He paused as if expecting her to respond. “I do believe it is talked of,” Athena managed.
“May I be candid with you?” Mr. Dalforth asked, suddenly quite urgent and glancing at her, his forehead creased.
“Of course,” Athena answered. If she did not mistake his expression, Mr. Dalforth was very troubled by something. He certainly did not at all look like a besotted suitor.
They continued walking through the garden path, the chill air biting at Athena’s face.
“When I first made your acquaintance at the beginning of the Little Season, I did so with the hope of coming to know you better. I liked what I had observed of you and wished to know if there was more I might like, might more than like. And I do like you.”
“But not more than like?” Athena was beginning to suspect the direction of Mr. Dalforth’s confession.
“I have no doubt raised expectations,” he continued without answering her question. “If not specifically in your mind, then in society’s at the least. And I do realize that, as a gentleman, I could not honorably fail to act on those expectations. Let me say this before I continue. I do believe that we are fond enough of one another and would deal well together.”
That was very nearly antiromantic. She sensed a “but” coming and braced herself for it. No matter that she was not enamored of Mr. Dalforth, there was something very lowering about his not being enamored of her either.
“But I have always wished for . . . more in a wife. Not as a person,” he quickly added. “I mean simply more in our feelings for one another. I had always imagined myself marrying for love.”
He seemed to be making the admission apologetically. Athena remained silent, confused and upended. She wholeheartedly agreed with him, but what did that mean for their courtship or for his near-proposal?
“My parents’ marriage was arranged, and though I think they have made a relatively successful union of it, I can see that there is something missing. They are like two individuals living parallel lives. I wish to marry my friend, someone with whom I share interests and ideas, someone with whom I can be a partner. One’s entire countenance should light up, one’s heart should react when his fiancée is nearby. There ought to be . . . something more.”
“Mr. Dalforth,” Athena said, trying to grab his attention. His eyes were focused ahead, his tone indicating he was not entirely aware he was speaking to anyone other than himself. “I completely agree with you. I have always wanted precisely that sort of marriage myself.”
Reluctant relief swept Mr. Dalforth’s features. “You realize that your reputation, even more than mine, would suffer if, after the speculation that has arisen, we do not make a match of it.”
“I believe my heart would suffer even more if we did.” Why Harry’s face flashed through Athena’s mind with that admission, she couldn’t say. Perhaps because he of all people would understand, would empathize. Harry always seemed to understand how she was feeling. He had the uncanny ability to soothe her regardless of the circumstances. Harry would, undoubtedly, know how to relieve the sudden sadness in her heart.
She heard Mr. Dalforth sigh as if her answer had freed him from an onerous obligation. It was not a very flattering realization. Only the fact that she did not, particularly, wish to marry Mr. Dalforth kept her from feeling utterly depressed.
“I will be certain to show society that you and I remain friends, though I believe it would be best if we were seen to spend less time in one another’s company,” he said. “The Little Season will end very shortly, and by the time the Season is upon us, I believe expectations will have lessened significantly.”
“I believe so,” Athena acknowledged. There would be talk, she was certain of that. But an amicable split and the passage of time would help squelch any gossip that might arise.
Mr. Dalforth left a few minutes later after taking his leave of Persephone. Knowing she was bidding farewell to the only gentleman who would probably ever court her, Athena ought to have felt more disappointed. Mostly she felt tired, worn down from weeks of worry and uncertainty. She’d had her chance to find love, and it had slipped away.
She had the almost overwhelming urge to cry, though she could not say precisely why. And she wished almost desperately for Harry.
* * *
“You have a letter, Harry.” Jane held the missive out to him with a look of mischievous curiosity on her face. “It is franked by the Duke of Kielder. Perhaps he is calling you out from several counties away.”
“Not his style,” Harry answered, reaching for the letter. “He prefers to see his victims tremble in terror. That cannot be accomplished through the post.”
It was, indeed, franked by Adam, but, if Harry didn’t miss his mark, the handwriting was feminine, though he knew it was not Athena’s. Persephone, perhaps? That was odd. Harry hadn’t ever received a letter from her.
He glanced up at Jane, watching him expectantly and hovering near the chair Harry occupied. “I believe I can read it without assistance,” he hinted with a smile. “If I come across any difficult words I will consult the children’s governess.”
“You always were a bit too cheeky,” Jane replied, smiling as broadly as ever. “Be warned. I shall use all my devious powers of persuasion to force a recounting out of you.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Jane made an overly dramatic face meant, he guessed, to represent those devious powers she had referenced, complete with wiggling fingers pointing supposedly threateningly in his direction, before turning and leaving him to the quiet of the sitting room.
Harry broke the seal on Persephone’s letter and read quickly.
Harry,
Forgive me for intruding on your time with your sister, but I am writing most anxiously. The household is in utter chaos, I fear.
Artemis is unwell, an infectious fever not unlike the one Athena only recently recovered from. The state of Artemis’s health has sent Adam’s mother back into the country, she being most agitated when confronted with illness.
