Seeking Persephone (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Persephone stood in front of the full-length cheval mirror in Harry’s room. She’d come to check on him, only to find him quite soundly sleeping. She tipped her head to one side, carefully scrutinizing her reflection, searching for the fatal flaw.

It was the black dress, perhaps. Her eyes were brown when she wore black. But, she thought, her eyes had been brown before, and it hadn’t seemed so horrible then. Maybe her eyes weren’t the problem.

She leaned closer to the mirror, tilting and turning her head. Her nose
was
a little too small. “Cute as a button,” her mama used to describe it. But duchesses weren’t supposed to have button noses.

Then there were the freckles. No home remedies had entirely cured her of those. Persephone supposed she was a trifle on the short side, though she’d never thought that so great a flaw that it couldn’t be overlooked.

She let out a breath of frustration. Flaws were easy to find when one was looking. Or perhaps she simply had more of them than most people. That thought brought a grimace to her face.

“I get that look a lot.” The weak, raspy voice came from behind her.

She turned around. “Harry?”

He appeared to be improving but still looked pale and ill. He attempted a smile. The miserable failure of that expression told Persephone volumes about the state of his health.

“We’ve been worried about you.” She crossed closer to him, tugging the bell-pull as she passed it. His valet would appreciate knowing Harry had awoken.

“It’s all been a ploy to get attention,” Harry rasped, sitting up a little. A cough cut off any further comment.

Persephone poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on a bedside table, handing it to him and waiting as he took a sip.

“Why were you so displeased?” Harry asked after a sip. He took another then added, “When you were looking in the mirror?”

She took the glass from him and helped him lie back down. “It was nothing.” She shook her head and set the glass back on the table.

“That wasn’t nothing,” he whispered.

Bless Harry. Even when he was terribly ill, he tried to be helpful. “Do you think I’m ridiculous?” She’d asked the question before she could stop herself.

“Ah, lard buckets.” Harry breathed out the homegrown curse on a chuckled whisper that quickly turned into a cough. His valet came into the room in time to hear the latter and began immediately fussing over Harry. From around the ministration of his servant, Harry managed to say, “Adam once described St. James’s Palace as ‘ridiculous.’ It’s his favorite word.”

“You need your rest,” Persephone said. To Harry’s valet, she added, “If there is anything at all that he needs, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

It’s his favorite word.
Persephone thought about that as she made her way downstairs to the sitting room.

She’d never seen St. James’s but doubted the royal palace could be described as “ridiculous” by anyone other than Adam. Yet she didn’t doubt that he had, indeed, found the probably impressive structure entirely unsatisfactory.

Was it any wonder, then, that she, too, fell under that category? She’d been thrown completely off guard when Adam had approached her in her room that morning. She’d immediately begun mentally revisiting her departure from Adam’s bedchamber. Had she left behind something that had given away her presence there? Had Adam realized what she’d been doing the past few nights? Was he angry?

Then he’d taken hold of her—there’d been something almost frantic in his grip—studying her minutely. She’d frozen under the intensity of his evaluation. What was he seeing? He’d answered her question after less than a minute.

“Ridiculous.”

“Your Grace.” Barton’s voice interrupted her memories. “You have received a letter.”

“Thank you,” Persephone answered automatically. Barton held the missive out to her on the silver salver he always used to deliver the post. She took it and laid it on her lap without looking at it.

Harry had been trying to tell her that what Adam considered ridiculous didn’t always match what others might label that way. But that knowledge didn’t particularly help. The truth remained: Adam had looked her over and didn’t like what he saw.

Where was the Adam who’d given her the beautiful riding habit? The one who’d brought her a coat when she’d gone into the cold without one? The Adam who had touched her so gently, so softly only the evening before? In those too-brief moments, he’d been the type of man she’d once dreamed of marrying.

The letter on her lap drew Persephone’s attention. She recognized the handwriting instantaneously: Artemis’s. Persephone sighed, worry she hadn’t realized she’d been feeling suddenly released. Artemis hadn’t written in weeks, not since before word of Evander’s fate at Trafalgar had reached Falstone.

Dear Persephone,

I wish you weren’t so far away.

