Persuasion (3 page)

“That must be amusing,” Amelia said, smiling.

“Yes, it can be. This is my little brother, John.” But William did not smile in return.

She smiled at John and squatted. “And how old are you, John?”

John looked at her, his face wet with tears, but his eyes were wide with curiosity. “Four,” he finally said.

“Four!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were eight, at least!”

“I am eight,” William said seriously. Then his gaze narrowed skeptically. “How old did you think I was?”

“Ten or eleven.” Amelia smiled. “I see you are taking good care of your brother, as you should do. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

He nodded solemnly, and glanced at Mrs. Murdock. “We have a sister now. She doesn’t have a name yet.”

Amelia smiled at him. “That is not unusual.” She laid her hand on his head; his hair was silky soft, like his father’s. She started, removing her hand. “I am here to help, in any way that I can. I am less than an hour away by coach.”

“That is kind of you,” William said, sounding very much like a grown-up.

Amelia smiled at him again, patted John on the shoulder and turned to the governess. The older woman, who was heavyset and gray-haired, was beginning to cry, tears slipping down her ruddy cheeks. Amelia dearly hoped she would discipline herself—the children needed her now. “And how is the baby faring?”

Mrs. Murdock inhaled. “She has been fussing ever since...ever since... I cannot get her to nurse properly, Miss Greystone. I am at a loss!” she cried, clearly panicked.

Amelia stepped closer to look at the sleeping infant. Mrs. Murdock moved an edge of the blanket away, and Amelia saw a fair-haired child, who was clearly the image of her blonde mother. “She is beautiful.”

“Isn’t she the exact image of Lady Grenville? God rest her soul. Oh, dear! I was only recently employed, Miss Greystone. I am entirely new here! We are all at a loss—and we have no housekeeper.”

Amelia started. “What?”

“Mrs. Delaney was with Lady Grenville for many years, but she fell ill and died just after I was hired around Christmastime. Lady Grenville has been managing this household ever since, Miss Greystone. She meant to hire a new housekeeper, but no one met with her approval. Now no one is running this home!”

Amelia realized that the house must be in chaos, indeed. “I am sure his lordship will hire a new housekeeper immediately,” she said.

“But he isn’t even here!” Mrs. Murdock cried, and more tears fell.

“He is never in residence,” Signor Barelli said with some disapproval, a tremor in his tone. “We last saw him in November—briefly. Is he going to come? Why isn’t he here now? Where could he possibly be?”

Amelia was dismayed. She repeated what Lucas had said earlier. “He will be here at any moment. The roads are terrible at this time of year. Is he coming from London?”

“We don’t know where he is. He usually claims he is in the north, at one of his great estates there.”

Amelia wondered at the use of the word
claim.
What did the tutor mean?

“Father came home for my birthday,” William said gravely, but with some pride. “Even though he is preoccupied with the estate.”

Amelia was certain the boy was parroting his father. She could not absorb such a surprising state of affairs. There was no housekeeper; St. Just was never in residence; no one knew, precisely, where he was now. What did this mean?

John began to cry again. William took his hand. “He is coming home,” William said fiercely and insistently. But he batted back tears with his lashes furiously.

Amelia looked at him and realized he would be exactly like his father—he certainly was in charge now. Before she could reassure him and tell him that St. Just would arrive at any moment and repair the household immediately, she heard the sound of an approaching carriage.

And she had not a doubt as to who it was before William even cried out. Slowly, she turned.

The huge black coach was thundering up the drive. Six magnificent black carriage horses were in the traces. The driver was in St. Just’s royal-blue-and-gold livery, as were the two footmen standing on the rear fender. She realized she was holding her breath. St. Just had returned, after all.

The six-in-hand came around the circular drive at a near gallop. Passing the chapel, the coachman braked, shouting, “Whoa!” As the team came to a halt, not far from where they stood, gravel sprayed.

Amelia’s heart was thundering. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Simon Grenville was home.

Both footmen leaped to the ground and rushed to open Grenville’s door for him. The Earl of St. Just stepped out.

Her mind went blank.

Clad impeccably in a dark brown velvet jacket with some embroidery, black breeches, white stockings and black shoes, he started toward their group. He was tall—perhaps an inch or two over six feet—and broad-shouldered, and he remained small of hip. Amelia glimpsed his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and that chiseled mouth. Her heart slammed.

He hadn’t changed at all.

He was as handsome as she remembered. If he was gray, she wouldn’t know—he wore a dark wig, in a somewhat redder shade than his natural hair, beneath a bicorne hat.

Amelia felt paralyzed. She stared, incapable of looking at anyone other than Grenville, who had eyes only for his sons.