Daphne has grown oddly pensive, and not even Adam seems able to ascertain the reason for her very heavy state of mind.
Athena spends a great deal of time—far too much if you ask me—with tears hovering in her eyes. She has grown pale and does not smile as she once did. When I try to ask after her well-being, she simply tells me she is fine and changes the subject.
Adam is grown grumpy in this house full of emotional women, and I am at a loss. I know it is inexcusable of me, but I would ask a favor. Will you please return to London, even for only a week or so, until we are prepared to leave for Falstone Castle? If you could only keep Adam from being entirely irritable, then I could deal with the remaining crises.
Please come if you can.
Gratefully,
Persephone
Athena was apparently quite unhappy. Harry’s heart wrenched at the thought. She had been like that after Persephone’s wedding, the first time Harry had met her. But a few kind words of reassurance had set her mind at ease and lessened her burden. What could he possibly say or do to help her now? She despised him, distrusted him.
But then Persephone hadn’t asked him to come for Athena’s sake. He was to entertain and distract Adam, something that was remarkably easy to do. A few cheeky remarks about how nonthreatening he found his friend and a joke or two, and Adam would cheer up—as much as Adam ever did.
Harry could do that. But it would mean possibly seeing Athena again, seeing her with tears in her eyes, unhappy, and being unable to do anything to help.
Perhaps he was simply masochistic. Harry knew being back at Falstone House, being near her again, knowing she was angry with him, would be torturous. And yet he was already on his way to his room to pack.
Chapter 20
“I find myself struggling to believe that there is anything so enthralling about the back gardens as to have captured your undivided attention for a full thirty minutes.”
Athena smiled a very little, turning slightly
on the window seat to look at Persephone as she sat beside her. “I was lost in my thoughts, I suppose.”
“A state you seem to regularly assume of late.”
“I have had a great deal on my mind,” Athena admitted, turning her gaze back to the frozen expanse of plants and walkways behind Falstone House, the window fogging with the warmth of her breath.
“This has been a busy few months for you,” Persephone replied. “Some moments of reflection are expected. However, I would have thought those recollections would be . . . happier. You have seemed a bit unhappy, dearest. I have been reluctant to ask why, as I do not wish to pry, but I find I am growing concerned. It is very unlike you to be in the dismals for so long a period of time.”
“I am not truly in the dismals—” Athena began the automatic protest. In all honesty, she was absolutely drowning in the dismals.
“Athena,” Persephone interrupted, “I know you better than that.”
Athena felt her sister take her hand, squeezing it the way she always had when they were young girls and Persephone was comforting her. There had been a great many circumstances during their childhood that had warranted reassurance: their mother’s death, pending financial ruin, the defection of friends as their situation grew more destitute, loneliness. Persephone had been almost as much a mother during those times as she had been a sister. Athena needed a mother’s wisdom and advice then more than ever.
Athena sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, even to her own ears. “These past weeks have not gone at all as I anticipated.” The slightest catch in her voice gave away the level of her distress, and Persephone squeezed her fingers more firmly. It was comfort enough for Athena to continue. “I have dreamed for years about having a London Season, and instead of being delighted, I find I am . . . disappointed.”
“Your experience did not match your dreams?” Persephone asked gently.
Athena shook her head, forcing back the sudden ache of tears in her eyes. Crying would not alleviate her frustration.
“What, precisely, has not occurred during these past weeks that you so desperately wish had?” Persephone asked.
“I didn’t fall in love,” Athena admitted before realizing she had spoken out loud. An embarrassed pink stained her cheeks—she could feel the heat of it.
In a voice even softer and kinder than she had used moments before, Persephone asked, “And how do you know you did not fall in love?”
Athena shifted to face Persephone again, confused at her question. “I would know if I was in love,” she insisted.
“Oh, Athena,” Persephone said, her tone suddenly very empathetic. “I have found that sometimes a person is the last to know when she is in love. One’s heart does not always share its secrets with one’s mind.”
“But I know how I would feel if I were in love, and I don’t feel that way,” Athena protested. She had spent the past several days fluctuating between sadness and frustration. The pendulum was arcing once again.
Persephone’s small laugh was ironic in timbre. “How would you know how it feels, Athena, if you have never been in love?”
That was an argument she had not considered. Did a person not know, instinctively, how love felt? She had always assumed so.
“Come,” Persephone said, wrapping an arm around Athena’s shoulder and all but forcing Athena to shift in her seat and lean against her. “It is time for an older-sister confession.”
“Oh, dear,” Athena answered, surprised that she was smiling, even if the effort was probably an abysmal failure.
“When I first met Adam—when I first married Adam, the two were essentially simultaneous, you know—I had what I felt was a pretty solid understanding of what love is and is not and what makes a happy and successful marriage. I had so many vivid and detailed dreams of my future.”
Athena silently sighed. She had a great many dreams as well.
