Chapter 9 #2
Persephone felt his disappointment acutely. “Come along, then.” The cemetery was to the east.
“Persephone?” The voice came to her on kitten feet, hesitant and familiar.
She looked up. “Mother?” The woman’s familiar face was pale, and a hand encased in lace gloves partially hid her mouth.
She looked almost exactly as she’d appeared years ago, the evening Persephone had left Manchester—beautiful and blond and lovely.
She’d aged not a bit while Persephone… she felt as if she’d aged a hundred years.
“What are you doing here?” The deeper voice came from the man standing beside her mother.
“Father,” Persephone said, “I… I… I’m—”
“She’s here with me, as my sister’s traveling companion.
” Victor stepped closer to her. He wore his own face, and a haughtier face she’d never seen before.
He looked down his nose and may have glamoured himself a few inches taller and broader.
He cast a shadow on her parents, who looked up, up, frozen but for their craning necks and bulging eyes.
“And, ah, who are you?” her father asked.
“The Duke of Morington.”
Her parents dropped into positions of obeisance: a low bow, a knee-creaking curtsy.
Persephone rolled her eyes. She should have considered they might run into her parents. That was the sort of luck she had. “These are my parents, your grace, as you’ve already surmised, I’m sure. Mr. Herodotus Smith and Mrs. Mary Smith.”
“You were a Miss Smith?” he said, humor lacing his voice.
“Unfortunately I was.”
Her parents rose to their usual heights with greedy eyes.
“How did you come to know such an illustrious personage, Persephone?” her mother asked.
“I was digging.”
Victor laughed. “Your daughter has quite the sense of humor. She was digging through some wares in a shop on Bond Street, as was my sister. They have been close friends ever since.”
Her father’s head bobbed, and his hat fell, revealing his receding, dark hair. He caught the hat and chuckled. “And what brings you to Manchester, your grace?”
“Your daughter.” He grinned at her like she was a priceless jewel he was about to steal.
“What he means,” Persephone said, somehow managing not to roll her eyes, “is that I spoke so well of Manchester to…” Janet? Jessica? “Jane! I spoke so well of Manchester to Jane, his sister, that she determined to visit, with me to show her around.”
Her parents looked left then right then craned their necks to peer behind Persephone and Victor. They shared a look.
“I should like to meet her,” Persephone’s mother said.
“She’s resting at the hotel.” Victor’s tone someone conveyed much more than that lie. It also said: I wouldn’t bother to interrupt her rest for lowly bugs like you.
Persephone shouldn’t enjoy that quite as much as she did.
She took a step backward. “We’ve someplace we must be.”
“Oh no!” Her mother reached out, bejeweled bracelets dangling from her wrist. The gold and rubies hanging there would have dragged a weaker woman down, but her mother was long used to the weight of precious metals.
The rest of her matched the rubies. She wore a red velvet gown threaded with gold, and her bonnet sported gold feathers.
They caught in the late afternoon light and sparkled, almost like a glamour, but very real indeed.
And very costly. “You must come home with us.” She reached her other hand toward Victor. “The both of you. And have dinner.”
“No.” Victor sneered the word, and he stepped back to stand by Persephone’s side. “We must meet my sister at the hotel.”
Her father laughed. “She can come too, of course. We won’t take no for answer, your grace.” His voice boomed down the street in both directions.
Victor raised a brow oh-so slowly. “No.” He slipped his arm through Persephone’s and pulled her down the street. When they were far enough away from her parents, he said, “They’re lovely.”
“You were rude.”
“And I’d be rude again.”
“They’ve done nothing to you.”
They turned a corner, and Victor swung on her, grasping her upper arms and pressing her against a brick wall of the nearest building.
“I don’t fucking care what they do to me.
” His hands were strong but gentle, and his eyes were full of fire.
“You’ve been living in a death trap for years and look at them!
They have more money than I’d know what to do with. They abandoned you.”
She looked away from him, down the street. “They told me not to marry him, told me what would happen if I did.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do they know he has died?”
She nodded. “I sent a letter.”
“And?” His fingertips dug into her flesh for half a breath before he loosened them.
“And they sent a few sentences back. Nothing much. Five or so sentences to say what four words could have. We told you this would happen.”
“They sent no money?”
She didn’t answer. Her throat was closing up.
“They did not come to claim you, bring you back home?”
She closed her eyes to stop the tears.
“They did nothing.”
“They warned me.”
His fingertips tightened again, and then he released her.
And caged her. His forearms fell to the wall on either side of her head, and he bent his neck, curving over her.
She listened to him breathe—purposeful inhalations, steady exhalations.
When he spoke, his voice was strained, as if the breathing had not helped.
“My father had a daughter out of wedlock. You know that. He didn’t know about Jane until she was a young child.
He found out about her existence at the same time…
my mother did. He kept Jane not just because she had nowhere else to go but because she was his daughter.
And he didn’t just keep her, he loved her. ”
“Your mother—”
“Loved Jane too, as I’ve said. Jane was not her daughter, but she treated her like one, taught her how to survive a world that would judge and reject her. My parents did better by her than I ever did.”
“Victor—”
“Shh.” He kissed her, a quick soft thing.
“If my mother can accept a bastard into her home and into her heart, your parents could have accepted their own daughter’s husband.
Whether they liked him or not. And God, I feel like a hypocrite with that speech.
” He huffed a laughed and rolled to rest his back against the wall beside her.
“I was not particularly welcoming of my brother-in-law. I tried to ensure my sister did not marry him. With force. Didn’t work. ”
“You’re friends with him now, though.”
“Friends? Bloody hell, don’t say that. Not a bit friendly with each other.”
“I don’t believe it. I can tell you like him.”
“He’s good to my sister,” he grumbled. “Better than I ever was.” He nudged her arm with his elbow. “Come on now, Sephy. Join me in disliking your parents mightily.”
She shrugged off the wall. “I suppose I’ll try.” She’d not let a single tear drop. His speech had stopped them. But she pressed the heel of her hand against her lower lid.
The sky’s blue was rushing toward darkness, and the autumn chill had ravished her meager coat. She wrapped her arms around her.
Victor unwrapped them then shrugged out of his greatcoat and snapped it into the air, settled it around her shoulders. “Put it on,” he grumbled.
She stuffed her arms in as a breeze barreled through the alley, and he fastened it all the way up to her chin. It swamped her. She held it close, gathering its warmth as he pulled a yellow leaf from her hair and dropped it to the street.
He linked their arms. “To the cemetery?”
She studied his hard and handsome face. He was still determined on this path.
She’d entered Manchester with such hope of doing some good, helping Victor find a purpose, ending his horrid scheme.
He was a good man in his own way. And she’d failed to convince him to see it.
She’d failed a living man. She couldn’t fail the dead. “To the cemetery.”