by Jane Goodger
“So, Joseph, what now?”
Henderson let out a humorless laugh, a sharp puff of air that created a plume of vapor in front of him. For a mid-July morning, it was decidedly chilly, though St. Ives never did get very warm. He’d thought, after enduring the oppressive heat of India, that he would never have complained about a chill in the air. This morning, in his foul mood, he felt like complaining about everything.
It was unlikely he would ever see Alice again. Certainly he would never hold her, kiss her, make love to her again. Why had he ever thought he could? He’d known, even as a lad at Eton, when Joseph had invited him to St. Ives for the summer, he’d known even then it was a bad idea. Yet the lure of St. Ives, of being the best friend of a boy whose grandfather was a duke, who promised the best fishing in all of England, had proved too much. He wanted to go back in time, to the room they’d shared at Eton, and tell that boy to go home alone.
* * *
A baker opening up his shop across the street drew Henderson from his memories of the past, and he realized he was famished. Pushing himself off the bench, he made his way across the street just as the eastern sky was beginning to turn a lovely shade of yellow-red and the birds were starting to greet the new day.
A young woman, probably no more than twenty years old, fresh-faced with cheeks rosy from her work, greeted him shyly as he made his way to the counter to peruse the shop’s offerings. She wore a white cap on her head and a white apron over a sky blue dress, and it struck Henderson at that moment that this was the type of girl he should set his cap for, a shop girl with lively blue eyes and a neat little braid.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, her Cornish accent thick and rather charming.
“A scone, please.”
“With marmalade? We make the best, you know.”
Henderson gave her a brief smile. “Of course.”
“Are you here for the festival?” She tilted her head at him and Henderson had the distinct feeling she was flirting with him. “Oh, no, you’re an artist.” Yes, flirting, which only made him feel even more depressed, for he was fairly certain had Lord Berkley walked in, she would not have flirted with him. Was it the cut of his clothes? His accent that wasn’t purely aristocratic? His manner? What marked him as a commoner, someone this girl felt free to flirt with?
“I’m here on business,” he said, his tone more curt than he’d meant it, but bloody hell, it was annoying to him to realize even a simple Cornish girl would recognize his ilk.
And if she did, how had Lord and Lady Hubbard felt when he’d first come to Tregrennar?
Henderson paid for the scone and left, catching himself in the reflection of a nearby shop, still dark and empty at this early hour. Turning away, he went directly to the inn and hoped the proprietors were up and about, for he was in no mood to hang about the street like some sort of vagabond. Even though, considering he had no home and no position, despite his accumulated wealth, that was nearly what he was.
And he’d thought to offer for Alice’s hand. A red hot flash of humiliation washed over him, and continued to visit him throughout the day. Restless and bored, he wandered the Island that afternoon, exploring the wild strip of land that had once been separated from the mainland but was now connected by a long, curving spit of earth. Thick walls, remnants of a time when the Cornish Britons had fortified it, seemed to lead to a small building of stone, locked in time, that had once been a lookout used by the coast guard to seek smuggling ships trying to sneak toward shore. The wind tore at his jacket, and it fluttered behind him, audibly snapping in the wind. The sea was rough, sending spray ashore as it crashed into the rocky beach, and he reveled in the icy chill of it. At the far end of the island was a group of artists, tripods set up and fortified with rocks against the wind, who were trying to capture on canvas the violence of the sea and the charming village of St. Ives in the distance.
Seeing them only made him think of Alice, who was an accomplished painter—at least he had always thought so. He wandered to the end, near a great pile of rocks called the Carncrows, trudging along a narrow path, curious to see how well the painters were capturing the tumultuous sea, the way the sun streamed through thickening clouds.
