Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Adam shook off the memory only to realize Persephone was staring at the portrait above the mantel. He felt uneasy, nervous. Perhaps the artist should have painted over the scars. Persephone’s childhood portraits were probably the rosy-cheeked cherubic paintings most children inspired.
“Who is this you are standing beside, Adam?” Persephone asked, tilting her head to one side as if studying the painting more closely.
“My father.” He resisted the urge to move to her side.
“I thought he must be. You look very much like him.”
“Do I?” No one had ever told him that before.
“Very much,” she confirmed. “You have the same eyes. And there is something very similar about your mouth and the shape of your face. And, of course, you both have black hair.”
“I suppose there is a resemblance.” Adam moved closer, looking for the likeness.
“Your nose is your mother’s.” Persephone shifted her gaze from the portrait to Adam himself. “I noticed that when I first saw the two of you together.”
No one had ever mentioned that resemblance, either. But then he and Mother were rarely seen together. He doubted many people even noticed his nose when presented with the rest of him.
“Are you like him in other ways?” Persephone looked once more at the painting.
“Like my father?”
She nodded.
“I hope so,” Adam answered more quietly than he’d intended. When Persephone took that response as her cue to turn those scrutinizing brown eyes—why hadn’t he noticed before that they were brown?—on him, Adam shifted topics. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”
He walked abruptly away. The distance, he found, didn’t help. He was every bit as aware of her presence as he’d been standing next to her.
“Yes.” Enthusiasm colored her voice again. “I have a letter from Athena.”
Athena. She was the oldest of Persephone’s sisters. Seventeen or eighteen, if Adam remembered correctly.
“They have received word that the Triumphant will make port the last week of November and that Linus will be granted three weeks’ shore leave.
Isn’t that wonderful?” She smiled broadly, her eyes sparkling in a way they hadn’t since she’d married him.
Her face lit up when she spoke of her family.
He began to truly wonder if she was at all happy at Falstone.
“The Triumphant is docking at Newcastle. If Linus sends word when they arrive, I could be there to see him before he has to go to Shropshire.”
“Be there? In Newcastle?” Adam tensed.
“It isn’t so very far.”
Newcastle is not far, my poor boy.
“I wouldn’t be gone more than a day or two.”
I will be back before you even have time to miss me.
“Of course, I would want to see him off as well, which would mean going back when the Triumphant set out again.”
I know I was just there, but Mother has so many things to do when she is away.
“You can’t go.” Even as he spoke, Adam could hear his own childhood voice echoing the same words in his memory.
Then he saw Persephone pale, her smile disappearing in an instant. There was no disbelief, no shock, only disappointment. “Please, Adam,” she pleaded with him. “It would only be a few days.”
He felt like an ogre. He knew how devastating the past few weeks had been for Persephone, how she’d grieved the loss of one brother and feared for the loss of the other. How could he deny her the opportunity to see for herself that the lad was well?
But what if she left and never came back? Mother had found hundreds of reasons to prolong her stays in Newcastle over the years. The same had been true of London. Eventually she simply hadn’t returned.
“It could be years before I see him again.” Persephone’s voice broke a little as she spoke.
“Bring him here,” Adam blurted.
“But you don’t allow visitors.”
Adam shrugged off her extremely logical argument. He didn’t allow visitors. So why had he just invited one? “It makes far more sense than your going to Newcastle. Linus can come here before going to see your family.”
“Do you mean it?” Persephone sounded entirely shocked.
She obviously had not expected a simple kindness from her husband. It was a wonder she hadn’t left him as society claimed.
“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”
“And it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition?”
“I’d rather like to meet the boy myself.”
“Really?” Persephone allowed the tiniest of smiles.
“Linus might make a good page.” Adam shrugged, surprising himself with his own attempt at humor. “Hewitt will probably faint dead away at the first battle cry. It would be wise to have a backup.”
Persephone’s smile grew. For just a moment she looked as though she would reach out to him.
The look passed quickly, however, as if she’d reminded herself not to.
Adam wondered why that was. Why, when she had kissed him only days before—twice in twenty-four hours—was she suddenly keeping a civil distance between them?
“Thank you, Adam,” she said, making her way to the book room door.
Adam waved off the gratitude. He hadn’t made the offer in order to be thanked. He’d done so for entirely selfish reasons—so she wouldn’t leave and so he wouldn’t have to miss her.
Trouble was, there would be other opportunities, other reasons for her to leave. He couldn’t prevent them all. He knew there wouldn’t always be an argument to keep her at Falstone, and he wasn’t about to become her prison keeper.
He needed to see to it that she wanted to stay. But how did he go about seeing that his wife was happily settled at home, was contented enough to not need to wander the country? Adam had no idea. Nothing about the home he’d grown up in had enticed his mother to remain.
“Persephone seemed in good spirits.”
He didn’t need to look over to see who had spoken. “Come in, Harry.”
If anyone knew about not leaving, Harry did. And Adam needed some expert advice.