Chapter Two
Shropshire, England
“What has happened, Papa?” Persephone Lancaster asked upon seeing the worried look on her father’s face. “Evander? Or Linus?”
“No, no.” Papa shook his head. “The boys are fine.”
Persephone breathed an audible sigh of relief.
Both boys, though only thirteen and fourteen, were midshipmen in the Royal Navy—that being one of the few options available to the sons of the youngest son of the youngest son of a minor baron.
That same minor baron’s grandson’s daughters had no such avenues by which to make their fortunes.
Persephone, being the eldest, and her three sisters were destined to be penniless spinsters subsisting on the charity of their neighbors, which charity could be questionable at times.
“I have just received the most befuddling letter.” Papa offered no further explanation.
Persephone waited. Father was prone to wandering, mentally and physically, and she had learned over the years to allow him time, room, and silence in which to recover himself.
He continued pacing, circling the sitting room several times, which, considering the small confines of their one and only communal space, was accomplished quickly.
After glancing a few dozen more times at the missive in his hands, Papa looked up at his eldest daughter, still appearing entirely baffled. “You, my dear, have received an offer of marriage.”
“A what?”
“An offer.” Papa’s shock matched hers.
“Good heavens!”
“He is incredibly wealthy and possesses an old and prestigious title.”
“Good heavens!” Persephone dropped into the nearest chair.
“Yes, you’ve said that before,” Papa said, his eyes vague in the manner they often were when his thoughts had suddenly detoured. “Certainly you can think of another reply.”
“Not at the moment,” Persephone muttered.
Something sparked in the back of Papa’s gaze, and he became attentive once more. “What I cannot fathom is why the duke has settled on you. He cannot be even remotely acquainted with our family.”
“The duke?” The situation grew stranger with each revelation.
“Of course, dear,” Papa answered, obviously unaware he hadn’t told her that bit of information. “The Duke of Kielder.”
“The Duke of Kielder has asked for my hand in marriage?” She didn’t believe a word of it. After all, she did not know His Grace, or any Grace, for that matter.
“Quite specifically.” Papa began reading aloud the letter in his hands.
“‘Mr. Lancaster. I wish to request the hand of your eldest daughter in marriage. I am prepared to settle upon your three remaining daughters ￡20,000 each for their dowries and ￡50,000 upon yourself for the sake of yourself and your sons. The ceremony will take place October the first in the Falstone chapel. Please reply as to your intentions. Yours, etc. Kielder.’”
It was not the most romantic nor flattering of proposals, to be sure. It was remarkably presumptuous and arrogant. The ceremony will take place . . . There was not the slightest acknowledgment that the unforeseen offer might be declined.
All thoughts of the duke’s writing style flew from Persephone’s thoughts when the staggering sum of his offer struck home. “That is more than ￡100,000.”
Papa only nodded.
“What are we to do?” Persephone’s head spun at the shock of it all.
“Let us look at the question logically,” Papa replied precisely as Persephone would have expected him to in former days, when “logical” was a more frequent and apt description of him.
“Kielder offers a fortune beyond anything we could ever expect to come into and would place your sisters in a position to marry—something we had little hope of before now.”
“That is true,” Persephone admitted. “But I rather dislike the idea of being sold.”
“And I despise the idea of selling you,” Papa replied. “I would not view this in that way at all, though I admit it rather feels a touch like a negotiation at market, does it not?”
Persephone nodded wearily.
Papa was wandering again, so Persephone allowed her own thoughts to churn. ￡100,000! It was a breathtaking sum, especially when offered as the marriage settlement between two perfect strangers.
She had long ago decided on the type of gentleman she wished to marry, should she be fortunate enough to be wed.
Papa was a scholar, to be sure, or had been at one time—witness the names of his children: Persephone, Athena, Evander, Linus, Daphne, and Artemis.
Papa had a particular penchant for Greek mythology.
While Persephone admired her father’s intellect, and certainly required a husband with more than cotton between his ears, she found his frequent mental distance tiring.
Papa could spend hours, days sometimes, engrossed in his studies, oblivious to his surroundings and the daughter who was standing in as mother for his other five children, Mrs. Lancaster having not survived the birth of her youngest child, now eight years old.
No, Persephone desired a husband who was attentive and companionable. Someone with whom she could talk without fighting for precedence with myths and philosophy and the haunting ghosts of the past.
After eight years of making all major decisions entirely on her own, Persephone wished for a husband who was strong and firm enough to see to his own affairs, to order his life and his home without placing the burden entirely on her shoulders.
“What is the Duke of Kielder like?” Persephone asked as her papa paced.
“Like?” Papa repeated. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never met the boy.”
“Boy?” Somehow Persephone doubted that was an accurate description.
Papa likely remembered the duke from years earlier, and, at least in the moment, his mind hadn’t acknowledged the passing of time.
At least she could be assured that His Grace was younger than her own father.
“What was his father like?” Persephone knew for a fact that a child could be remarkably different from his or her parent, but she could see no other means of learning about her would-be fiancé.
“Dull as dishwater,” Papa answered. “But his mother is an active sort.”
She would have asked more questions, but Papa’s eyes grew distant, and she knew he’d be lost again in his own world for hours, if not days.
Persephone spent the remainder of the day pondering the strange turn of events.
Her opinion shifted repeatedly. One moment, she couldn’t help but be persuaded by the obvious benefit such an alliance would bring her family.
They would have the funds to live comfortably, something she’d had to strive personally to achieve the past eight years and, at times, hadn’t managed to succeed in.
Her sisters could have a Season in Town.
They would have entry into the highest circles—would have the opportunity to choose their life’s partner.
And that recollection would inevitably remind her that she had experienced no such luxury.
In fact, were she to accept the Duke of Kielder’s offer, she would be selecting her husband without knowing a thing about him beyond the basics of his financial situation and his name.
Suppose he were a dolt or, worse yet, a madman.
The nature of his proposal made the last possibility all the more conceivable.
He might prove to be every bit as inattentive as her papa could be at times.
But Papa was a kind man, Persephone would then remind herself. She could do far worse.
Then she’d wonder if the Duke of Kielder was, in fact, a kind man. He might be prone to violence or fits of temper. A married woman was completely at the mercy of her husband. Suppose the Duke of Kielder was one to wield that power? He could, and most likely would, make her miserable.
Absolutely no hope existed of receiving any other offer—Persephone knew that much. Without the ￡100,000 the Duke of Kielder offered, her sisters had no hope of marrying, either. Nor would her brothers be likely to find a future outside the difficult and often perilous life of a seaman.
By dawn the morning after she’d been informed of the strange proposal, Persephone was still debating with herself.
If this proposed wedding were to take place the first of October, the banns would need to be posted soon.
Persephone had an enormous decision to make and not a lot of time in which to decide. And she had no idea which path to take.