things Alice loved about St. Ives was its light. She wasn’t certain whether it was the proximity to the ocean, the endless blue skies, or simply because she was happier there than anywhere else, but the light was divine. The renowned painter JMW Turner had discovered St. Ives in the forties, and his prestigious presence had drawn even more artists, who came to paint the sea, the quaint architecture, and its stunning vistas. Of course, Alice didn’t count herself among the artists, but she was pleased with her current work. She stood in their main parlor painting a watercolor of a vase of flowers, trying to capture the glorious way the sun was shining through a translucent blue vase overflowing with Irises, some of which were beginning to whither in a rather lovely way. Her mother was behind her going through her correspondence and commenting now and again about some news from friends and relatives, many of whom were still in London. Alice was quite certain, given the long pauses between sentences, that her mother was editing out any words of concern or sympathy having to do with Alice being jilted.

  Christina was off laying flowers on the graves of veterans in St. Ives Parish Church’s cemetery, though Alice knew the real reason she and her friends had gone there was to get a glimpse of the new vicar, who was purportedly a fine-looking young man from an excellent family. Christina had begged Alice not to mention anything to her mother, though Alice suspected Elda most certainly knew why Christina and her friends had suddenly become so altruistic. They expected her back any minute, and so Alice was not surprised when she heard the rustle of her sister’s skirts behind her.

  “How was your outing?” Elda asked.

  “Uneventful.” Alice could almost see her sister’s pout. No doubt the handsome vicar had not been seen. “But the cemetery does look nice with the new flowers.”

  “Which was the reason for your trip,” her mother pointed out.

  Alice turned and gave her sister an impish smile before go
ing back to her painting.

  “I do have news, however,” Christina said as she sat down next to her mother. “Mr. Southwell is in the village.”

  Alice stilled momentarily, unable to complete the delicate blue she was applying to one of her Irises, and she prayed neither her mother nor Christina noticed her brief inability to breathe. A sudden and fierce smile touched her lips and her heart hammered in her chest. Pressing her lips together and schooling her features, she turned and said (as if the news that Henderson had come to St. Ives was of little consequence), “Oh?”

  “Yes. He didn’t see me. We were in the Downalong coming back from the cemetery and he was going into the new bookstore.”

  “A new bookstore?” Alice asked. “How wonderful.” Henderson is here. Henderson is here!

  “At any rate, he’s here. We should visit the bookstore tomorrow,” Christina said. “Would you like to go?”

  “We should all go,” Elda said. “I wonder if they have the newest New Quarterly. It hadn’t been published yet when we were in London.”

  Alice turned back to her painting, her heart singing with the knowledge that Henderson was so close. What was he doing in St. Ives? She furrowed her brow trying to think of one thing, other than he wanted to visit with the Hubbards, and perhaps particularly her, that could have drawn him to the village. Could it be possible he had been here for days and yet hadn’t written to let them know? Her heart, beating so happily not one minute before, slowed to a painful tempo. What if he had no intention of calling on them? What if his visit to St. Ives had nothing at all to do with her?

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Alice had to accept that it was quite possible Henderson had absolutely no intention of seeing her, that his visit to St. Ives had nothing to do with her. That he hadn’t been close to kissing her when he’d left that day in England as she had so foolishly thought. She began frantically searching her mind for an excuse to go into the village immediately.

  “Is something amiss, Alice?” her mother asked.

  Alice realized with a start that she had been staring blindly at her painting, her brush drying in her hand, lost in her thoughts. “I’m having trouble with this bloom,” she said, locking her eyes on the painting. “Something is wrong with the perspective, I think.”

  Christina came up next to her and studied the half-finished painting. “It’s lovely, Alice. I wish I could paint half as well.”

  Alice laughed. “And I wish I could play the violin half as well as you.”

  “Your voice is better.” Christina gave her a cheeky grin. “But I’m better at needlepoint. Are we finished?”

  “No. I’m better at penmanship and you are better at archery.”

  “Girls, stop,” Elda said, laughing. “You are both well accomplished in your own ways.” She set aside her correspondence as she looked at her daughters. “I wonder why Mr. Southwell hasn’t stopped by. I’m sure he knows he is welcome. And I don’t know why he would stay in one of the village’s little inns when he would be far more comfortable here.”

  Alice turned her attention back to her painting. “He hasn’t been back since Joseph’s funeral. He was his particular friend and perhaps he feels a bit awkward staying here now.”

  “Still, if we do see him, I shall issue an invitation. With your father and Oliver still in London, it would be nice to have a man in the house.”

  “To protect us from all the evil forces in St. Ives?” Alice asked with a smile, for St. Ives was perhaps the most tranquil place in all of England.

  “No, dear, we need a baritone.”

  For some reason, that struck Alice as terribly funny, and she bent over with laughter and was soon joined by her mother and sister.

  “We need a little music in this house,” Elda said when she’d calmed. “I think having Henderson about would make all the difference.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Lord Berkley is not at home.” Henderson eyed the black crepe tied on the door knocker before turning his attention back to the solemn-faced butler, and remembered the earl’s Cavendish Square butler had been wearing a black band. When he’d seen the obvious sign of mourning, he’d nearly turned around and left. Feeling a bit like a cad, he’d turned the bell on the door anyway, wondering vaguely why he hadn’t seen any signs of mourning at the earl’s London home. When his own great-grandfather had died, they had shrouded the home in black, changing the curtains, draping the mantel in black, and hanging black wreaths even though not a single person within the home had tolerated the old man.

