Fiona did not press him.
She reminded herself that Percival was a distant memory, an aberration in her life. Yet even though five months had passed since Grandmother's death, even though more snow had fallen, only to now melt, she could not forget him in the least. The crisp white snow of winter, followed by the pummeling of rain and hail in spring, had finally lulled. Bluebells pushed from the ground and cheerfully spread their vibrant blossoms.
In vain she reminded herself those three days in his company should not feel longer and more real than anything else in her lifetime.
Percival had been a fantasy. She'd told him, and he'd left, and that was that.
She stared at her rows of trunks. Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia were moving in tomorrow. Their current manor house was pleasant, but not a castle, and Uncle Seymour had said he'd postponed his inheritance long enough.
"I'll send a footman to help you with your cases, Miss Amberly," Evans said. "It will be strange without you."
She gave the butler a tight smile.
She'd miss him. She'd miss everyone. Soon she would move in with Rosamund. She pressed her lips together. Living in the midst of her sister's marital bliss was not Fiona's vision of happiness. Not when a similar happiness would always be denied her.
"Everyone's dying," Evans said, uncharacteristically talkative, perhaps moved by the fact they would rarely see each other again. "So tragic."
"Someone else died?"
Instantly she thought of Percival, and she struggled to remind herself that it would be highly unlikely for her butler to be musing about a man he hadn't seen in months. Her heart hammered.
"Lord Mulbourne is dead. I would have thought you would have-" He paused and shifted his feet, and his cheeks darkened. "Forgive me. I don't believe there's been a formal announcement yet. Word spread through the servants."
The man didn't need to say that he thought Madeline would have informed Fiona herself. Her shoulders shrank together. She hated this conflict between her and her cousin. "How horrible. He wasn't even that old."
"Ah, yes. There was something sordid about the whole business. Rumors are swirling about. But who's to say? He wasn't young either." Evans shook his head in a somber motion suited to his profession. "His wife is so pretty and never had a child."
A hollow pit formed in her stomach. Madeline was a widow. They hadn't always gotten along, but Madeline didn't deserve to have her husband snatched from her. No one deserved that.
Fiona couldn't imagine the anguish she'd feel if Percival died. And he wasn't even … She drew in a sharp breath. "Thank you. You were right to tell me."
She'd been a fool these past few years. An absolute fool.
She headed outside and trudged through the thick grass that swayed under the slight breeze. She lifted her skirts and proceeded into the ever denser area. Lambs leaped and played in the adjoining field, and birds chirped from trees. The sun shone in full force, and she slid her head up to bask in the warmth.
Madeline's manor house adjoined the property. She'd avoided seeing her for months, too humiliated after the ball. Madeline had called on her after Grandmother's death, but their exchange had been limited to platitudes.
Now she needed to speak to her cousin. Fiona had spent so long decrying the ton. But she'd been as narrow-minded and quick to judge as everyone else. Fiona was tired of keeping to herself and assuming the worst of people.
The Dales were at their finest now. The once-white, once-brown hills were green, and lavender and blue flowers dotted the steep slopes. A blue sky spread over the arching hills and smatterings of trees; no clouds marred the horizon, though athletic birds dipped and swirled above.
It was late afternoon, and some children shouted with glee, apparently amused by the prospect of rolling down the hill, something which they were already putting into practice. Fiona hesitated for a moment, and then pushed further over the trail, until, five miles later, she reached the elaborate manor house.
She sucked in a deep breath. The last time she'd approached these steps, Percival had been at her side. She could almost feel the coarse wool of his great coat beneath her fingers. Her chest tightened, but she continued up the steps.
Madeline's butler widened his eyes when he saw her, and he led her to the drawing room.
The manor house was impeccable. More paintings than ever lined the rich garnet walls, their gold frames sparkling.
Elegance soared through the manor house. Roses arched from opulent vases. At one time Fiona might have been intimidated, but instead she waited for Madeline to arrive.
Her cousin's face was tight, and Madeline's golden hair was arranged in a rigid knot. The vibrant frocks her cousin favored, oft-embellished with lace and satin ruffles, were replaced with a dull ebony dress that drained her face of color.
"I came as soon as I heard," Fiona said. "I'm so sorry."
Madeline nodded. "Thank you."
The words were trite, and Fiona flickered her gaze to Madeline's strained face.
A maid arrived with tea, and Madeline's shoulders remained rigid as the maid placed the gleaming silver cake stand on the lace table cloth.
"I only just learned," Fiona said.
Madeline shrugged. "He died two days ago. The paper hasn't printed anything yet."
"How did it happen?"
Madeline tensed, but her voice was calm when she spoke. "He was in London."
Had they possessed more semblance of a family relationship, Fiona would have learned right away. Yet Madeline hadn't sought Fiona for comfort, and for the first time, Fiona despised this. They were cousins and neighbors. They should share more.
Perhaps she might never see Percival again, but he'd taught her not to make quick judgments. Just because a man was handsome did not mean that he took advantage of it, nor that he'd always lived a comfortable life.
Madeline should not be seen as less worthy because she interested herself in fashion. Perhaps some of her snide comments might be excused. Fiona had been so willing to see signs of Madeline's untrustworthiness, she should not be surprised when that was what she'd found.
Madeline had never truly harmed her, only contributed to the gossip of the other girls during their season, leaving her betrayed when Madeline laughed with others about Fiona's failure to grasp whether something was fashionable or not or when she spoke too long about the Romans.
Perhaps in her own way Fiona had acted as childishly as her cousin. She was determined to apologize. She inhaled. "I haven't been a good cousin."
Madeline fixed her perfect blue eyes on her. Fiona stiffened, the motion automatic, but her cousin simply shook her head.
"I fear I haven't been either."
"I lied about Captain Knightley," Fiona said. "He didn't exist."
"I never thought he did."
Fiona tensed.
"Until you arrived at the ball," Madeline said. "Then he seemed rather alive. Not quite a figment of your imagination."
"I'm sorry for ruining your ball."
"Oh, I think you made it quite memorable for people." Madeline smiled. "That's a good thing, you know."
"Oh."
Madeline tilted her head. "So I've been so curious-how did you manage to find a duke willing to masquerade as your fiancé?"
Fiona shrugged. "He was scared of my knife."
Madeline giggled, and Fiona joined in.
"So all that time he was saying nice things, he was forced to say them." Madeline's eyes were round.
"But he seemed so genuinely caring," Fiona stammered. "After a while. I mean after he stopped escaping. I even offered to release him at one point, and he didn't go."
Madeline laughed. "Definitely a foundation for love."
Fiona's eyes widened, and she smoothed her fingers over the folds of her dress, hoping her cousin would neglect to notice the tremble of her fingers. "You mean because he pretended to be my fiancé?"
"Because of how he looked at you. I could tell. All the way on the other side of the ballroom, it was obvious."
Fiona shifted her legs. Her heart pattered uncomfortably in her chest. "He was acting."
"I don't think so," Madeline said. "And he was so desperate, so devastated when you were hauled away."
"But he didn't stop them." Fiona picked up her cup.
"He tried to. And if he hadn't argued so passionately for you . . . Well, Barnaby would like an excuse to prosecute a member of the ton. It would give him the illusion of fairness when he is overly vigilant with all the peasants."