He wasn’t paying much attention to the artists themselves, the small group of men and women who had gathered at the very tip of the land, until he heard a distinctive laugh and stiffened. Henderson had never thought himself a lucky man; indeed, many occurrences in his life would make anyone think the opposite. Standing there, amidst the group, was Alice. She was wearing a light blue gown that the wind was plastering against her, revealing her form in such a distinct way, Henderson couldn’t help but remember her long, smooth limbs, muscles taut as he pleasured her. Tendrils of hair fought with the wind, whipping around her head, drawing him like the snakes of Medusa. Would he ever be able to look at her without his heart wanting to explode from his chest?
And then he saw Lord Northrup and his step markedly slowed. He recognized two other women, as well, friends of Alice’s whom he’d last seen at Joseph’s funeral—Harriet and Eliza.
Stopping short, he debated simply turning about and praying no one in the party would recognize him. Luck was not on his side and why should it be?
“Mr. Southwell? Is that you?”
This was a fine kettle of fish. He could hardly pretend not to hear Miss Anderson nor pretend she was mistaken, so he resisted the urge to close his eyes in frustration and instead plastered a wholly unconvincing smile on his face. Though he focused his attention on Harriet, who had ducked her head as if horrified to have called out to him, he could see Alice stiffen and turn slightly away. What must she be thinking? That he’d followed her out here? He was thankful for only one thing, that the red on his cheeks could be blamed on the bracing wind and not his complete humiliation.
“I thought you’d left.” This from Lord Northrup, looking just so excited to see him.
“I have not concluded my business here,” Henderson said.
“What sort of business is that?” Northrup seemed amused that he would have business in St. Ives.
“He’s seeking support for famine relief from Lord Berkley,” Alice said.
Lord Northrup’s brows rose in surprise. “Are you really? How interesting. I hadn’t realized Lord Berkley had an interest.”
“He hadn’t until I visited him,” Henderson said with a tight smile.
“Famine is such a dreary topic,” interjected the fifth person in their little crowd, a gentleman with a pencil thin mustache who was impeccably clothed despite the wind that tore around them. “Allow me to introduce myself. Frederick St. Claire.”
“Henderson Southwell. It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr. St. Claire.”
St. Claire looked at him as if mentally determining whether Henderson was worthy of his time, and Henderson could almost picture his surname swirling about the man’s head as he searched his memory for a Southwell worth conversing with.
“He was a dear friend of my late brother, Joseph. They went to Eton and Oxford together and Henderson often spent the summers here in St. Ives.”
St. Claire shot a quick look to Northrup, and Henderson had the distinct feeling the two had discussed him. “Ah.” Such meaning in that small syllable.
To Henderson’s surprise, Northrup turned to him and said, “I’d like to know more about your efforts, if you wouldn’t mind, Southwell. I’ve read of the atrocities in the Times, of course, but I would like to know what your plans are.” And turning to Alice, he said, “You didn’t tell me why Mr. Southwell was here, my dear.” He shrugged in a self-effacing way. “I suppose you hadn’t known about my interest in the famine relief effort.”
“No, I hadn’t,” Alice said, studying Northrup as if she’d never seen him before. And Henderson, rather cynically, wondered if the viscount was simply trying to get into Alice’s good graces.
“I do. I’ve petitioned Lord Lytton myself, not that it did any good. I’m af
raid my influence in political matters is quite meager. Berkley’s father, on the other hand, had a great deal of clout; his name alone may lend some influence.”
Despite himself, Henderson was impressed that Northrup actually knew what he was speaking of, and if he had petitioned Lord Lytton, he was an ally, indeed. “That is my hope, my lord. I would welcome any assistance you can offer. Lord Berkley and I are meeting this evening and I shall let him know we have found another interested party, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It will be my pleasure.”
Henderson was keenly aware of Alice’s interest in their conversation, and he hated that she was looking at Northrup with admiration, hated that she was looking at the other man at all, to be honest. He wanted to loathe Northrup, to put him in the category of enemy, but how could he do that now when the fellow had so generously offered to help him when so many men had not?