Tears stung her eyes. True to character, Artemis had dispensed with the expected social pleasantries and had cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“So do I,” Persephone whispered.

Everyone is sad. I know if you were here, you could make everyone smile again. Watching them makes me sad. I don’t remember much about Evander. Athena says that I shouldn’t say that because it sounds unfeeling. How can the truth be unfeeling? I wish you were here to explain that to me.

Our new governess doesn’t approve of reading about haunted castles. I don’t like her.

Is your castle haunted? When can I come see your towers? Our governess says your house won’t be as black as ours because Evander isn’t the duke’s brother. Is that true? I wish I could go there. I am sick to death of black and people who cry all the time.

Are you happy? I wonder about that.

Papa wanted me to write something in my letter for him to tell you, but he can’t remember what it was. He says he’ll write you a letter later.

I miss you. Tell me when I can come.

All my love, and an extra hug,

Artemis

Are you happy?
Leave it to Artemis to ask a question so pointed. With all the obvious difficulties at home, the upheaval she was apparently dealing with, Artemis certainly didn’t need to know that her sister, her mother in many respects, was at times painfully unhappy and growing increasingly lonely.

She held the letter in her hand as she made her way to the stairs and up to her rooms.

Papa was going to write to her? Persephone hoped he would but had no expectation of actually hearing from him. She worried that his wandering mind left him neglectful of the family. Was he even capable of looking after them?

Persephone sat at the writing table in her sitting room, pondering the dilemma before her. She did not at all approve of lies, white or otherwise. But if she wrote to Artemis and told her that she spent her days fluctuating between resigned and unhappy, the girl would be heartbroken and, worse, worried.

Dear Artemis,

How happy I was to receive your letter.

She had, indeed, been quite happy at hearing from her dear little sister. Persephone bit her lips together, thinking.

Do not worry over your memories of Evander. You were quite young when he left home. If you wish, I shall share my memories with you, and then you will know him as well as I do.

Persephone blinked back the tears that started afresh in her eyes. The pain of her brother’s loss was still raw. Every mention of Evander brought worries for Linus.

I do not know, dearest, when you can come to visit me at Falstone Castle. I understand the weather here in wintertime is quite unpredictable. Perhaps in the spring, or after the London Season comes to a close. I imagine summers in Northumberland are magnificent.

Artemis simply couldn’t come anytime soon. Adam’s mood swings, coupled with Persephone’s confusion and frustration, would destroy any illusions the girl might harbor about her sister’s happiness. Persephone could not allow the child to return to Shropshire worried over the situation at Falstone.

What else would set Artemis’s mind at ease?

I have my own horse to ride. His name is Atlas. He is quite large but also very gentle. I ride nearly every day and am beginning to feel more confident in the saddle.

Adam bought me my very own riding habit, and it is quite the loveliest habit I have ever seen. I am to have riding boots from London as well.

Persephone furrowed her brow. Would it not put all their minds at ease to know, albeit incorrectly, that she found herself happily situated? One less family member to worry about would be beneficial all around.

We have had company of late. Indeed, Falstone has not been without visitors this past month. I am used to the close connections of our neighborhood and so have appreciated enjoying some of the local society.

Persephone winced at the massive exaggeration. The visits of Mr. Hewitt and Harry hardly qualified as enjoying society.

Before she lost her nerve, Persephone quickly finished her letter.

We have lovely gardens here that I will show you when you visit.

Please write again soon. I miss you. Please tell Athena and Daphne and Papa that I love and miss them.

Be good for your governess, and do not worry over the haunted castles. You and I shall overindulge our love of such things when we are next in company.

I love you, my dearest little Artemis.

Your loving sister,

Persephone

She sat back in her chair, feeling drained and heavy.

“Forgive me these lies,” she silently prayed. “But I cannot make my sister unhappy.”

* * *

“Harry was as impertinent as ever when I saw him an hour or so ago,” Adam said during the fish course of dinner that night. “I take that as an indication that he is recovering.”

Persephone nodded her agreement. She felt undeniably nervous. She’d attempted to improve her appearance. There was no avoiding black, however. If her wardrobe color had been the culprit that had rendered her “ridiculous,” she could do nothing about it.

