Chapter Twenty-Four
Sometime between Adam blatantly refusing to return her obviously unwelcome kiss and their remarkably unusual discussion the night before about laying siege to Adcock Manor, Persephone had realized something she’d only vaguely acknowledged before: she was trying to make her marriage fit the dreams she’d always harbored about her future.
She’d spent countless hours, as all girls must, imagining a dashing young gentleman riding into the neighborhood, falling desperately and wonderfully in love with her.
He would offer his heart, his home, his devotion.
There would be love and tenderness. They would be the best of friends.
They would raise a family and chickens—she wasn’t sure why the chickens, but they’d always been clucking merrily around the yard whenever she’d pictured her future home.
They would be surrounded by friends and family.
In the nearly two months she’d been at Falstone, none of that had appeared.
Waiting for it, continuing to dream of it, was making her miserable.
She could not make Adam fall in love with her.
She could not transform him into the man she’d dreamed of—the man whom, admittedly, she had seen glimpses of in him.
She could not force Falstone Castle to be warm and inviting.
There would be no visitors. The chickens were clear on the other side of the inner wall.
And, as far as she could tell, they would never have children.
She had been purchased, just as Mrs. Adcock had insinuated. For what purpose, Persephone could not say—other than to make Mr. Hewitt worry over the state of his inheritance. That was hardly a fulfilling role to play for the next few decades.
So Persephone had come to a monumental decision. The one aspect of her childhood dreams she could even remotely imagine herself still achieving was friendship. Last night had been a start.
He had come to her room looking for her. After the initial mortification of being found out at sneaking into his room every night had subsided a little, she’d realized that his presence there was a step in the right direction.
She remembered with a stab of hurt, he had as much as admitted that he regretted marrying her, that he no longer viewed marriage as a good idea, something he’d apparently felt before meeting his bride.
But he’d laughed. He’d laughed with her over something absurd and lighthearted—something that could now be a joke between just the two of them. That sort of connection built friendships.
It wasn’t what she wanted, Persephone realized despite her very sound reasoning. She still longed for a loving husband, a growing family, a true home. She wanted love. Other than her family, who were several counties away and feeling more distant all the time, she did not seem likely to have it.
So friendship, she firmly told herself, would simply have to be enough.
“His leg’s still not up for riding, Yur Grace,” one of the grooms said, snapping Persephone from her thoughts.
“Poor Atlas,” Persephone replied. The groom nodded what seemed to be approval but kept his head lowered. Persephone didn’t know this particular groom well. The few times she’d encountered him, he’d been quiet and shy. “Is he better at least?”
The groom nodded again. “Yes, Yur Grace.”
“Well, then, I hope he—”
Thundering hooves pulled her attention to the front gate of Falstone. Adam and Harry had just ridden through and were reining in their mounts. Harry looked better than he had since his return.
Persephone smiled at the two gentlemen as they approached. Harry returned the gesture. Adam unbent enough to acknowledge her with a slight dip of his head.
Friends greet each other, she reminded herself when the urge to simply leave grew stronger.
“Welcome back,” she said as they approached. Adam hadn’t walked away, something she chose to view as encouraging.
“A good morning to you, Persephone,” Harry offered with an informal bow.
“Good morning, Adam.” Persephone watched him closely. Would today be a friendly-Adam day or a grumpy-Adam day? It was almost impossible to predict.
“Good morning.” Adam was pointedly not looking at her. Why did he do that? Did he realize how frustrating that was? “How does Atlas fare this morning?”
She held back a sigh. “I’m afraid he’s not yet up for a ride.” Persephone glanced toward the groom to whom she’d spoken, but he had gone off, no doubt having plenty of work to occupy him. “I suppose we shall be forced to postpone our siege.”
Adam’s lips twitched. Had Persephone not been watching him closely, she would have missed it. She had expected him to not acknowledge their conversation in any way other than that, and yet she was grateful for even the small reaction.
Harry’s eyes darted between the two of them, his look one of intrigued confusion. “You two are planning a siege?”
Persephone let her eyes dart to Adam. He didn’t look at either of them.
In fact, Adam seemed remarkably interested in watching John Handly lead Buttercup through her paces.
He would have to give her more than that.
Persephone’s dreams had been whittled down to mere friendship—she had to have more than silence between them.
Then Adam’s eyes shifted toward her, for the briefest of moments.
And his lips turned up in the slightest, most fleeting smile.
Almost before Persephone had registered what she’d seen, Adam turned back again to watch the filly bounding around the paddock.
But it had been enough to make Persephone smile in return.
“Why do I get the feeling my presence is not particularly appreciated just now?” Harry spoke with a touch of amusement.
“I would think, Harry, that you must feel that way often,” Adam replied dryly. He turned from the paddock, walking away. “But if you go now, you’ll have plenty of time to pack.”
“Ah, but you’d miss me.” Harry laughed, following Adam.
“I never miss anyone.” Adam did not pause nor look back nor seem to care if Harry followed.
He certainly wasn’t missing her, Persephone thought as she watched the distance between them grow. George Sanford, one of her two best friends all the years she was growing up, had always remembered to offer his arm. He’d never once left Persephone behind to walk alone.
Persephone let out a whoosh of air. It condensed in front of her face. She rubbed at her cold, probably pink nose and turned back toward the paddock. Buttercup continued acting up. John Handly seemed rather content to let the troublesome horse get out her frustration.
Lucky filly. She, at least, could snort and pound her hooves in frustration. Persephone could do little more than stand out in the cold and wonder if she’d given up everything the day she’d accepted Adam’s suit.
“An unhappy filly, wouldn’t you say?”
Persephone looked up to see a vaguely familiar face smiling a lopsided, gap-toothed smile as he watched Buttercup kicking and snorting.
