Seeking Persephone

by Sarah M. Eden

  He’d brought her the coat. What more did she want? He had no idea why she’d left—she’d run. Adam knew she was upset about something. He’d seen her out in the garden where she always went to cry, on the ground, at night, without a coat. He’d made an effort. And she couldn’t be bothered to put the bloody coat on!

  “What more do you want?” Adam muttered. He knew exactly what she wanted. He heard her say as much only moments before. She wanted to go home.

  No doubt to be with her family in her grief. Adam wondered for a brief moment if his mother would grieve so all-consumingly should he meet an untimely end. They’d never been close, so he couldn’t really say. It was an insight into himself with which he was not at all comfortable. Would anyone cry for him the way Persephone wept for her brother?

  “Hewitt won’t,” Adam muttered. Every one of the Brothers “G” would rejoice should Adam be struck down by a bolt of punitive lightning.

  Harry might miss him once in a while. Persephone certainly wouldn’t. Except during the occasional round of howls from the Falstone wolves. She might think of him then.

  Adam’s eyes drifted back to Persephone. She had made no move to leave. She still didn’t have her coat on.

  “Foolish woman,” Adam mumbled. But he was already retracing his steps to where she sat.

  Her sobs had relented somewhat. Adam actually felt relieved to hear some steadiness return to her breathing. Only because he disliked crying, he told himself.

  “You’ll catch an inflammation of the lungs,” Adam told Persephone after he’d stood uncertainly over her for more than a few awkward moments. “Everyone in London will accuse me of poisoning you.”

  A strangled sort of laugh broke Persephone’s silence. Adam couldn’t remember making anyone, other than Harry, laugh. But Harry laughed at everything. Persephone seemed more selective.

  He had the sudden, impulsive desire to wrap that deuced coat around her, carry her back into the castle, and deposit her safely in front of the largest fire he could find, where she could thaw out. He shook his head to dislodge the thought, but it wouldn’t be dismissed.

  Opting for a compromise, Adam lifted her coat—it looked serviceable enough, no doubt a leftover from her days of poverty—from the bench. “You’ll be warmer inside,” he told her, knowing what would have been a gentle invitation from a decent sort of husband had come across as an order from him.

  But she seemed willing to comply. Persephone shifted from her position, sitting back from the bench but not looking up at him.

  “With Hewitt and Harry gone, the castle will be quiet.” Adam tempered his tone in a way he hadn’t in some time, and didn’t plan to again soon. “You can find a . . . private spot and . . . do . . . whatever it is you do after you cry.”

  “I usually sleep,” Persephone answered quietly. “And wake up with a headache.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  She nodded and slowly rose to her feet. Adam handed her the coat, which she did little more than drape over her shoulders.

  “Then why cry?” It seemed a rather ridiculous thing to do, knowing ahead of time what the end result would be.

  “Generally, I can’t help myself.” Persephone wiped her cheek with the palm of her hand.

  She, then, hadn’t learned the art of securing a tourniquet around her emotions.

  “Come on, then.” Adam felt ever more uncomfortable now that the dim light of the half-hidden moon and the light spilling from the castle windows made Persephone’s continued drip of tears visible. He led the way out of the garden, hearing her footsteps behind him.

  He knew he probably ought to have said something, but he couldn’t think of a single thing worth verbalizing. Empty reassurances about her brother’s bravery or heroism wouldn’t ease her pain. Saying he knew how she felt would be a bald-faced lie. Professing any tender attachment or caring concern on his part would be no less untrue. Adam cared for no one. Just as no one cared for him.

  Persephone’s little sister, the tiny one—Artemis was her name, he thought—had asked who would take care of Persephone, before Artemis had left for Shropshire.

  Adam heard a shaky breath on the path behind him and thought he could picture the girl’s tiny face—one so much like her sister’s, her mouth twisted in a line of disapproval, brow furrowed with worry the way it had been during that brief conversation.

