by Jane Goodger
“Lord Berkley, a pleasure,” Henderson said, looking around the room. “Interesting décor.”
Lord Berkley smiled grimly. “A gift from my late wife.” The irony in his tone was nearly palpable. From his tone, Henderson had a feeling it was not a welcome gift. “How can I help you, Mr. Southwell?”
“I’m not certain you can,” Henderson said. “For the past four years I’ve been living in India, working for the sanitary commission in Madras. You are aware of the famine there?”
Berkley nodded. “I am.”
As responses went, it was not the most promising answer, but something in the earl’s manner gave Henderson a glimmer of hope that he’d finally found a reasonable man. From experience, Henderson had learned that glimmer could quickly be doused with a single derisive word, so he went forward with caution, gauging the other man’s reaction.
“I’ve been back in England for nearly a month in an attempt to garner support for famine relief efforts. There has been some support, of course, but we’ve met with resistance from many.”
Berkley tilted his head. “Why is that?”
“A variety of reasons, the largest one being the fear that the citizenry will become dependent upon handouts and will not be self-sufficient once the famine is over.”
“A sound argument.”
The glimmer of hope flickered like a candle in a drafty hall. “Perhaps. But the enormity of the problem makes it inhumane to ignore India’s plight.” Taking a bracing breath, Henderson repeated the words he’d said so many times to so many other men. The railroads, the stockpiles, the slow deaths, the children. Through his entire speech, Berkley was silent, showing little emotion, and even less interest.
Finally, feeling desperation growing, Henderson drew out his photographs and placed them with near reluctance in front of the earl. Berkley took them up, flipping through them one at a time, studying them, his face impassive. Henderson tried to read something in the man’s dark eyes, but he could not. Not disgust. Not compassion. Not even curiosity. When he was done, Berkley handed the photographs to him, holding back one and laying it on his desk facing Henderson. It was a picture of a small child, lying dead in the street. Next to the child lay a dog, sleeping.
“Why is the dog so well fed? Do these people feed their animals instead of their children?”
Henderson’s gaze took in the stark scene, and he clenched his jaw briefly. “The dogs, my lord, feed on the corpses of the dead.” He felt the bile rise to his throat as one such horrific memory came to vivid life in his mind.
“My God.” And then the most remarkable thing happened. Though Berkley’s expression hardly changed, his eyes filled, and he swallowed heavily. He pushed the photograph toward Henderson with the tips of his fingers. “And no one you’ve seen has agreed to help?”
“No. I think part of it is that these people are seen as not quite human. The pictures I think dehumanize them, but I wanted to show the extent of the suffering. Words do little, but to see the families, the children. I thought it would move people to action, but all it has done is create disgust. I’m afraid I have failed in my mission because I failed to adequately explain what has happened. I’ve seen these people in real life. These are good people. They are poor and uneducated and difficult to look at.”
“And they are not British.” Berkley let out an angry puff of air. “My father would have felt very much the same as I. He was a great persuader, a force in the House of Lords at a time when that institution holds little power. I, on the other hand, am unknown. I have not taken up my father’s seat. Rather daunting task, actually. As much as I would like to help, and I will do what I can, I fear I will have little influence.”
Henderson smiled. “But you will try?”
“I will,” Berkley said with a hard jerk of his head. “You’re bloody right I will.”
* * *
The next evening, the women were gathered in the parlor again, her mother knitting, and Alice and Christina playing Pinochle. Henderson had been gone all day, leaving Alice on pins and needle, not knowing when he would return or how he would act. She did know one thing: There could be no more kissing. She’d hardly slept at all and felt as if she were crawling out of her skin all day, an uncommon sensation she had no idea how to stop.
“Kings around,” Christina said excitedly, placing four kings down triumphantly on the table.
Christina was winning—again—and Alice made a face at her sister, which only made Christina laugh. A loud, excited barking drew their attention away from the game, and the ladies all stood, smiles on their faces. The sound of Cleo’s bark could mean only one thing: Richard was home. Sure enough, her father burst through the parlor door, Cleo bouncing in behind him and going to each woman for a quick hello before throwing himself next to Richard and leaning against his leg.
“My dears, just look who I have brought with me.” Richard turned, his arm extended, and Alice wondered if her father had met Henderson in the village. But it wasn’t Henderson at all.
It was Harvey Reginald Heddingford III, Viscount Northrup, Alice’s missing fiancé.
Chapter 9
Shock could not come close to describing what Alice felt, staring at Lord Northrup, who stood there looking uncertain with a small, hopeful smile on his face.
“Richard, how could you?” Elda said, finally breaking the silence.
Richard held his hands out in supplication. “Now, now, Elda, there is an explanation. One that I found quite satisfactory, though I do not believe this man handled the situation as well as he could have.” Her father gave Northrup a quelling look.
“No, sir, I did not.” Lord Northrup turned to Alice. “I cannot express to you how very sorry I am that you were put through the disgrace of my having missed our wedding. But I want you to know that circumstances prevented me from appearing.”
“You don’t look dead,” Alice said, her eyes narrowed. “Father, is this a ghost you have brought with you?”