Adam, it seemed, had drained his reservoir of conversational topics. The meal continued in silence. How would her family members interpret the awkward meals at Falstone?

How would she have described those meals in her lie-riddled letter?
We have become quite comfortable enough to pass a quiet evening in one another’s company.

The lie sat uneasily on Persephone’s mind, and yet she knew she would never have offered an honest evaluation to her family.

“I had a letter from my sister today,” Persephone said into the silence.

“Which sister was that?”

Persephone felt sorely tempted to not continue. Why did he so often seem uninterested in what she said? “Artemis,” Persephone answered quietly.

“The youngest?” Adam concentrated on his plate of food. But, Persephone told herself, he had at least remembered which of her sisters Artemis was.

“Yes.”

Adam continued eating.

Pretending he had shown an interest, Persephone continued. “She dislikes her governess, but not for any legitimate reason. I’m afraid she feels a touch weighed down by the continued state of mourning around the house. She has requested, again, to be able to come here to visit.”

Persephone saw Adam stiffen at that revelation. He didn’t want Artemis to come, apparently.

“I suggested the spring or summer,” Persephone said.

Adam didn’t answer beyond a “hmm.” Not very promising. Perhaps Artemis’s plans to explore the Falstone towers had been doomed from the beginning.

“Of course, nothing has actually been planned.” Persephone tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. She would see her family in Town, she reminded herself. And that was only five months away.

Five months.

Persephone bit back a sigh. How could she possibly last nearly half a year as lonely as she was?

Chapter Twenty

“What is that infernal noise?” Adam grumbled, standing on the first-floor landing.

“I believe that would be described as lively conversation, Your Grace,” Barton answered quite straight-faced. But Adam hadn’t missed the irony in his tone. Barton had never before broken the slightest bit from his proper butler’s demeanor.

“And who,” Adam answered quite severely, “is responsible for all of this ‘lively conversation?’”

A twitter of a laugh rang through the entrance hall.
That
was a sound with which he was unaccustomed. Adam raised an eyebrow.

Barton cleared his throat, sounding almost as if he barely held back a laugh of his own. “Mrs. Pointer.” He managed an almost serious tone.

“No doubt the vicar is here as well,” Adam said.

“No doubt.” Again he detected a hint of dry humor in the butler’s tone. What had gotten into the man?

“Are you feeling quite yourself today, Barton?” Adam genuinely wondered if perhaps Barton was a little touched in the upper works. The man had to be at least sixty. He’d been a footman at Falstone when Adam was a boy, elevated to butler while Adam was away at Harrow.

“I assure you I feel better than I have in years, Your Grace.” Something in Barton’s expression marked it as a significant statement.

Another twitter echoed up from below. “It sounds as though Falstone is infested with birds,” Adam muttered.

Just then Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, followed by a footman and trailed by two maids, reached the doors of the drawing room below. The footman bore a large silver tray, laden with every type of finger sandwich and sweet cake imaginable. Mrs. Smithson bore the silver tea service.

“A full tea?” Adam felt rather shocked, not having seen such a thing at Falstone since the days before his mother had relegated herself to the ranks of guest at the family seat. “For the Pointers?” It seemed a little overdone for only two guests.

“I believe Cook was exceptionally excited at the prospect of preparing a tea tray once more,” Barton answered. “It has been a while, Your Grace.”

His words held censure. But Barton knew how Falstone was supposed to be run.

“How is it that the vicar and his wife came to be in the drawing room?” Adam used the tone his mother had often called his “duke voice.” He’d perfected it some time around seven years of age, and it had never failed him, except with Harry, but Harry was the exception to most rules. “I do not recall altering my requirement that all guests be informed I am ‘not at home.’”

“The vicar quite specifically asked for
Her
Grace.” Most of the cheek had left Barton’s voice, though he certainly wasn’t quivering with concern. Adam had always liked that about Barton—he knew precisely how to act, but he had backbone. “When I presented Her Grace with Mr. Pointer’s card, I thought she would actually run down the stairs, she was so pleased to have callers.”

Adam felt a momentary prick of guilt at that. If Barton had been turning away callers, then Persephone hadn’t had any company, either.
She
might actually wish to see people. A picture of the Falstone drawing room filled to overflowing with the neighborhood elite, curious and barely tolerable, flashed through Adam’s mind. That would never do.

