Genevieve nodded. “It was because of Didier, was it not?”
Simone grew so still, she felt as though time itself had stopped. “You think I’m mad, don’t you?”
“Nay, not mad.” Genevieve smiled sadly, and in a gentle motion smoothed a lock of hair behind Simone’s ear. “I do think you miss your mother and your brother very much, though. Oft times, grief plays cruel tricks with our hearts and minds.”
“He’s not a figment of my imagination,” Simone said, willing herself not to frown and move away from the woman. Genevieve’s reaction to Simone’s admission was surprisingly open, and she had no wish to alienate the woman. “But I understand that you do not believe me. No one else does either.”
“Nicholas does,” Genevieve said softly. “I have never seen a ghost Simone, nor have I ever conversed with the spirit of one departed. Although”—she gave a bittersweet chuckle—“there have been many times I’ve wished my Richard could answer me when I speak to him. I do seem to be in need of his wisdom of late.”
Simone grew very still. “Lady Genevieve, may I pose a personal question to you?”
There was but the slightest hesitation before she answered. “Of course, darling.”
“How do you know my father?”
Genevieve stared at Simone, the baroness’s posture as rigid as Hartmoore’s stone walls. A hollow pit grew in Simone’s stomach at the ensuing silence, and she wondered that she had just made a dreadful misstep.
Or hit upon the very answer she sought.
Genevieve blinked and shook herself before reaching out to clasp Simone’s hand once more. “’Twas so long ago—” She halted again, and Simone could feel her hesitancy. “I knew your father only briefly before I came to England. We met when we were both very young, before he received his commission in the French Army. We were reintroduced years later and spent some time together before he married your mother.”
“Did you meet her? My mother?”
Genevieve shook her head. “Nay. I had already left France by the time your parents had wed. My relationship with Armand up to the point that I came to England would have made a meeting with your mother…highly inappropriate.”
Simone’s eyes widened as she stared at Genevieve’s reddening face. “Oh,” she whispered, bringing a hand to her lips. “Forgive me, my lady, for my prying.”
“Think naught of it.” Genevieve revived a brittle smile. “Now Armand and I are reunited. I am a widow now, and Armand may prove to be a welcome companion.”
Simone’s dread increased at hearing Genevieve’s reply—so eerily reminiscent of Armand’s words just the day before. She felt she had to press on, had to know fully, beyond all doubt. “But…you said”—Simone swallowed—“when Papa came to Hartmoore, you said, ‘You’re dead.’ Why…why would you think that?”
Genevieve’s eyes hardened, and Simone was not a little frightened at the fierce spark she saw in the faded blue depths. “I was very young and naïve, Simone. Someone had told me he had died, and I believed them. Obviously, I should have inquired further of that particular rumor before I left France.” Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Ah…no reason.” Simone tried to laugh. “It is quite a coincidence that I would marry your son, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Genevieve’s face relaxed after a moment. “Will you dine with the guests this eve?”
“Forgive my weakness, but would that you permit me to take my meal in my chamber, my lady.”
“You may take your meal wherever you like.” Genevieve sent Simone a worried frown. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“Nay, merely tired.” Simone gave a sheepish smile. “I did not sleep well last night.”
“Worried about Nicholas, are you?”
Simone doubted Lady Genevieve could ever fathom the true depths of her worry. “I am eager for his safe return, yea. I expected him today.”
Genevieve nodded. “He and Lord Handaar are good friends and have not seen each other in many months. It does not surprise me that he is delayed.”
“So you portend his return on the morrow?”
“Most likely.” Genevieve smiled. “I’ll have water sent to your chamber for a bath, if you like.”
“I would. Thank you.” Simone felt oddly traitorous, abandoning her kind mother-in-law to dine with the guests alone, but she had need to be alone and think before seeking Didier on the battlements. She felt that the pieces of the puzzle were all present now, and she only needed time to fit them together properly.
“Very well, darling. I’ll see you on the morrow.” Genevieve walked Simone to the door and then leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Good night. Sleep well.”
Cheery fires blazed in each of the commanding hearths, and by nightfall, Simone had bathed and eaten sparely of the hearty stew. With her damp hair plaited and a fresh gown on, she set out from her chamber, stealthily making her way through Hartmoore’s narrow stone passages to the wallwalk. In one hand, she carried a lantern to dispel the inky blackness of the night-cloaked corridors, and in the other she held a small chunk of bread—a meager peace offering to perhaps coax Didier from his perch.