  No one, it seemed, was watching out for Persephone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a very good thing Adam slept so deeply, Persephone thought to herself over her breakfast tea the next morning. The wolves hadn’t been particularly loud the night before, but she hadn’t felt well. As predicted, her head had begun to ache not long after she’d retired to her bed. While the tears had stopped, she still had an ache in her heart that might very well never go away.

  She’d walked slowly, quietly to the connecting door of their bedchambers, just as she had the night before last. Again, Adam didn’t respond when she whispered his name. She’d tried several times. Convinced he slept, Persephone did as she had the previous night. Wrapped tightly against the cold, she’d climbed onto his bed, careful not to wake him.

  Odd that being near him allowed her to sleep so quickly. She had always shared a room with Athena. Perhaps she simply needed the reassuring familiarity of another person in the room. Yet, comforting as it was in the moment, she knew a very real fear that should Adam discover her there, he would not find the intrusion welcome.

  “You’ve missed your riding lesson this morning.” Adam’s voice suddenly sounded from the doorway of the breakfast room.

  Persephone looked up in momentary alarm. She shook her head inwardly. He couldn’t possibly know what she’d just been thinking. She managed to make sense of his statement and forced a reply. “I am afraid I overslept.” She’d tiptoed back to her room at first light, determined to leave before Adam realized she’d been there.

  “And how is your head this morning?” Adam still stood in the breakfast room doorway, his eyes slightly diverted, looking out the windows behind her.

  “My head?”

  “You said last night that your head hurts after you’ve been crying.”

  He’d remembered that? “It does ache a little,” she admitted, surprised but not unpleasantly.

  “There is an apothecary in Sifton,” Adam said. “I could send one of the grooms for some powders.”

  Too shocked by his unforeseen offer to verbalize a reply, Persephone shook her head.

  Adam hovered a moment longer, as if trying to decide on his next course of action. When had she ever seen Adam appear uncertain? The answer came in the form of a memory of the two of them sitting on a bench in her garden the day Adam had given her the riding habit. He’d seemed remarkably uncertain then and uncomfortable. Very much like he appeared standing just then in the doorway.

  “Do you use this apothecary often?” Persephone asked the first question that came to her mind.

  “I am seldom ill.” He made the declaration as if it were a matter of pride, a tremendous accomplishment. “But he is utilized when someone on the staff is unwell.”

  “Sifton is nearby, then?” Persephone asked, pursuing the topic in the hope that Adam would fully enter the room, perhaps come sit by her. She was still unaccustomed to eating her meals alone. And, she had to admit, he intrigued her. He’d been autocratic and strictly civil the night before in the garden. At that moment he seemed very nearly human.

  “Sifton is almost an hour’s ride,” Adam said. “Kielder Village is closer but has no apothecary, nor a physician, for that matter.”

  “How far away is the nearest physician?”

  Adam still hovered, still avoided looking at her.

  “There is a surgeon living in Hawick.” His reply was characteristically short. “The town of Sifton has a physician, but he is useless.”

  Another person evaluated, judged, and dismissed by Adam. The physician probably wasn’t entirely useless. Persephone had come to realize in t
he month she’d spent at Falstone that, while often harsher than necessary, Adam’s evaluations of others held more than a grain of truth.

  He’d described Harry as a friend who took too many liberties. That, to a degree, was accurate. Harry was his friend. And, compared with every other person Adam knew, Harry was familiar and comfortable with him in the extreme. Adam didn’t seem to understand that Harry’s behavior was normal and acceptable for a friend.

  Persephone had heard Adam describe Mr. Hewitt as a “spineless idiot.” Again, the label proved harsher than warranted. But, she had to admit, when compared to Harry, Mr. Hewitt did come across as too easily intimidated. And, when compared with Adam, who Persephone had begun to realize was remarkably sharp, Mr. Hewitt didn’t impress one as overly intelligent.