“Would you two stop talking politics,” St. Claire said impatiently. “I need to complete my masterpiece.” He held a hand out to a painting, anchored to a sturdy tripod with two iron clamps, that was decidedly not a masterpiece, and the three women giggled, Eliza the loudest of all. “You wound me, ladies. I thought it was a fair rendering.”
“Your seagull is rather lovely,” Eliza said softly, her cheeks blushing.
“Is that what that thing is in the sky. I thought perhaps it was an oddly shaped cloud,” Northrup said, and they all laughed easily.
Henderson began to distinctly feel unwanted, and while the others turned their attention to St. Claire’s awful painting, he took the time to look over at what Alice had been working on and was pleased to see hers was quite good.
“What do you think?” she asked quietly, seeing where he was looking. “I’m not nearly as proficient with oils as I am with watercolor.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” Henderson said, his voice low so the others could not hear. “I was walking to forget last night.” He searched her face, his eyes drifting down to her plush mouth, and wished they were alone, for the desire to kiss her was nearly overwhelming. The last he’d seen her, she’d been naked, running across the room to gather her night clothes. It had been a glorious sight and one he never wanted to forget, despite his words to the contrary.
A small crease formed between her eyes. “You want to forget when all day I’ve been praying that I always remember.”
With that, she turned away and joined the others, leaving Henderson standing alone. “I’ll bid you good day,” he said to no one in particular, and only Harriet turned toward him, a distinct look of disappointment on her face. Harriet’s family owned a lucrative tin mine, and though her family was wealthy, she was as common as he. A thought occurred to him, a terrible one indeed, that if he were to court Harriet, he would be able to see Alice far more often.
“Good-bye, Mr. Southwell,” Harriet said in a rush, her hands twisting nervously. She always had been awkwardly shy, if he recalled. That hopeful look in her eyes made him feel like a complete cad for even thinking of using her to get close to Alice. When she’d been younger, she’d had a terrible crush on him, one he had always been careful not to encourage. “W-will you be attending the festival?”
“Festival?”
Harriet seemed to go mute, so Eliza answered for her. “John Knill. It’s this year, you know. And of course my family is holding the traditional ball.” She hesitated and looked quickly to Harriet, who stared intently at the ground. “You are invited, of course.”
“Yes, do come,” Northrup said, smiling easily.
“If you think your mother wouldn’t mind,” Henderson said, darting a quick glance at Alice to see her reaction, but she’d turned away to work on her painting.
“She would love to have you, I’m sure. Please do.”
Henderson smiled. “It would be my pleasure. Thank you. I think now I’ll leave you to your paintings,” he said, giving St. Claire’s a dubious look, which earned him some laughter.
“You must stay,” St. Claire said, apparently surprising everyone in the group. “We’ve an odd number, you see.”
If anything, Harriet’s stare at the grass below her feet became even more intense, and Alice froze briefly, mid-stroke. That told him two things: She had been listening even though she was pretending to ignore them all, and the thought of him staying affected her. That alone fed the devil inside him.
“Of course, if you’d like.” Henderson looked at St. Claire, using all his acting ability not to chuckle at the man’s ridiculous mustache. He was reed thin, dressed impeccably from his straw hat (Henderson wondered how the thing was staying on his head in this wind) to his well-shined shoes. Groomed to perfection, the result, Henderson thought, of a well-trained valet who understood his employer’s tastes. Northrup was dressed much the same, though he held his hat in his hand in concession to the wind. Henderson, on the other than, had worn an old pair of boots, a pair of trousers that needed a good pressing, and a jacket that had seen better days, the type of ensemble a man throws on when he’s going for a bracing walk along the shore alone. And he’d had the practical sense not to struggle with a hat at all. Perhaps impracticality was all that separated the classes, he mused.