Richard pressed his lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh aloud at Alice’s question, then gave his daughter a chastising look.
“You should know there are very few things that could have kept me from the church that day.”
“You were tied up? Gagged? Unable to write? I daresay those are the only reasons I can think of for not only missing our wedding but also not contacting me and begging my forgiveness immediately. If you don’t mind, I’ve developed a terrible headache.” Alice looked around the room to gauge the others’ reactions to Northrup’s appearance, but her mother and Christina looked just as confused as she felt. “I believe I shall retire.”
“Alice,” her father said sharply. “You will hear this young man out.”
Alice straightened, her eyes flashing. “Will I.”
“Yes,” Richard said with a snap of his head.
“Mama, this is outrageous.”
Elda glanced from Alice to her husband to Lord Northrup, who still stood in the doorway, looking hopeful and uncertain. “Very well. Alice, hear Lord Northrup out. And then he can remove himself from this house.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Northrup said.
Everyone filed out of the room, and as Christina passed, she gave Alice’s hand a squeeze.
She simply could not believe that Lord Northrup had the audacity to show his face to her and that her father had allowed it. Alice sat and stared stonily in front of her, her face set, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
“You have every reason to be angry with me.”
“Yes, I do,” Alice said, finally looking at the man she’d thought would be her husband. She’d thought he was handsome and charming, but looking at him now, he appeared pale and small and not nearly as good looking as she remembered. His eyes were a dull brown, his chin was weak, his shoulders drooping and not even his outrageously expensive clothes helped him. He sat across from her, and Alice noted his knees were bony. In fact, nothing about him appealed to her, that’s h
ow angry she was, for Lord Northrup was actually a fair looking fellow—at least that’s what she’d once thought.
“Mine is a terrible story and one that I hope will sway you to forgive me. And perhaps lead us toward a happier ending.” He had that hopeful smile on this face again, and Alice had the terrible urge to slap him. She had her own terrible story to tell, one that began the moment the vicar made his way slowly to the back of the church to tell her there would be no wedding that day.
Alice simply glared at him, and he shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. This was an Alice he had never seen before, one who was unsmiling and rigid. Perhaps he had thought she would be so grateful to see him she would forgive him instantly. He could not be more wrong, Alice thought to herself, looking at him with no small amount of distaste. Had he no idea what he had done to her? How he had ruined her life and taken away all hope of having a family and home of her own?
“You are familiar with Lester Flemings, Lord Porter.”
“I am. He is Patricia Flemings’s brother.” The very same Patricia Flemings Lord Northrup was purported to be in love with. For a brief moment, Alice drew her brows together. She’d thought Northrup had run away and married Patricia. Obviously, she was wrong on that account.
“Porter approached me with some information about Suzy.” He closed his eyes as if speaking of this information was painful to discuss. Northrup adored his younger sister and Alice knew he would move mountains in an effort to please her. Suzy was a spoiled little thing whose every whim Northrup indulged. “Our families have been close, so I had no reason to doubt him and later found what he told me was the truth. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that the information Porter had would have ruined Suzy’s life.” He pressed his lips together, clearly distressed. “He threatened to expose Suzy unless I agreed to marry his sister, Patricia, who had troubles of her own.”
“What sort of troubles?”
“The sort that require a husband,” Northrup said darkly. “At any rate, I agreed. Stupidly, I know. Porter made me swear not to say a word. He wanted everyone to believe I was in love with Patricia and forbade me to warn you about our elopement.”
Even though Alice was livid, hearing those words caused the blood to drain from her head. “So you did marry her,” she said softly.
“No, I did not.”
“I don’t understand.”
Lord Northrup moved over to where she sat and knelt beside her, taking one cold hand in his. “You know I would do anything to protect Suzy. She’s my sister. I was half mad knowing what you were going through and unable to do anything to stop it. You must understand, Suzy’s life would have been ruined, any hope she had of marrying would have been completely eliminated. I could not let that happen. I had to choose, darling. I had to and it was the most difficult decision of my entire life.”
Alice hated that she understood, for she would have done the same if Christina’s life had hung in the balance. Still, it had been weeks since their planned wedding and she hadn’t had a single word from him.
“Why are you here now? What happened?”
Tears filled Northrup’s eyes, and despite herself, Alice felt pity for him. She had been fond of him, after all, and it wasn’t easy to see him so distraught.
“It was all for nothing. You see, Porter was going to expose Suzy’s affair with the piano master. I don’t know how he found out, but Suzy didn’t deny it.” He closed his eyes briefly, forcing the tears down his cheek. “She ran off and married him. Suzy eloped with the bloody piano master.”
“Oh my goodness, my lord, no.” It was terrible news indeed, and despite everything, Alice knew how tragic such an event would be to his family. “When?”
“The day you and I were to be married. I found out that night, thankfully before I hied off to Scotland with Miss Flemings. You cannot know what I’ve gone through since the day Lord Porter came to see me. It was torture.”
No wonder Northrup had acted so strangely the night before their planned wedding. “And it’s taken you all this time to come forward?”