“It would certainly seem so.” Why did the man, dressed as an undergardener, look so familiar to her? She watched Buttercup snap her vicious-looking teeth at John. “Perhaps her disposition is bad.”
The man turned down his heavily lined mouth and shook his white-haired head. “Came here a few months back. Badly treated, she was. She don’t trust people. Figures they was bad to her once, they’ll be bad to her again.”
“But John would never hurt her.” Persephone watched Buttercup continue to storm about.
“Don’t matter.” The old man sucked a breath through his sparse teeth. “She won’t give him a chance to. She’ll fight him ’til holy perdition.”
Persephone colored a little at the unaccustomed sound of such a coarse phrase. “It seems a lost cause. Why does John keep at it, I wonder?” Buttercup attempted to kick John, who managed to skirt the flailing hooves.
“There ain’t no lost causes, Yer Grace,” the man said, looking at her full on. His face was lined, but his eyes were bright. “Every creature has someone who could save ’em if only they would try.”
Why did Persephone get the feeling she was missing something vital in this extremely odd conversation? “So is Buttercup more afraid or more angry?”
“Afeared.” The man nodded with emphasis. “Been afeared fer years.”
“I thought you said she’d only been here a few months.”
“Used to be different.” The man turned to face the paddock once more. “Didn’t go after every person that came near. Friendly like.”
“What happened?” How did he know so much about Buttercup? Had he accompanied the horse from her previous owners’?
“Got torn apart. Left behind.” The man leaned against the fence and watched the ongoing power struggle out in the paddock. “Decided to bite before anyone bit first.”
“That is tragic.”
John stood closer to the troubled creature than he had a few minutes before, approaching slowly and cautiously the way he had for weeks.
“Aye.”
The conversation ended there. The two of them stood silently beside each other, both watching John and Buttercup size each other up. An odd pair, to be sure. Both the two in the paddock and the two watching.
Every creature has someone who could save ’em if only they would try. Persephone glanced back at her companion. It seemed an absurdly philosophical observation for a man who, at first glance, gave the impression of poverty and the ignorance that, sadly, inevitably accompanied it.
“John is doing well with Buttercup.”
Persephone spun around so quickly at the sound of Adam’s voice that she felt herself topple. He reached out and righted her.
“The snow makes the ground slick,” Adam said quietly, uncomfortably. His hands lingered the slightest moment on her waist.
Persephone could only nod. He wore a look she knew well but had never seen on him.
She remembered it haunting her in the mirror the morning after her mother died.
The midwife had handed her the baby, Artemis, and she knew in that moment that she had lost something profound.
More than just a mother, she had lost her childhood.
She had pulled up her hair that day, something most girls wouldn’t have done for several more years. As she had stared at her reflection, Persephone remembered being startled by the starkness in her expression, the hurt, the fear, the uncertainty.
“Are you well?” Adam whispered to her, obviously entirely confused.
Persephone could only stare back at him. She knew that look in his eyes. Had it always been there? How could she have missed something so familiar?
What happened to you? she silently asked.
“Perhaps the cold’s too much for ’er,” the man Persephone had all but forgotten suggested. “’Tis bitter out today.”
“You may be right, Jeb.” Adam nodded. He seemed to smile a little, almost encouragingly, at her. “I had come back with the intention of walking Her Grace to the castle.”
“Did you really?” Persephone asked quietly, still studying those eyes she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly looked into before.
“My mother taught me a few manners before she disappeared.” Adam shrugged, holding out his arm to her.
A momentary intensity in his eyes spoke volumes. Persephone slipped her arm through his, her thoughts spinning dizzyingly. Disappeared? Persephone had seen Adam’s mother at the wedding. She certainly hadn’t disappeared. What had he meant by that?
“A nice hot cuppa tea’ll warm ’er up,” Jeb said.
Adam nodded to him.
“Good day to ye, Falstone,” Jeb gave as a parting and turned back to watch John and Buttercup.
Adam led Persephone away from the paddock, toward the inner wall and the path that led back to the castle.
“Falstone?” Persephone asked, confused.
“Before my father died, I was Lord Falstone.” The unease in his voice increased. “A courtesy title.”
“Jeb knew you then?”
Adam answered with an infinitesimal nod. “He has been at Falstone nearly all his life. He was head gardener for many years.”
“And now?”
“Rheumatism,” Adam answered. “He still oversees the hedge garden. And helps his son in the stables now and then.”
“John,” Persephone said, understanding suddenly dawning: the familiarity of his face, his knowledge of John and the horses. Jeb was John’s father.
“Have any of the other servants been at Falstone as long?” Her mind remained on Adam even as she spoke. What had happened with his mother? What was it that caused the bleakness in his eyes? It was still there, hidden behind the look of indifference she was only just beginning to see past.
“Mrs. Smithson began as a chambermaid.” Adam walked stiffly, speaking in a tone of disinterest that the ton would have applauded. “That would have been some time ago. Barton has been here at least as long as I have.”
Adam may have been disinterested—Persephone no longer trusted herself to interpret his demeanor or tone—but she certainly was not. Barton, the butler, had known Adam all his life. So had Jeb. And probably Mrs. Smithson.
If anyone understood this enigma she had married, they might. But how did someone approach her own staff with such a question?
“Pardon me, but could you please explain my husband to me?” That would never do.
Persephone looked up at Adam. His eyes were focused ahead. She walked on his left side, something she suspected he planned. She was always on his left side. His scars, she felt certain, were clues to his character, as was that inexplicable comment about his mother.
What she needed was someone who could help her interpret those clues. She would decipher them, she knew that much. In her heart of hearts she knew that doing so was essential.