“How long have the Pointers been here?” Adam asked Barton, who still hovered nearby, as he walked slowly down the staircase.

“Only a few minutes, Your Grace.”

“A few minutes is more than most get,” Adam reminded no one in particular. Falstone was his home, where he determined the rules. He had long ago declared that there were to be no visitors, no callers, no formal teas for neighbors pretending politeness for the chance to gape and stare and slake their thirst for gossip fodder.

“Cream, yes.” Mr. Pointer’s voice reached the drawing room door as Adam stepped inside.

Persephone filled the vicar’s teacup and handed it to him. Mr. Pointer noticed Adam’s entrance and smiled at him. Only Mr. Pointer, and perhaps Harry, would dare smile when he knew he’d broken one of Adam’s cardinal rules. Adam gave him a pointed look of warning, which had no visible effect whatsoever.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Adam?” Persephone asked, apparently seeing him enter.

Adam turned to face her. “No,” he answered, unable to completely keep the exasperation from his voice.

Persephone smiled serenely back at him, returning to her duties as hostess, and placed a small slice of lemon cake on a plate for Mr. Pointer. Something in her demeanor seemed different from what he’d seen lately, but Adam couldn’t identify it.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace,” Mr. Pointer offered conversationally.

“I doubt that.”

Mr. Pointer smiled as if he were quite thoroughly amused. Mrs. Pointer appeared on the verge of fainting. Her teacup had begun to rattle. Adam hoped she put the blasted thing down before it went crashing to the floor below.

“What, precisely, is the reason for your presence here?” Adam stood over the visitors, his mouth set in a very serious, interrogative line.

“A social call, of course,” Mr. Pointer said.

“Of course?” Adam repeated, making his doubt obvious in his tone. “And why ‘of course,’ Mr. Pointer? When, in the fifteen years you have served as vicar here, has Falstone Castle received visitors?”

“Not once, Your Grace.” This conversation seemed to be entertaining to the vicar.

“And what, sir, led you to believe that had changed?”

“Wishful thinking?” Mr. Pointer hazarded the guess with barely masked amusement.

“There will be no callers at Falstone Castle.” Adam’s tension at the idea of hordes of gaping guests at Falstone affected his tone. “Not today. Not in the future.”

“Falstone is not receiving, Your Grace?” Mr. Pointer asked, as casually as if he were inquiring after the weather. “Or
you
are not receiving?”

“It is the same.”

“Forgive me, but it is not.” Mr. Pointer rose, placing his cup and saucer on an end table nearby. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”

Mr. Pointer no longer addressed Adam. The vicar crossed past him to Persephone. Adam followed the man’s progress with his eyes.

He hadn’t been able to identify what had been different in Persephone’s face earlier, but seeing her now, he knew. He knew because it was no longer there. She had been brighter, more alive and less haunted. Now the aura of sadness that had seemed to envelope her lately had returned.

“Do come ag—” Persephone stopped mid-word, her eyes darting anxiously at Adam then back at the vicar. “Thank you for—” She stopped again. With a look of disappointment, she finally settled on, “I will see you on Sunday.”

Mr. Pointer gave her a look filled with empathetic concern. “Smile, child.”

Persephone did. A smile shouldn’t look
un
happy.

“Wait,” Adam grumbled, annoyed with himself for his uncharacteristic ability to be influenced. “You might as well stay and finish your tea.” He knew he didn’t sound welcoming but didn’t remotely care. He could do without the dramatic exit Mr. Pointer obviously meant to enact. And, blast it all, Persephone looked near tears, and she hadn’t cried in days. “Cook will be offended if the tray is sent back untouched.”

He expected Mr. Pointer to smirk. He was enough like Harry to do just that. The vicar looked intrigued, perhaps even a little surprised, but didn’t smirk. As if the man hadn’t known precisely what he was about leaving in such an overblown manner. Mrs. Pointer hovered half-in, half-out of her seat, rear end jutting awkwardly over the deep red upholstered sofa.

“Perhaps you would like to try some of these fine cakes.” Mr. Pointer moved quite casually back to the seat he’d vacated beside his wife. “Or a cup of tea.”