  “John, at the stables, indicated that Atlas can be saddled whenever you would like to have your riding lesson,” Adam said after the silence had stretched on. “Though it does look like Falstone will shortly have rain—snow if the temperature continues to drop.”

  “I am not sure I am up for a ride today, anyway.”

  “Are you certain you do not wish for some powders?” For a moment, his eyes darted to her face. He actually looked concerned.

  Persephone hadn’t expected that. It was, by far, the most encouraging sign she’d had from him in some time. “Rest is all I really need. But thank you for offering.” She smiled, hoping to break through his icy exterior.

  Again her gratitude seemed to unnerve him. He gave a crisp shake of his head before stepping from the doorway and disappearing down the corridor.

  Persephone laid her napkin on the table and rose from her seat, making her way to the doorway. She knew Adam would not still be there—that he had, no doubt, retreated into his book room already. Still, she looked down the empty corridor in the direction he’d gone, wondering if he had any idea how perplexing a man he was.

  Why did he keep people at a distance? Why did he go to such lengths to appear uncaring when he had shown her—inadvertently, she was certain—twice that he did, indeed, care, at least a little? And if he did care even the slightest bit, was that not reason enough to try to make their marriage work?

  A faint knock echoed along the walls of the stone corridor. Persephone had never before lived in a house so large that a knock on the front door sounded, when heard from a few rooms away, like little more than mice in the walls. The knock was followed immediately by an almost frantic ringing of the front bell.

  She moved quickly down the corridor and onto the front landing. Adam stood at the head of the staircase, watching as Barton opened the front door.

  “Urgent message for His Grace,” a breathless voice said.

  Persephone looked at Adam. His expression hadn’t changed, but something in his demeanor had tensed. Despite the subtle change, Adam remained calm and in control.

  “Your Grace.” Barton bowed and handed Adam the missive.

  Adam nodded, and Barton made his way back down the stairs. Persephone watched Adam read, feeling herself tense as Adam’s jaw noticeably clenched. He finished the letter in less than a minute.

  “Barton!” he called out. The butler reached the foot of the stairs in an instant, awaiting instructions. “Send word to the stables to send up the chaise.” Adam walked down the stairs. Persephone followed close on his heels, her concern growing. “And send someone to Sifton for Mr. Johns.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” With a look, Barton sent one of the footmen out the door to deliver the message.

  “Are you leaving, Adam?” Persephone asked as they reached the bottom stair.

  “Almost on the instant.” To Barton he said, “Tell Mrs. Smithson to prepare Mr. Windover’s usual room.”

  “Harry?” Persephone’s heart pounded. “Is something the matter with Harry?”

  Adam turned toward her, seeming to forget in his anxiety not to look at her. “He’s taken ill at an inn between here and Hawick.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Apparently so.”

  She pushed down a surge of panic. “What do you plan to do?”

  “Go retrieve him, of course.” His words were clipped and tense. “If the stables ever send my carriage, that is,” he snapped, pacing to a front window and peering out impatiently.

  “I’m certain they are doing the best they can.” She crossed to the window where he stood and gazed out along with him. “It has begun to snow,” she said, alarmed anew.

  “Precisely why I wish to make an immediate start.”

  “But is it safe?” Persephone watched the sprinkling of snow as it continued to drift to the ground. “If the snow should begin to fall faster, you might become stuck.”

  “I can reach the inn before then.” Adam turned toward Barton as he arrived with Adam’s caped greatcoat.

  “But you might be snowed in.” The very idea alarmed her. Suppose the inn was not well heated? Suppose he didn’t reach the inn in time? Her heart lurched at the thought.

  Adam just shrugged.

  “How will I know you are safe?” Hundreds of possible scenarios flashed through her mind.

  “If I do not return for the night, you can assume I am holed up in the undoubtedly flea-infested hostelry Harry has chosen to take ill in.”