In fact, it was as if he hadn’t seen her. But she had known he wouldn’t remember her. So she could look openly at him. He was even more devastatingly handsome now that he was thirty, she somehow thought, in despair. He was even more commanding in appearance.

And the memories begged to be let loose. She fought them.

Grenville’s strides were long and hard. His gaze unwavering, he reached the boys and pulled them both into his arms. John wept. William clung.

Amelia trembled, aware that she was an intruder. He hadn’t looked at her—acknowledged her—recognized her. She should be relieved—this was the scenario she had envisioned—but she felt dismayed.

Grenville did not move, not for a long moment, as he embraced both of his sons. He kept his head bowed over them so she could not see his face. She wanted to leave, because this was such an intense familial reunion, but she was afraid to attract his attention.

And she heard him inhale, raggedly. Grenville straightened and released the boys, taking both of their hands. She had the oddest sense that he was afraid to let them go.

Finally, the earl nodded at the nurse and tutor. Both murmured, “My lord,” their heads bowed.

Amelia wanted to disappear. He would glance at her at any moment—unless he meant to ignore her. Her heart kept thundering. She hoped he wouldn’t hear it. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice her, either.

But Grenville turned and looked directly at her.

She froze as their gazes met.

His dark gaze seemed to widen and then it locked with hers. Time seemed to stop. All noise seemed to vanish. There was only her deafening heartbeat, his surprise and the intense look they shared.

In that moment, Amelia realized that he had recognized her after all.

He didn’t speak. Yet he didn’t have to. Somehow, she felt the pain and anguish coursing through him. It was immense. In that moment, she knew he needed her as never before.

She lifted her hand toward him.

Grenville abruptly glanced at his sons. “It’s too cold to linger outside.” He put an arm around each boy and started forward. They entered the courtyard and vanished.

She inhaled, reeling.

He had recognized her.

And then she realized that he hadn’t looked at his infant daughter a single time.

CHAPTER TWO

S
IMON
STARED
BLINDLY
AHEAD
.
He was seated in the first row of the chapel with his sons, but he was in a state of disbelief. Was he really back in Cornwall? Was he actually attending his wife’s funeral?

Simon realized that his fists were clenched. He was staring at the reverend, who droned on and on about Elizabeth, but he hardly saw him and he did not hear him. Three days ago he had been in Paris, posing as Henri Jourdan, a Jacobin; three days ago he had been standing amongst the bloodthirsty crowd at La Place de la Révolution, witnessing dozens of executions. The very last one had been his friend, Danton, who had become a voice of moderation amongst the insane. Watching him lose his head had been a test of his loyalty. Lafleur had been with him. So he had applauded each beheading, and somehow, he hadn’t become physically sick.

He wasn’t in Paris now. He wasn’t in France. He was in Cornwall, a place he hadn’t meant to ever return to, and he felt dazed and disoriented. The last time he had been in Cornwall, his brother had died. The last time he had been in that chapel, he had been attending Will’s funeral!

And maybe that was a part of the reason why he felt so ill. Still, the stench of blood was everywhere, as if it had followed him from Paris. It was even inside the chapel. But he smelled blood everywhere, all of the time—in his rooms, on his clothes, on his servants—he smelled blood even when he slept.

But then, death was everywhere. After all, he was attending his wife’s funeral!

And he almost laughed, bitterly. Death had been following him for a very long time, so he should not be dazed, confused or surprised. His brother had died on these moors. Elizabeth had died in that house. He had spent the past year in Paris, where the Terror reigned. How ironic it all was. How fitting.

Simon turned and looked at the rapt crowd, who was devouring the reverend’s every word—as if Elizabeth’s death genuinely mattered, as if she were not one more innocent, lost amongst thousands. They were all strangers, he realized grimly, not friends and neighbors. He had nothing in common with any one of them, except for his nationality. He was an outsider now, the stranger in their midst....

He faced the pulpit again. He should try to listen, he should attempt to focus. Elizabeth was dead, and she had been his wife. The disbelief was almost stronger now. In his mind’s eye, he could see inside that coffin. But Elizabeth did not lie inside; his brother did.

His tension escalated. He had left the parish within days of Will’s tragic death. And if Elizabeth hadn’t died at St. Just Hall, he wouldn’t have returned.

God, he hated Cornwall!

Not for the first time, he wished that Will hadn’t died. But he no longer railed against fate. He knew better. He had learned firsthand that the good and the innocent were always the first to die, which was why fate had just claimed his wife.

He closed his eyes and gave up. His mind ran free. Tears briefly burned his closed lids.

Why hadn’t he been the one to die?

Will should have been the earl; Elizabeth should have been his wife!