“I had always pictured living in a small, cozy home with a great many chickens just outside the front door and a large number of perpetually happy children running about the yard.” Persephone gave Athena a look that clearly communicated that she understood the irony of those expectations. “My home ended up being a drafty castle that could easily house a substantial portion of the London populace. There are no chickens anywhere near the front doors of Falstone Castle and, thus far, no children.
“I had further envisioned myself married to a gentleman who was openly affectionate, inherently gentle, and constantly offering tender words of adoration.”
Athena actually laughed out loud. Adam was the polar opposite of Persephone’s described dream husband.
“Before you snort too loudly in derision, allow me a moment longer to further my embarrassment.” But Persephone was laughing as well. She understood the discrepancy. “Father had always been that way with Mother, and it was, in my mind, firmly set as the only way two people in love interacted. I expected Adam to fit that mold so precisely that when he didn’t, I was discouraged, disappointed.
“The more I got to know him, the more I found about him that I admired and liked and preferred in a husband over the traits I saw in our father. However, my predetermined ideas of how love plays out did not allow me to realize that I was falling in love with him. Adam is not openly affectionate, and, in public, he is neither gentle nor tender. He is, in his own way, all of those things. I simply needed to open my heart in order to see him as he really was.”
“Then I should give up on all my dreams?” Athena couldn’t prevent the break that accompanied her words.
“Oh, Athena.” Persephone sounded a touch exasperated. “Artemis is supposed to be the dramatic one.” She shook her head even as she pulled Athena closer. “You can have all those things that are most vital to you. Think of what it is you truly wish for in a companion, a friend, a lover—for a husband is all of those things. I believe you will find that the exact events surrounding falling in love can differ dramatically but have the same end result.”
“I may not be swept off my feet by love is what you are saying.” The words felt both disappointing and oddly hopeful. How was it possible to be both at the same time?
“Love may very well creep up on you,” Persephone answered. “You will find yourself thinking about some gentleman who makes you smile just by smiling at you, who lightens your burdens simply with his presence, a gentleman whom you miss when you are apart and about whom you think during a separation, a gentleman you could not imagine never seeing again.”
Persephone’s words conjured up thoughts of Harry. She had missed him, thought of him in the days since he’d left. He had always brought a smile to her face, had always known how to make her feel better when she was discouraged or upset. But Persephone was supposedly talking about love. Harry was a friend.
Persephone continued. “And quite suddenly your stubborn mind will realize that while it was logically and systematically searching for love, your heart had already found it.”
Her heart had already found love? But Persephone had described Harry. He was a friend, albeit a good friend, but nothing more. Wasn’t he?
Athena closed her eyes, her mind immediately filled with thoughts of him. Harry had lightened her burden so many times. He had held her so comfortingly and gently the night of Mr. Rigby’s assault. Harry had spent countless hours with her at Falstone Castle talking about more topics than she could even remember. He’d held her hand when she was in need of support. But where was the pounding heart, the symptoms of love and passion?
As if in response to her unspoken question, Athena’s heart leaped in her chest. One single recollection brought about the phenomenon. Harry had held her hand at the theater that evening. He had caressed her fingers in a way that had made her heart stutter and lurch. Then it all flooded in, memories of a look or a word from him that had brought a stain to her cheeks or a greater rapidity to her pulse. She had always dismissed the effect before.
“Oh, my heavens,” Athena whispered.
Persephone’s arm tig
htened around Athena’s shoulder. “I wondered when you would finally realize what I had long suspected.”
“But he sabotaged me,” Athena insisted, confusion warring with the heady rush of realization. “He intentionally introduced me only to gentlemen I could never have been happy with. How could I love someone who despises me enough to do that?”
“Athena,” Persephone said, an almost scolding edge to her words. “I know Harry nearly as well as you do, and I do not for one moment believe him to be the sort of gentleman who would act as a saboteur.”
“He as much as admitted it,” Athena said.
“It is not Harry’s actions that I doubt,” Persephone answered. “It is his motivation. You believe he acted out of ill will or malice.”
“You think differently?” Athena knew there was a hint of desperate hope in her voice, and she did not at all care. She had wanted to believe that Harry was still her friend ever since his departure from London, but realizing now how she had grown to love him, Athena needed to know that he did not despise her.
“I know differently,” Persephone said. “Adam asked Harry to help with your come-out.”
Being forced into service was almost as bad as purposefully undermining Athena’s debut.
“Adam, unfortunately, is a little too unobservant to realize what he was asking of Harry,” Persephone continued. “You know that Harry is as poor as a church mouse. His situation in many ways is even more desperate than ours was. A young lady without a dowry has a greater chance of marrying than a man who is destitute. He is labeled a fortune hunter by society, shunned by fathers of dowered young ladies, and too poor to marry a girl without a dowry. Harry has no title to induce a father to consider his suit and has no means of acquiring wealth of his own.”
Athena nodded. She knew all that. Harry had been particularly empathetic when she had spoken of the difficulties they had passed through during the years of financial hardship. He had shared many of his own struggles and worries with her in return.
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