Persuasion

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.

* * *

THE 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.

Lucas’s mouth softened. “I wondered how long it would take you to put the babe in your arms.” He spoke with affection.

“Oh, what a beautiful child,” Momma said. “Is she your first?”

Amelia sighed. Momma didn’t recognize her, but that was hardly unusual. She introduced her brother and mother to the governess, then turned to Lucas. “Could you take Momma home and then send the carriage back? I am going to stay for a bit. I want to settle the baby and the boys.”

His gaze narrowed. “I know you are merely being kind, but is that wise?”

She did not have a clue as to what he might mean.

He took her arm and steered her a short distance away from the boys. “Grenville seemed rather unhinged.” There was warning in his tone.

“What on earth does that mean? Of course he is grief-stricken. But I am not attending St. Just.” She kept her voice to a whisper. “He is so distraught he left his sons by themselves. Let me get everyone settled, Lucas. I simply must help out.”

He shook his head, but he smiled. “Then you can expect Garrett back in two hours.” His smile faded. “I hope you do not regret this, Amelia.”

Her heart lurched. “Why would I regret helping those small boys? Or this beautiful child?”

He kissed her cheek and they returned to the group. Momma was babbling on about a debut, and Amelia winced as Lucas gently led her away. Mrs. Murdock gave her a wide-eyed look as they started toward the house. “Momma is addled,” Amelia said softly. “It is rare, indeed, when she is coherent and cognizant of her surroundings.”

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Murdock said.

The huge rosewood door was ahead, set back within the temple entrance of the house. Amelia felt herself tense. It had been ten years since she had set foot within the house.

And suddenly she recalled darting into the library, with Simon in pursuit. She had been laughing, and they had wound up on the sofa in a passionate embrace.

She hesitated inside the high-ceilinged entry hall, a circular room with marble floors, gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers. Did she genuinely wish to go inside?

“Will you really come upstairs?” William asked, jerking her back into the present.

Her heart leaped oddly. It almost felt dangerous, being in Grenville’s house. But she smiled, rocking the infant gently. The children needed her; she had no doubt. “Do you want me to come upstairs?”

“I am happy to show you our suite of rooms,” William said gravely, sounding like an adult.

“I have a soldier,” John announced with pride. “He’s a Prussian infant.”

Amelia smiled as William said, taking John’s hand, “He’s a Prussian infantryman. You can show Miss Greystone all of your soldiers, if she so wishes.” He looked at Amelia, and she saw the eagerness in his eyes.

“I cannot wait,” she said, smiling. And for the first time since she met him, William smiled back.

* * *

THE BABY HAD finally fallen asleep after nursing hungrily, while still in Amelia’s arms. Amelia had no wish to let her go, but she could hardly linger with Elizabeth’s child now. Smiling but saddened, Amelia stood and laid the sleeping infant in her crib, a beautiful affair furnished with white eyelet coverlets. As she covered her tiny body with a white patchwork quilt, she said softly, “She needs a name.”

“You are so good with children!” Mrs. Murdock exclaimed. “I have never seen her nurse as greedily, and the boys adore you when you have only just met!”

Amelia smiled. The boys were playing with the toy soldiers in their rooms. John had shown her every single solider that he had. “She was hungry.”

“No, she loves you already!” The governess sobered. “There has been too much turmoil in this household. I so wish you were not leaving us.”

Amelia started. “I have my own family to attend,” she said, but she wondered if Mrs. Murdock was right. Had the grief and upheaval in the house affected the infant? How could it not? But at least the blue-and-white nursery was a quiet sanctuary for the child. Clearly, Elizabeth had been hoping for another boy.

Mrs. Murdock sat down in a large blue-striped chair. “I am surprised that you do not have children of your own, Miss Greystone.”

Amelia felt herself tense. Of course there was dismay, after taking care of that beautiful baby. “I am not married, Mrs. Murdock, and as you have seen, I have my mother to take care of.”

“You could certainly take care of her and a husband,” Mrs. Murdock said. She seemed far too curious for comfort. “You are so pretty, if you do not mind my saying so. How could you be unwed?”

An image of Grenville, so dark and handsome, his stare impossibly direct, came immediately to mind.

Why had he looked at her that way?

And what could she say? That she had fallen foolishly in love with St. Just a decade ago, only to have her heart broken? There had been a few offers afterward, but none had interested her. Very carefully, she said, “There was someone once, long ago. He was not serious, and I was too young to realize it.”

“The cad!” Mrs. Murdock cried.

“Let us leave the subject for now. What’s done is done, after all.” She smiled firmly. “I am glad the boys are playing. I am glad they ate—and I am glad the baby nursed and quieted down. I imagine she will sleep for some time.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Mrs. Murdock said, standing. But she seemed anxious. “Are you leaving?”

“I have to go.”

She grimaced. “What should I do if he comes here?”

