Chapter Twenty
VW
“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 tightened 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.
“Harry is a gentleman of the world, and though he can be quite absurd and jovial at times, he is realistic. He knows that, for all intents and purposes, he is considered ineligible.”
Eligibility. It was one of the requirements on Athena’s list; the list she had first concocted and shared with Harry. Would he have seen that as proof that his suit would not be welcomed?
“Looking back over the brief visit you made to Falstone Castle last Christmas and the time we all spent together last spring before the opening of the Season, I can see that Harry had grown very fond of you . . . perhaps more than fond. For Adam to ask Harry to help you find a husband when he himself would have liked to try for the position must have been torturous for Harry. I believe he did the best he could.”
Athena wanted to believe it, but the arguments were too strong. “If he truly loved me, why did he not say so? Why did he not at least try?”
“He is practically penniless, Athena. A basic requirement for any suit to be considered acceptable is a gentleman’s ability to support a wife.”
“But I have a dowry,” Athena said. “We would not be destitute.”
“Men have pride, dear. Living off one’s wife’s wealth would sting tremendously.”
“Is pride more important than love?” Athena asked, her hopefulness of a moment earlier dimmed by a feeling of sadness and frustration. Had Harry refused to court her because of pride?
Persephone sighed and gave Athena another squeeze. “You shall simply have to wait and see.”