  “I was not aware of a death in the family. Please do accept my apologies. May I leave my card and this letter?”

  “Of course, Mr. Southwell,” the butler said, quickly reading his card.

  “I’m staying at the White Hart Inn in the village if Lord Berkley would like to reach me.”

  The butler bowed and shut the door, leaving Henderson feeling a bit at odds. If the man was in deep mourning, the last thing he would want to do was discuss the deaths in India when his own grief was still raw. He mounted his rented horse, grimacing a bit as he did so; it had been weeks since he had been astride and his muscles were feeling the pain. Before turning the horse back down the long, curving drive, he looked back at Costille House, a medieval home, with a massive stone tower and tiny arched windows built for the archer’s bow. Nothing had been done to modernize the hulking home that overlooked St. Ives Bay and he could almost imagine himself wearing knight’s armor. The home was visible from the Porthmeor Beach, a large expanse of soft white sand where he and Joseph would sometimes fish, a mystical and somehow comforting presence on the cliff above them. He would like to see the inside and hoped to hear from Lord Berkley soon.

  As he headed down the long drive, he wondered what to do with the rest of his day. He suspected most of the men he’d spent time with as a lad were in London for the season.

  Pulling out his watch, he noted it was about half an hour before tea. And it was also about a half hour’s ride to Tregrennar and Alice. He rode along a narrow dirt-paved road lined with stone walls covered by some sweet-smelling flowering vine. Trees made a canopy overhead, the air cool in the shadows. Abruptly, the road gave way to brilliant sun and the heartbreaking blue of the sea to his right and the charming village of St. Ives in the distance.

  St. Ives was known by some as the Naples of Cornwall, due to the large, curving bay and its temperate climate. It never got very hot, nor very cold, and few locals could recall ever seeing a snowflake fall even in the deepest part of winter. A narrow isthmus connected the village to a peninsula, known by locals as the Island, for once it had been separated from the mainland. He and Joseph, and occasionally Alice, had explored the Island and its Cornish ruins, imagining what it must have been like when the isthmus had been used by smugglers to bring in their wares. From his vantage point, St. Ives, with its centuries-old gray buildings constructed in a hodge-podge, looked more European than English, and Henderson guessed that was part of its charm. It looked as if it had always been there, tucked between the sea and the heather-covered hills. The harbor below was clogged with fishing boats and small schooners, the beach dotted with smaller boats, hauled up on the beach and above high tide. Tall hedgerows nearly obscured the water from time to time, but Henderson didn’t care. He could still smell the sea, and hear it crashing ashore on the beach below. Perhaps when he was done with India he could buy a little cottage and just gaze out over the ocean for hours. His grandfather’s own country estate held little appeal to him; he hadn’t been back in more than four years and had no desire to see its stark walls again. He missed his grandparents, but his mother’s toxic presence was enough to keep him away.

  When he reached the intersection that would either bring him to the Downalong and its rows of tightly packed homes and his hotel or up to Tregrennar, he stopped. Just above the cabbage trees, he could see the very top of Tregrennar’s roof. At that moment, his stomach grumbled and he pulled the horse slightly
to the left, toward Tregrennar, feeling as if he were somehow sealing his fate—whatever that might be.

  * * *

  The wind coming up from the bay whipped at Alice’s skirts and threatened to pull her well-anchored bonnet from her head. If it hadn’t been so very windy, it would have been quite warm, though not nearly as warm as London was in mid-July. Gathering her wool coat around her, Alice looked out over the white-capped bay, taking in the sights and sounds of her childhood home. Truly, it was a good thing Northrup hadn’t showed up to the church. He lived in Manchester and Alice didn’t care much for that section of Britain; too cold in the winter and hardly warm at all in the summer. St. Ives never got too hot and never too cold and in the summer it seemed as if it were gloriously sunny all the time. It wasn’t true, of course, for the storms that raged ashore from the Atlantic could be fearsome, but whenever Alice thought back on her childhood it was always sunny. And from the time she was fifteen, her summers had been filled with Henderson.

  When she entered the part of the path lined with tall and ancient hedgerows, most of the wind was blocked, and it became a silent world but for the sounds of nature. Bees flew lazily and the cry of seagulls was nearly always present. She heard the sound of an approaching horse long before she saw it, and pressed close to the side in the event the rider did not see her. Alice and her friends had nearly been trampled more than once by a rider heading to Tregrennar—including her own father. This rider, however, seemed to be in no hurry, for every once in a while the horse would stop, then start, until finally the rider came into view. Her entire body went briefly rigid when she recognized Henderson’s tall form riding toward her.

  “Henderson. Hello,” Alice called, wishing her heart wouldn’t speed up quite so much every time she saw him. He smiled, and something in that smile made her heart pound, it was just that beautiful. “Christina mentioned that she saw you in the Downalong going into the new bookstore.”