Persuasion. Brenda Joyce

hard to be stoic. Both children were clearly grief-stricken.

      Amelia’s heart broke. “Take Momma inside. I will be right back,” she said, and not waiting for Lucas to answer, she started determinedly toward them.

      She hurried toward the two adults and the children, giving the gentleman a firm smile. “I am Miss Amelia Greystone, Lady Grenville’s neighbor. What a tragic day.”

      The gentleman had tears in his eyes. Although well dressed, it was obvious he was a servant of some sort and a foreigner. “I am Signor Antonio Barelli, Miss Greystone, the boys’ tutor. And this is Mrs. Murdock, the governess. This is Lord William and Master John.”

      Amelia quickly shook hands with the tutor and Mrs. Murdock, who was also near tears. But she did not blame them; she imagined that Lady Grenville had been well loved. And then she smiled at William, the older boy, realizing that Grenville had named his heir after his deceased older brother. “I am very sorry for your loss, William. I met your mother recently and I liked her very much. She was a great lady.”

      William nodded solemnly, his mouth downturned. “We saw you when you called, Miss Greystone. Sometimes we watch callers arrive from an upstairs window.”

      “That must be amusing,” Amelia said, smiling.

      “Yes, it can be. This is my little brother, John.” But William did not smile in return.

      She smiled at John and squatted. “And how old are you, John?”

      John looked at her, his face wet with tears, but his eyes were wide with curiosity. “Four,” he finally said.

      “Four!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were eight, at least!”

      “I am eight,” William said seriously. Then his gaze narrowed skeptically. “How old did you think I was?”

      “Ten or eleven.” Amelia smiled. “I see you are taking good care of your brother, as you should do. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

      He nodded solemnly, and glanced at Mrs. Murdock. “We have a sister now. She doesn’t have a name yet.”

      Amelia smiled at him. “That is not unusual.” She laid her hand on his head; his hair was silky soft, like his father’s. She started, removing her hand. “I am here to help, in any way that I can. I am less than an hour away by coach.”

      “That is kind of you,” William said, sounding very much like a grown-up.

      Amelia smiled at him again, patted John on the shoulder and turned to the governess. The older woman, who was heavyset and gray-haired, was beginning to cry, tears slipping down her ruddy cheeks. Amelia dearly hoped she would discipline herself—the children needed her now. “And how is the baby faring?”

      Mrs. Murdock inhaled. “She has been fussing ever since...ever since... I cannot get her to nurse properly, Miss Greystone. I am at a loss!” she cried, clearly panicked.

      Amelia stepped closer to look at the sleeping infant. Mrs. Murdock moved an edge of the blanket away, and Amelia saw a fair-haired child, who was clearly the image of her blonde mother. “She is beautiful.”

      “Isn’t she the exact image of Lady Grenville? God rest her soul. Oh, dear! I was only recently employed, Miss Greystone. I am entirely new here! We are all at a loss—and we have no housekeeper.”

      Amelia started. “What?”

      “Mrs. Delaney was with Lady Grenville for many years, but she fell ill and died just after I was hired around Christmastime. Lady Grenville has been managing this household ever since, Miss Greystone. She meant to hire a new housekeeper, but no one met with her approval. Now no one is running this home!”

      Amelia realized that the house must be in chaos, indeed. “I am sure his lordship will hire a new housekeeper immediately,” she said.

      “But he isn’t even here!” Mrs. Murdock cried, and more tears fell.

      “He is never in residence,” Signor Barelli said with some disapproval, a tremor in his tone. “We last saw him in November—briefly. Is he going to come? Why isn’t he here now? Where could he possibly be?”

      Amelia was dismayed. She repeated what Lucas had said earlier. “He will be here at any moment. The roads are terrible at this time of year. Is he coming from London?”

      “We don’t know where he is. He usually claims he is in the north, at one of his great estates there.”

      Amelia wondered at the use of the word claim. What did the tutor mean?

      “Father came home for my birthday,” William said gravely, but with some pride. “Even though he is preoccupied with the estate.”

      Amelia was certain the boy was parroting his father. She could not absorb such a surprising state of affairs. There was no housekeeper; St. Just was never in residence; no one knew, precisely, where he was now. What did this mean?

      John began to cry again. William took his hand. “He is coming home,” William said fiercely and insistently. But he batted back tears with his lashes furiously.

      Amelia looked at him and realized he would be exactly like his father—he certainly was in charge now. Before she could reassure him and tell him that St. Just would arrive at any moment and repair the household immediately, she heard the sound of an approaching carriage.

      And she had not a doubt as to who it was before William even cried out. Slowly, she turned.

      The huge black coach was thundering up the drive. Six magnificent black carriage horses were in the traces. The driver was in St. Just’s royal-blue-and-gold livery, as were the two footmen standing on the rear fender. She realized she was holding her breath. St. Just had returned, after all.

      The six-in-hand came around the circular drive at a near gallop. Passing the chapel, the coachman braked, shouting, “Whoa!” As the team came to a halt, not far from where they stood, gravel sprayed.

      Amelia’s heart was thundering. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Simon Grenville was home.

      Both footmen leaped to the ground and rushed to open Grenville’s door for him. The Earl of St. Just stepped out.

      Her mind went blank.

      Clad impeccably in a dark brown velvet jacket with some embroidery, black breeches, white stockings and black shoes, he started toward their group. He was tall—perhaps an inch or two over six feet—and broad-shouldered, and he remained small of hip. Amelia glimpsed his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and that chiseled mouth. Her heart slammed.

      He hadn’t changed at all.

      He was as handsome as she remembered. If he was gray, she wouldn’t 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