It took Amelia a moment to understand. “Do you mean, if Grenville comes to see his child?”

She wrung her hands. “Maybe he won’t come. He doesn’t seem to like this child.”

“He will love this child, as he does his sons!” Amelia exclaimed, entirely distressed by such an unfounded accusation.

“He frightens me!”

Amelia started, “Mrs. Murdock, he is your employer and the Earl of St. Just. I suppose he is somewhat intimidating—”

The governess cut her off. “He frightens all of us. He frightened her ladyship!”

Amelia stiffened with displeasure. “Mrs. Murdock, I must object to such a discussion. I am sure that Lady Grenville held his lordship in the highest regard, and it was a mutual matter!”

“She changed whenever he was home. She was a happy woman—except when he was in residence. She worried about his returning. She told me how much she worried—she told me that she always seemed to displease him!”

Amelia sat abruptly down. Could this be possible? Could their marriage have been so strained? “I cannot abide gossip,” she finally said. She realized that she wished to defend Grenville. How could he have been displeased with such a wife?

“I am hardly gossiping. I heard them shouting at one another in November—when he returned for Lord William’s birthday. They argued last summer, when he suddenly appeared in town, surprising her so. And she left, within days of his arrival, she was that distraught. She did not want to be in residence with him, Miss Greystone, you may be sure of that. I do not think he cared very much for her, but she was afraid of him, I witnessed that firsthand!”

Amelia’s mind was racing. There was utter confusion. Had Elizabeth Grenville left town because her husband had arrived? Had she wished to avoid him? Had she been afraid of him? But why?

Hadn’t Mrs. Murdock claimed that Grenville was rarely in residence? She hadn’t wanted to believe that. Had there been another woman? She found herself wondering. Why else would he stay away?

As if on the same tangent, Mrs. Murdock lowered her voice. “Lady Grenville never knew where he was. Oh, she told me so herself many times, when she wished to write him and ask him for advice and guidance! Apparently when he stated he was going to the country, he never did. He would claim to be at someone’s estate, but he was never there. It is so odd, don’t you think?”

It certainly sounded as if there was another woman, Amelia thought grimly. But why should she be surprised? Hadn’t he treated her with utter disrespect?

“But perhaps it was all for the best, since he frightened her so with his dark moods and strange ramblings,” Mrs. Murdock said flatly. “We have wondered if he is a bit mad.”

Amelia stood, angered now. But she spoke with calm. “Grenville isn’t a madman. In fact, I do not think it helpful for you to even suggest such a thing!”

“Oh, I did not mean to make you angry. But I am worried about being alone in this house with him!”

“Then you must rein in your thoughts,” Amelia said, quietly furious. “Grenville will hardly murder you in your sleep. I imagine he will be in to see his child within moments.” She tried to soften. “Mrs. Murdock, the man I saw in that chapel was grieving. He was distraught. Perhaps he loved Lady Grenville, in his own way, and you simply misconstrued the nature of their relationship. After all, he would be very preoccupied with his affairs of state. Perhaps, now that she is deceased, you should give his lordship the benefit of the doubt.” Amelia firmly believed that this was all a huge misunderstanding. How could Grenville have not loved his wife?

“He walks in his sleep,” Mrs. Murdock said defensively. “Lady Grenville hated it.”

Amelia stared, speechlessly.

“She decided to move the entire household to Cornwall—when she had never once set foot in this house. How odd is that? Do you think she wanted to escape him, by coming here? That is what we all think!”

“I truly doubt she was fleeing her own husband,” Amelia said grimly. The gossip was too unsettling!

“Why else would she come to Cornwall in her condition—in the winter?” Mrs. Murdock nodded. “It was a very troubled marriage, Miss Greystone.”

Amelia looked down at the sleeping newborn. She didn’t know what to think. “I don’t think you should raise your concerns with anyone else, Mrs. Murdock. Especially not now, with the household in mourning. Such suspicions and doubts no longer matter.”

“You are right,” Mrs. Murdock said. “I wonder what he will do now? His sons—his daughter—need their father. I imagine he will take us with him, wherever he goes.” She seemed unhappy.

“You should hope that is the case, as it would be best for the children.” Amelia was firm. But she returned to the crib and stared down at the sleeping baby. He hadn’t looked at his beautiful daughter, not even once. She had a distinct feeling of dread. Something was certainly wrong. Maybe Mrs. Murdock hadn’t been exaggerating, as she hoped.

“Thank you so much for being so kind,” Mrs. Murdock cried. “Could you possibly call on us?”

Amelia slowly faced her. The nurse was in a state. Tears filled her eyes. She missed her mistress, Amelia thought, and she was afraid of Grenville. And how would Grenville manage? Even if his marriage had been strained, surely he was grieving now. She had seen the anguish in his eyes. “I am at Greystone Manor, a half hour’s ride away if astride. If I can be of further help, send a groom with a message.”

Mrs. Murdock thanked her profusely.