Northrup dipped his head. “I was horrified by it all. My parents wanted to keep what Suzy had done a secret for as long as possible. All her friends believe she is visiting our aunt in Brighton. My father forbade me to tell anyone until we were certain the wedding had taken place. He went after them, but it was too late. It’s destroyed him, our entire family. I still cannot believe Suzy would be so foolish. I know you must hate me and I know I have no right to ask your forgiveness.”
“But you are here to ask it anyway, aren’t you?” Alice said, her tone softer.
He lifted his head and looked at her beseechingly. “I have only the smallest of hopes that you will forgive me. Dear Alice, I have missed you.”
“I don’t hate you,” Alice said, gazing at their still-entwined hands.
“Then dare I hope that you can forgive me? That perhaps we can start anew?”
Alice looked at the man she’d planned to marry and felt nothing. Not even that small admiration and affection she’d once held for him. But her father was correct. Lord Northrup’s story was terrible and believable and she sincerely trusted that he regretted what had happened. It had only been three weeks since she’d stood at the church in her wedding gown, her stomach all aflutter, looking forward to a life with this man. Could she throw away the only future she had?
Unbidden, thoughts of Henderson, his kiss, made Alice even more uncertain. But Henderson hadn’t pledged his love or devotion. He really hadn’t done anything other than kiss her and make her feel things she’d never felt before in her life. Certainly, he hadn’t asked to marry her or requested an audience with her father. And he’d said more than once that kissing her was a mistake. A very stupid and silly mistake, Alice thought, hating that even now, even at this moment when Harvey was kneeling before her with tears falling down his cheeks, all she could think about was Henderson.
Alice forced a small smile. “Perhaps we can.”
“Perhaps you can what?” Henderson stood at the entrance to the library, looking very much like a man on the verge of violence.
* * *
Henderson had been on his way back to Tregrennar when he’d seen a carriage drive past him, a liver-spotted springer spaniel, tongue lolling happily, hanging out the small window. It could only be Cleo, Richard Hubbard’s constant companion, which meant Lord Hubbard was on his way home.
Henderson stopped dead, watching until the carriage was out of sight. This was his chance to speak with Lord Hubbard about marrying Alice, but he hadn’t had time to formulate his thoughts. While he knew Lord Hubbard liked him well enough, that didn’t mean he wanted a bastard for a son-in-law. What father would? The Hubbards’ pedigree was immaculate. Richard was the son of a duke, Elda was the daughter of a marquess. From his experience, sons of dukes and daughters of marquesses did not want their children marrying low-born bastards.
Henderson’s sire could be anyone, but was almost certainly not a member of the peerage. His grandparents and mother refused to discuss the matter, and the only thing he did know, from an overheard conversation when he was ten years old, was that the man was a laborer. Henderson still remembered the distaste in his grandmother’s voice when she mentioned his father. No one loved him more than his grandmother, so to hear her speak ill of whomever had sired him had made Henderson slightly sick to his stomach. Tainted.
His mother, Sylvia, wanted to get rid of him after she pushed him out into the world. She’d made arrangements with a woman who promised to find a good home for the baby. Like a puppy, he was to be given away and never thought of again. To Sylvia, he represented nothing more than a foolish decision that she wished would go away. It was his grandmother, with her soft heart, who had taken one look at his wrinkled little face and vowed to keep him in their home. His grandmamma simply could not bring herself to take him to the woman or to a foundling home, which was where most bastard children ended up
. Henderson had learned much about his early years from loyal servants who adored his grandmother and had a less than favorable view of his mother.
Sylvia had refused to look at him, hold him, touch him. If she ever had, Henderson had no memory of it. When he was a boy, he was not allowed to eat with the family and was instead fed in either the kitchens or his small room on the third floor, as far away from his mother as possible. If she did refer to him, which was infrequent, she called him “that thing.”
“That thing trampled on my flowers this morning.” He’d been ten, old enough to realize who he was, who she was. Other mothers were kind. They laid their hands atop their children’s heads and ruffled their hair. They embraced them when they were hurt. They did not call their children things.
“I’m not a thing,” he’d said, his cheeks burning hotly. “I’m your son.”
She’d wheeled around, her face filled with rage, and slapped him. “You are not my son.”
After she’d stormed off, his grandmother had drawn him into a warm hug and held him, reassuring him that he was not a thing, that he was a fine little boy whom she loved with all her heart. Henderson had been comforted by her words, but the terrible hurt that his mother didn’t love him, and indeed loathed him, never truly went away.
* * *
As he walked slowly toward Tregrennar, rehearsing in his head what he would say to Lord Hubbard, the circumstances of his birth loomed large. The Hubbards did not put on airs, but how would they feel about a son-in-law who didn’t have an ounce of blue blood running through his veins? Not only that, but a man who was born from sin? Giving his head a hard shake, Henderson tried to put such doubts from his mind. The Hubbards thought of him as a son. Hadn’t Mrs. Hubbard said just yesterday that everyone in the family loved him? Surely they would welcome him as a true member of their family.