“A dram of brandy might be more helpful,” Adam muttered.

“Do sit, dear,” Mr. Pointer said to his wife, as if Adam had made no comment. “And do try the lemon cake. Delicious.”

Persephone didn’t miss a beat, offering a plate with a slice of the praised cake to the vicar’s wife with a polite smile.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Pointer’s voice shook. Adam almost wished she’d produce one of her twittering laughs. People who quaked in his presence quickly lost their appeal.

Persephone moved to his side. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some tea?”

Adam shook his head. The sooner this visit came to an end, the better. He still couldn’t believe he’d allowed it. He never permitted visitors.

“I didn’t know, Adam,” Persephone said, just louder than a whisper, her eyes darting quickly to the Pointers before returning to him. “If you’d rather they leave—”

“Let them finish their tea.” He shook his head slightly at his continued illogical behavior. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to throw the Pointers out as he’d originally intended.

But when Persephone rewarded his lunacy with a bright smile, Adam felt nearly glad he’d slipped from his usual approach to life.

“I thought no one wanted to meet me.” Persephone kept her voice to a whisper, obviously going to lengths to keep their conversation too low for the vicar and his wife to overhear. “Bridal visits are expected. But there hadn’t been any callers. I didn’t realize they were being turned away.”

She could just as easily have sounded accusatory. Instead, she seemed relieved.

“They probably never came in the first place.” Adam surprised himself by so willingly discussing the situation. What did he care how Persephone felt about the rules? But that rang entirely false. He wanted her to understand, wanted her to know that
she
hadn’t been rejected. It was an odd impulse for him, but he kept on. “Every family in the surrounding area knows Falstone is closed to visitors.”

Persephone shot another look in the Pointers’ direction before saying, quietly, “But I could go visit the neighbors.”

Adam’s stomach clenched on the instant. “No. They would be expected to return the visit.”

“But I—”

“I will not have Falstone overrun by people.”

Persephone hesitated, a war of emotions in her eyes: confusion, indecision, frustration. In the end, she managed to look neutral. “Of course not. Thank you for allowing the Pointers to remain. I have been enjoying their visit.”

Adam felt like an ogre. The law gave him the right to dictate everything in his home. But his conscience began to decree otherwise. Persephone’s acquiescence had obviously been reluctantly given.

And why shouldn’t she wish for visitors, for society? She had nothing to fear at their hands, no reason to reject the company of virtual strangers. He, on the other hand, knew precisely how it felt to be stared at, whispered about. The animals at the Tower of London’s Royal Menagerie had nothing on Adam when it came to being a spectacle for the callous and curious.

“You, of course, owe Mrs. Pointer a visit,” Adam conceded, still unsure why he found himself so easily undone by the downcast look in her eyes, why he even discussed this in the same room as the Pointers. Such conversations belonged behind closed doors without witnesses. “I understand she entertains half the county on a regular basis.”

“I could meet our neighbors that way, then.” Persephone’s tone remained hesitant and cautious, almost as if she were asking a question rather than stating a fact.

“If you want to.” Adam shrugged. He’d met the neighborhood and wasn’t particularly impressed.

The smile returned to her face. Adam had to force back an answering one. He knew his face looked particularly disfigured when he smiled, the asymmetry made painfully obvious.

By the time the Pointers departed, Adam had no more desire to grin. They’d quickly settled in, looking completely at ease. If they were entertaining any thoughts of returning, they would be sorely disappointed.

Mrs. Pointer filled Persephone’s ears with news of the neighborhood. Mrs. Somebody-or-Other was rumored to be Increasing again, and Mrs. So-and-So was said to be redoing her drawing room in the French style and wasn’t that terribly unpatriotic. Adam was bored to tears.

Her parting comment, however, left Adam wincing. “I do hope you will attend the assemblies, Your Grace.” Mrs. Pointer smiled at Persephone. “Once you have passed your deepest mourning, of course.” The vicar’s wife acknowledged Persephone’s black dress with a nod of empathy. “I understand there hasn’t been a Duke and Duchess of Kielder at our local assembly in thirty years.”

Adam nearly tossed the woman into her carriage himself at that point. He’d bent enough to allow the Pointers to visit. But he did
not
dance.