Simon opened his eyes carefully, shaken by such thoughts. He did not know if he was still grieving for his older brother, who had died tragically in a riding accident so many years ago, or if he were grieving for those executed by the Terror, or even if he grieved for his wife, whom he hadn’t really known. But he knew he must control his mind. It was Elizabeth, his wife, who was in that coffin. It was Elizabeth who was being eulogized. It was Elizabeth he should be thinking of—for the sake of his sons—until he went back to London to begin the dirty work of playing war games.

But he just couldn’t do it. He could not concentrate on his dead wife. The ghosts that had been haunting him for weeks, months and years began to form before him, becoming the faces of his friends and neighbors in the crowd, and they were the faces of every man, woman and child he had seen in chains or guillotined. Those faces accused him of hypocrisy and cowardice, of ruthless self-survival, of his failure as a man, a husband, a brother.

He closed his eyes, as if that action might send those ghosts away, but it did not.

Simon wondered if he was finally losing his mind. He looked across the chapel and out the light stained-glass windows. The moors stretched endlessly away. No sight had ever been as ugly. He knew he must stop his thoughts. He had his sons to think of now, to care for.

And the minister was still speaking but Simon didn’t hear a word he was saying. The image slammed over him and he could not move. He had been with the two grooms when they had found his brother lying on the hard rocky ground. He had been on his back, faceup, eyes open, the moonlight spilling over his handsome features.

All he could see was his dead brother now.

It was as if he had just found Will on the moors; it was as if the past had become the present.

Simon realized a tear was sliding down his face. There was so much heartache, so much pain. Would he mourn his brother all over again? He hadn’t ever wanted to go back to the place in time!

Or was he finally mourning Elizabeth? Or even Danton? He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve for anyone, ever. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care, but he was crying now. He felt the tears streaming helplessly down his face.

He realized he was staring through tears at the open coffin. He saw Elizabeth, so perfectly beautiful, even in death, but he also saw Will. His brother had been as golden, as perfect, as beautiful, in death. Elizabeth had been an angel, Will had been a hero.

There were so many memories rushing at him now, all vivid and painful. In some, he was with his brother, whom he had respected, admired and loved. In others, he was with his wife, whom he had tolerated but hadn’t loved.

This was the reason he had not come back to this goddamned place, he thought, in sudden anguish. Will should be alive today. He had been gallant, charming and honorable. He would have been a great earl; he would have admired and loved Elizabeth. Will would not have sold out to the radicals.

Simon suddenly thought how prophetic his father had been. On numerous occasions, the earl had faulted him for his utter lack of character. Will was the perfect son, but Simon was not. Simon was the shameless one. He was reckless, inept and irresponsible, with no sense of honor or duty.

And he was the dishonorable one. For even now, he had two letters in his pocket, proving his absolute disloyalty. One was from Pitt’s secret spymaster, Warlock, the other from his French master, Lafleur. Even Will would be ashamed of him now.

“Papa?”

It took Simon a moment to realize that his son had spoken to him. He managed to smile grimly at him. His cheeks felt wet. He did not want the boys to see. He knew John and William needed reassurance. “It will be all right.”

“You’re hurting me,” John whispered.

Simon realized he was holding his hand, far too tightly. He loosened his death grip.

He heard Reverend Collins saying, “One of the kindest, most compassionate of ladies, forever giving to others, never taking for herself.”

He wondered if it were true, he wondered if his wife had been a generous and kind woman. If she had had those qualities, he hadn’t ever noticed. And now, it was too late.

He felt so sick now, perhaps from the addition of guilt to the rest of his roiling feelings.

Thump.

Someone had dropped his Bible.

Simon froze.

He did not see the reverend now. Instead, Danton stood on the red-stained steps of the guillotine, shouting his last words defiantly to the crowd, which chanted in return,
“À la guillotine! À la guillotine!”

Simon saw the huge blade come down. Yet he knew it was impossible, that no blade was in the chapel. He laughed loudly. There was no mirth in the sound, and even he heard the hysteria and fear there.

But William tightened his grip on his hand, jerking him back to reality, and he looked down. William looked up at him with stricken concern. John seemed ready to cry again.

“And she will be sorely missed by her loving husband, by her devoted sons, by her grieving family and friends...” Reverend Collins cried.

He forced himself to become still. He fought the nausea, the grief. The boys would miss their mother, even if he would not. His sons needed her, the earldom needed her.

The ghosts of the innocent whirled in his mind and around him, becoming the crowd, and now, amongst them, he saw his wife and he saw his brother. He could not stand it.

He stood. “I will be right back,” he said.

And as he pushed into the aisle and down the nave, praying he would not become sick until he went outside, her baby wailed.

