Persuasion. Brenda JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
know—he wore a dark wig, in a somewhat redder shade than his natural hair, beneath a bicorne hat.
Amelia felt paralyzed. She stared, incapable of looking at anyone other than Grenville, who had eyes only for his sons.
In fact, it was as if he hadn’t seen her. But she had known he wouldn’t remember her. So she could look openly at him. He was even more devastatingly handsome now that he was thirty, she somehow thought, in despair. He was even more commanding in appearance.
And the memories begged to be let loose. She fought them.
Grenville’s strides were long and hard. His gaze unwavering, he reached the boys and pulled them both into his arms. John wept. William clung.
Amelia trembled, aware that she was an intruder. He hadn’t looked at her—acknowledged her—recognized her. She should be relieved—this was the scenario she had envisioned—but she felt dismayed.
Grenville did not move, not for a long moment, as he embraced both of his sons. He kept his head bowed over them so she could not see his face. She wanted to leave, because this was such an intense familial reunion, but she was afraid to attract his attention.
And she heard him inhale, raggedly. Grenville straightened and released the boys, taking both of their hands. She had the oddest sense that he was afraid to let them go.
Finally, the earl nodded at the nurse and tutor. Both murmured, “My lord,” their heads bowed.
Amelia wanted to disappear. He would glance at her at any moment—unless he meant to ignore her. Her heart kept thundering. She hoped he wouldn’t hear it. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice her, either.
But Grenville turned and looked directly at her.
She froze as their gazes met.
His dark gaze seemed to widen and then it locked with hers. Time seemed to stop. All noise seemed to vanish. There was only her deafening heartbeat, his surprise and the intense look they shared.
In that moment, Amelia realized that he had recognized her after all.
He didn’t speak. Yet he didn’t have to. Somehow, she felt the pain and anguish coursing through him. It was immense. In that moment, she knew he needed her as never before.
She lifted her hand toward him.
Grenville abruptly glanced at his sons. “It’s too cold to linger outside.” He put an arm around each boy and started forward. They entered the courtyard and vanished.
She inhaled, reeling.
He had recognized her.
And then she realized that he hadn’t looked at his infant daughter a single time.
CHAPTER TWO
SIMON STARED BLINDLY AHEAD. He was seated in the first row of the chapel with his sons, but he was in a state of disbelief. Was he really back in Cornwall? Was he actually attending his wife’s funeral?
Simon realized that his fists were clenched. He was staring at the reverend, who droned on and on about Elizabeth, but he hardly saw him and he did not hear him. Three days ago he had been in Paris, posing as Henri Jourdan, a Jacobin; three days ago he had been standing amongst the bloodthirsty crowd at La Place de la Révolution, witnessing dozens of executions. The very last one had been his friend, Danton, who had become a voice of moderation amongst the insane. Watching him lose his head had been a test of his loyalty. Lafleur had been with him. So he had applauded each beheading, and somehow, he hadn’t become physically sick.
He wasn’t in Paris now. He wasn’t in France. He was in Cornwall, a place he hadn’t meant to ever return to, and he felt dazed and disoriented. The last time he had been in Cornwall, his brother had died. The last time he had been in that chapel, he had been attending Will’s funeral!
And maybe that was a part of the reason why he felt so ill. Still, the stench of blood was everywhere, as if it had followed him from Paris. It was even inside the chapel. But he smelled blood everywhere, all of the time—in his rooms, on his clothes, on his servants—he smelled blood even when he slept.
But then, death was everywhere. After all, he was attending his wife’s funeral!
And he almost laughed, bitterly. Death had been following him for a very long time, so he should not be dazed, confused or surprised. His brother had died on these moors. Elizabeth had died in that house. He had spent the past year in Paris, where the Terror reigned. How ironic it all was. How fitting.
Simon turned and looked at the rapt crowd, who was devouring the reverend’s every word—as if Elizabeth’s death genuinely mattered, as if she were not one more innocent, lost amongst thousands. They were all strangers, he realized grimly, not friends and neighbors. He had nothing in common with any one of them, except for his nationality. He was an outsider now, the stranger in their midst....
He faced the pulpit again. He should try to listen, he should attempt to focus. Elizabeth was dead, and she had been his wife. The disbelief was almost stronger now. In his mind’s eye, he could see inside that coffin. But Elizabeth did not lie inside; his brother did.
His tension escalated. He had left the parish within days of Will’s tragic death. And if Elizabeth hadn’t died at St. Just Hall, he wouldn’t have returned.
God, he hated Cornwall!
Not for the first time, he wished that Will hadn’t died. But he no longer railed against fate. He knew better. He had learned firsthand that the good and the innocent were always the first to die, which was why fate had just claimed his wife.
He closed his eyes and gave up. His mind ran free. Tears briefly burned his closed lids.
Why hadn’t he been the one to die?
Will should have been the earl; Elizabeth should have been his wife!
Simon opened his eyes carefully, shaken by such thoughts. He did not know if he was still grieving for his older brother, who had died tragically in a riding accident so many years ago, or if he were grieving for those executed by the Terror, or even if he grieved for his wife, whom he hadn’t really known. But he knew he must control his mind. It was Elizabeth, his wife, who was in that coffin. It was Elizabeth who was being eulogized. It was Elizabeth he should be thinking of—for the sake of his sons—until he went back to London to begin the dirty work of playing war games.
But he just couldn’t do it. He could not concentrate on his dead wife. The ghosts that had been haunting him for weeks, months and years began to form before him, becoming the faces of his friends and neighbors in the crowd, and they were the faces of every man, woman and child he had seen in chains or guillotined. Those faces accused him of hypocrisy and cowardice, of ruthless self-survival, of his failure as a man, a husband, a brother.
He closed his eyes, as if that action might send those ghosts away, but it did not.
Simon wondered if he was finally losing his mind. He looked across the chapel and out the light stained-glass windows. The moors stretched endlessly away. No sight had ever been as ugly. He knew he must stop his thoughts. He had his sons to think of now, to care for.
And the minister was still speaking but Simon didn’t hear a word he was saying. The image slammed over him and he could not move. He had been with the two grooms when they had found his brother lying on the hard rocky ground. He had been on his back, faceup, eyes open, the moonlight spilling over his handsome features.
All he could see was his dead brother now.
It was as if he had just found Will on the moors; it was as if the past had become the present.
Simon realized a tear was sliding down his face. There was so much heartache, so much pain. Would he mourn his brother all over again? He hadn’t ever wanted to go back to the place in time!
Or was he finally mourning Elizabeth? Or even Danton? He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve for anyone, ever. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care, but