Persuasion. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ head, thinking how Lady Grenville had died, leaving behind an innocent newborn daughter and two small boys. “I can’t imagine what it would be like, to live without war.”

      “We are fortunate we do not live in France.” He wasn’t smiling now.

      “Please, I cannot listen to another horrible story. The rumors are bad enough.”

      “I was not going to burden you with one. You do not need to know the details of how the innocent in France suffer. If we are fortunate, our armies will defeat the French this spring. We are poised to invade Flanders, Amelia. We have strong positions from Ypres to the Meuse River, and I think Coburg, the Austrian, is a good general.” He was quiet for a moment. “If we win the war, the Republic will fall. And that will be liberation for us all.”

      “I am praying we will win,” she said, but she was still thinking about the Countess of St. Just and the children she had left behind.

      Lucas took her elbow. When he spoke, his tone was low, as if he did not want to be overheard, although there was no one except Garrett, the servant, to really overhear them. “I came home because I am worried. Did you hear what happened at Squire Penwaithe’s?”

      She met his gaze, tensing. “Of course I did. Everyone heard. Three French sailors—deserters—appeared at his front door, asking for food. The squire gave them a meal. Afterward, they held the family at gunpoint and looted the house.”

      “Fortunately they were apprehended the next day and no one was hurt.” Lucas was grim.

      Amelia was well aware of what he was thinking. She was living in such isolation with their mother and their one servant. Garrett happened to have been a sergeant in the British infantry, and was adept with weapons. Still, Greystone Manor was at one of the farthest southwestern points of Cornwall. Its isolation was one reason the parish had been such a haven for smugglers over the centuries. It was a very short run from Sennen Cove, which was just below the house, to Brest, in France.

      Those deserters could have shown up at her door, Amelia thought.

      A headache had begun. Suddenly tired of worrying, Amelia rubbed her temples. At least the gun closet was full—and being a Cornish woman, she knew very well how to load and fire a musket, a carbine and a pistol.

      “I think you and Momma should spend the spring in London,” Lucas said flatly. “There is plenty of room at Warlock’s Cavendish Square flat, and you will be able to visit with Julianne frequently.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

      She had just spent a month in London with her sister, after her niece’s birth. They were close, and it had been a wonderful, almost peaceful, interlude. Amelia began to consider leaving her home temporarily. Maybe Lucas was right. “It is not a bad idea, but what about the manor? Will we simply close it up? And what about Farmer Richards? You know he pays me the rents, now that you are always gone.”

      “I can make arrangements to have the rents collected. I feel I would be negligent in my familial duty, Amelia, if I did not remove you and Momma to safer ground.”

      He was right, Amelia realized. “It will take some time to make the proper arrangements,” she said.

      “Try to close up this house as swiftly as possible,” he returned. “I have to go back to London, and I will do so after the funeral. When you are ready to join me, I will either come for you myself, or send Jack or a driver.”

      Amelia nodded, but now, all she could think about was the impending funeral. “Lucas, do you know when they will hold the funeral?”

      “I heard that they will have a service at the St. Just chapel on Sunday, but she will be buried in the family mausoleum in London.”

      She tensed. It was already Friday! And there was Grenville, with his dark eyes and dark hair, assailing her in her mind’s eye another time. She wet her lips. “I have to attend. So do you.”

      “Yes. We can go together.”

      She looked at him, her heart lurching. She could not stop her thoughts. On Sunday she would see Simon for the first time in ten years.

      * * *

      AMELIA SAT WITH LUCAS and Momma in their carriage, clutching her gloved hands tightly together. She could not believe the amount of tension within her. She could barely breathe.

      It was noon on Sunday. In another half an hour, the service for Elizabeth Grenville would begin.

      St. Just Hall was in sight.

      It was a huge manor that was entirely out of place in Cornwall. Built of pale stone, the central part of the house was three stories high, with four huge alabaster columns gracing the entrance. A lower, two-story wing was on the landward side, with sloping slate roofs. At the farthest end was the chapel, replete with its own courtyard, columns gracing the facade and corner towers abutting the adjacent entry.

      Tall, black leafless trees surrounded the house. The grounds were equally barren from the long winter, but in May, the gardens would start to bloom. By the summer, the grounds would be a canvas of rioting color, the trees lush and green, the maze of hedges behind the house almost impossible to escape.

      Amelia knew all of that firsthand.

      She must not remember being lost in that maze now. She must not remember being breathless and giddy, and then Simon had turned the corner, sweeping her into his arms...

      She shut off her thoughts, shaken, as their carriage moved up the graveled drive, following two dozen other vehicles. The entire parish would turn out for Lady Grenville’s funeral. Farmers would stand side by side with squires.

      And in a few more minutes, she would see Grenville again.

      “Is it a ball?” Momma asked excitedly. “Oh, darling, are we going to a ball?”

      Lucas patted her hand. “Momma, it is I, Lucas, and, no, we are attending the funeral for Lady Grenville.”

      Momma was a tiny, gray-haired woman, even smaller than Amelia. She stared blankly at Lucas. Amelia was no longer saddened by her condition. She was so rarely coherent these days. As she often did, Momma thought herself a young debutante again, and that Lucas was either their father or one of her previous beaux.

      Amelia stared out of her carriage window as Momma sat between her and Lucas. She had done her best, these past two days, to focus on the tasks at hand. She had a huge list to get through if she were to close up the manor and remove herself and Momma to town. She had already written Julianne, apprising her of the current events. She had begun to pack up linens, store preserves and put away their winter clothing, and organize what they would need for a season in town. Keeping busy had been a relief. From time to time she had worried about Lady Grenville’s children, but she had managed not to think about St. Just, not even once—but his dark, handsome face continually lurked in the back of her mind.

      There was no denying her anxiety now. She was riddled with tension and she could barely breathe. Yet it was absurd. So what if they came face-to-face again after all these years? He was not going to recognize her, and if he did, he would not even recall their foolish flirtation—she was certain.

      But images from that long-ago affair kept trying to creep into her whirling thoughts as her carriage moved forward. The urge to indulge in those memories had begun the moment she had arisen at dawn.

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