  “I will assume no such thing.” Persephone turned from the window to look up at him. How could he think she would be so easily appeased? “Simply not returning will tell me nothing. You could just as easily be half-frozen on the side of some road or devoured by wolves or ill yourself.”

  “I have driven these roads for years,” Adam said dismissively. “I have never once broken down.”

  “You have to promise me you will be careful.” The insistence in her tone surprised her.

  “Persephone.” Adam said in way of censure, but he looked more surprised than upset.

  “If you don’t promise me, I will worry.” She worried already. He may not have been the husband of her dreams, but she cared what happened to him. And, despite his gruff demeanor, she knew he was kind and gentle, at least in moments. He’d brought her a coat, bought her a riding habit, asked after her well-being.

  “Why would you worry about me?” As the chaise pulled in front of the castle, he made his way to the front doors.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Adam turned back to her once more, actually looking at her for the second time in a matter of minutes. He seemed so utterly, completely confused by her show of basic human compassion. “No one has ever worried about me, Persephone.” It was a simple statement—no self-pity, no bitterness or a sense of having been wronged.

  “Someone does now,” Persephone said.

  His brows furrowed, his eyes betraying his confusion. “Don’t.”

  Persephone smiled a little at that. “I’m afraid I can’t help it.”

  “Like crying?” he asked, the tiniest hint of lightness in his tone.

  Persephone nodded, remembering their conversation from the night before.

  “Worrying will probably give you a headache as well,” Adam warned, as Barton opened the front doors.

  “Then spare me the headache and promise you will be cautious.” She followed him out, the cold air chilling her on the spot.

  Adam looked back from the chaise as he alighted the step. “I will be cautious,” he said.

  Even though he’d looked a touch annoyed, that concession stuck with Persephone as the hours dragged on. It hadn’t precisely been an acknowledgment of her concern, but he hadn’t completely dismissed her worries, either. He had promised to be careful. Persephone was certain that once Adam gave his word, he could be depended on to abide by that promise.

  Dusk came without any sign of Adam or Harry. Mr. Johns, the apothecary from Sifton, had arrived in time to take dinner, though as the hours passed and the snow began falling once more, it became obvious he would not be leaving Falstone that evening.

  “Oh, Adam,” Persephone whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes once more. She watched the
front drive from the tall windows of the library. The snowfall picked up pace, the wind blowing more fiercely. Adam had not returned.

  At what point should she stop watching? Persephone didn’t know how far from Falstone the inn sat nor how long the journey could be expected to take. Suppose Adam was caught in the dark of night only miles from home? It was bound to be an extremely cold night. And there were the wolves.

  “Please,” she pleaded quietly with the heavens. “You’ve taken Evander. Please do not take my husband as well.”

  As if in answer to her prayer, the barely distinguishable silhouette of a traveling chaise made its way to the front steps of the castle. In the light that spilled from the castle windows, Persephone watched as Adam stepped from the door of the carriage.

  Even as she breathed a sigh of relief, Persephone spun from the window and moved quickly from the library, down the corridor to the first-floor landing in time to see Adam, directing two footmen behind him, step into the entry hall. She’d worried for him more than she’d thought she would, and she’d missed him terribly, considering he probably hadn’t thought of her once in all the time he was gone.

  “Take him directly to his chambers,” Adam ordered the footmen. “Is Mr. Johns here?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Barton answered.

  “Send him to Mr. Windover’s chambers.”

  Harry, pale and inert, was carried past where Persephone stood on the staircase. He was more obviously ill than she had expected him to be. Even the sight of Harry being bodily carried to his room didn’t prevent Persephone’s eyes from returning to Adam. He looked a little pale as well.

  Adam’s eyes lifted to meet hers for a moment. Persephone thought she heard him let out a tense breath. It was the tiniest hint of vulnerability, but it pulled at her heart. Finally, she’d seen some indication that Adam might need her.

  She took the steps between them at twice the speed she would have otherwise. “You’re home.” Persephone allowed her relief to be heard in her voice.