Seeking Persephone

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Ridiculous! Bloody ridiculous!” He’d have hit something if everything in the room hadn’t been made of either solid stone or hardwood. Breaking his hand wouldn’t change the fact that he’d just acted like a blasted idiot.

  And a coward into the bargain, letting a dream frighten him. Worry him, he corrected. Concern. He was never frightened by anything. Not ever.

  “Adam?” If he had merely been concerned, he wouldn’t have felt so relieved at hearing Persephone’s voice from just behind the closed door.

  “What?” he snapped in frustration.

  She didn’t answer immediately. Adam could sense her hesitation. She seldom seemed intimidated by him. It ought to have felt like a victory.

  It didn’t.

  “Harry seems a little better this morning.” Uncertainty filled her voice, so quiet it barely penetrated the door between them.

  Adam let out a frustrated breath. He knew that hadn’t been what she’d originally intended to say. He paced back to the closed door. “I am glad he is improving.” Adam leaned against the wall but didn’t open the door.

  “So am I.” She still hadn’t stepped away. Adam could picture her just on the other side of the wall.

  “Are you planning to ride this morning?” he asked, closing his eyes.

  “I am.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.

  “But—”

  “I would rather you didn’t.” He forced his tone to become stern, unyielding, then all but held his breath as he awaited her reply.

  “I won’t if that is what you wish.” An obvious question mark lingered at the end of her response.

  It was a completely irrational request made in response to nothing more than a dream, albeit it an extremely vivid one. Yet, he felt palpable relief at her acquiescence. He actually started breathing again.

  “I’m losing my bloody mind,” Adam grumbled and walked away from the door.

  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.