He could not believe it. As he rushed toward the door, he found them in the last row. He looked at the child in the nurse’s arms, briefly. Then he saw Amelia Greystone, and their gazes locked.

A moment later he was outside behind the chapel, on his knees, vomiting.

* * *

T
HE
SERVICE
WAS
FINALLY
OVER
. And just in time, Amelia thought grimly, because the newborn had begun to fuss rather loudly and Mrs. Murdock seemed incapable of quieting her. A number of guests had turned to glance toward the crying baby. Had Grenville actually glared at his own daughter?

Her tension knew no bounds. It had been impossible to keep her gaze from his broad shoulders during the service. He had recognized her.

Amelia had never been as shaken.

But the crowd was beginning to arise. “We should slip out before the other guests,” Amelia suggested. “The child is certainly hungry.” But her eyes were on the front of the chapel. Grenville’s two sons were seated in the front row by themselves. Grenville had left a few minutes ago, before the eulogy was over. How could he leave his children like that? Had he been that distraught?

When he had rushed up the nave, he had looked right at her. He had been terribly pale, as if he was about to become sick.

She shouldn’t care, but she did.

“She misses her mother,” Mrs. Murdock said. Tears began to slide down her face. “That is why she is so fussy.”

Amelia hesitated. The governess had managed to control herself throughout the service, and she could not blame her for crying now. A funeral was overwhelming under the best of circumstances, and Elizabeth dying so young was the worst of events. But the infant had never known her mother. “Where is Signor Barelli? I don’t know if St. Just will return. I think I should get the boys.”

“I saw him leave before his lordship did,” Mrs. Murdock said, rocking the child. “He adored Lady Grenville. I believe Signor Barelli was too distraught to stay. He was ready to weep!”

Amelia decided that Grenville had been too distraught to remain for the end of the service, as well. “Wait a moment,” she said, and she hurried past the guests, most of whom were now leaving their seats. She knew them all, and she nodded at those she passed. “William? John? We are going back to the house. I am going to help Mrs. Murdock settle your sister. Afterward, I was wondering if you might give me a tour of your rooms?” She smiled.

Both boys stared at her, stricken. John said tearfully, “Where is Papa?” But he held out his hand.

Amelia took it, her heart surging. “He is grieving for your mother,” she said softly. How wonderful the small boy’s hand felt in hers. “I believe he went outside because he needed a moment alone.”

John nodded, but William gave her an odd look, as if he wished to say something but knew better. Amelia took his hand as well, leading them toward the governess. “Signor Barelli has already left. I am sure he is waiting for you at the house.”

“We are not having lessons today,” William said firmly. Then, “I should like to see Father.”

Amelia nodded at Mrs. Murdock. The infant was whimpering, as the governess rocked to hush her. The guests ahead of them stepped aside, clearly understanding their need to leave quickly. Amelia smiled at everyone as they passed. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrod,” she said. “Thank you, Squire Penwaithe, for coming today. Hello, Millie. Hello, George. Apparently refreshments will be served shortly in the great hall.” Mrs. Murdock had said as much, but now she wondered if Grenville would even bother to greet his guests.

Her neighbors smiled at her. Millie, a dairymaid, cried, “What a beautiful baby!”

As they left the chapel, Amelia glanced around and realized she was searching for Grenville. By now, he would have returned to the house, but he was not in sight. It had begun to drizzle. The infant started to cry again, this time very loudly.

Amelia took the wailing baby from the governess. “May I? Perhaps I can be of help.” She cradled her close to her chest. It was too cold for the baby to be outside.

“I do hope so. I don’t think she likes me. She knows I am not her natural mother,” Mrs. Murdock exclaimed.

Amelia kept an impassive expression, inwardly sighing. She wished the governess would cease making such disturbing declarations, at least in front of the boys. Then she looked down at the beautiful baby, and she smiled. Her heart warmed. Oh, the little girl was such an angel! “Hush, sweetheart. We are going inside now. No child your age should have to attend a funeral.” She realized she was somewhat angry. The baby should have remained in her nursery, safe and warm; surely she could sense the distress and sorrow in the chapel. But no one had advised Mrs. Murdock. After all, there was no housekeeper, and Grenville had only returned moments before the service had started.

How could he be so negligent?

The infant hiccupped and looked at her. Then she smiled.

Amelia cried out, delighted. “She is smiling! Oh, how pretty she is!”

“Do you have any of your own?” Mrs. Murdock asked.

Amelia felt some of her pleasure vanish. She was too old to marry, and she would never have a child of her own. The knowledge caused some sadness, but she wasn’t about to indulge in self-pity. “No, I do not.” She looked up and saw Lucas and her mother approaching.