St. Claire went back to his painting, and the group stood behind him, giving him friendly advice. Henderson wandered over to watch Alice. It was difficult to see her face, for she wore a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath her chin with a satin ribbon, which still allowed her hair to fly free in the breeze. Her painting was quite good and not at all feminine. Using broad strokes and thickly applied paint, she had created the sort of work that got more beautiful the farther back one stood. Once in a while, she would take a step or two back to see what she had done, and Henderson moved forward, smiling and knowing that the next time she stepped back, she would knock into him. Which she did, letting out a small sound of surprise. She did not step immediately forward, which he had expected her to do, and so he leaned forward, just slightly, and whispered, “I want to taste you.”
* * *
Alice stiffened and quickly stepped forward, but when he moved to stand beside her, she tried her best not to let him know she was trying to keep from smiling. She was a bit vexed with him. After her shameful, wonderful, heart-searing good-bye, here he was, flirting outrageously with her. She’d truly thought when she’d walked from his room in the wee hours of the morning—not more than ten hours ago!—that she would never see him again. It had been a grand good-bye, tragic and romantic, and all day she’d been a bit weepy thinking about how she would never again in her life experience such bliss. Here he was, though, standing next to her, looking sinfully handsome and windblown, while the man she might marry was just a few feet away. Good Lord, have mercy.
“Will you please go away?” she asked conversationally.
“Never.”
What a thrilling, awful thing for him to say. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into him. Or her, for that matter. Even now, hours after he’d touched her so intimately, she could feel that wonderful sensation between her thighs.
“I thought you’d left St. Ives. That it would be another four years at least until I saw you again.”
“Really, Mr. Southwell, must you—” Her sentence was interrupted by a scream, the bloodcurdling type that meant something horrible had happened. Alice half expected to turn and find that one of her friends had fallen into the sea-drenched rocks below them. Instead she turned to see Harriet, her face deathly pale, pointing below her as the others ran toward her.
“My God, it’s a body,” Northrup said, looking down at the large rocks at the base of the bluff. “A man.”
Northrup immediately began a descent, and Henderson followed behind as the three women and St. Claire looked on in shock. Alice had never seen a dead person other than one carefully arranged in a casket, and seeing the pale, unmoving corpse was horrifying. It appeared to be a man, floating face down and nudging up against the rocks with each incoming wave. He was
fully dressed, as far as she could tell.
“I do hope it’s no one we know,” Alice said.
The two men each grabbed an arm and heaved him up onto a large flat rock that sat above the surging sea.
“You might want to look away,” Henderson called up to the group standing on the bluff. Harriet and Eliza turned away, but Alice could not, her gaze fixed on the man. He was missing one shoe, his pale foot visible beneath his trousers, and Alice inexplicably felt tears push at her eyes. It was that missing shoe; she couldn’t help thinking that the poor man would be sad to know it had been swept away into the sea, and even though she knew it was not possible, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that foot was likely cold.
“I know him,” Henderson said, looking sharply up at Alice. “It’s Sebastian Turner. I saw him just two nights ago in the village.”
“Oh, no. Are you certain?” Alice asked, staring down at the pale and slightly bloated face. It didn’t look like Sebastian at all to her.
Henderson hunkered down and studied the man. “Yes. It doesn’t appear he has been in the water long. He had a scar on the chin from cricket. A lad was swinging the bat and hit him by mistake. I was there when it happened. It’s Sebastian, I’m sure. These are the clothes he was wearing last night. It doesn’t make sense. How would he have gotten here?”
Alice put one hand against her mouth as if she could hold in the pain. Sebastian Turner had been one of Joseph’s friends, part of a group of young men who were often in their house. It seemed impossible that the lifeless body on the rock was he. He’d had the most infectious laugh.
“Let’s get him up, shall we, Mr. Southwell? Then we can fetch the coroner.”
The group was silent as they watched Henderson and Northrup struggle to haul the body to the grassy area where they stood. As they grew near, Harriet and Eliza stepped back, and St. Claire moved with them and shielded them from seeing the body. Alice, though, stood there still, watching as Sebastian’s hand banged against a rock. “Careful,” she said, though she knew it didn’t make any difference to the poor man anymore.
