by Abigail Agar
Penelope shook her head to fervently deny the claim. “I barely know the man.”
“Yet you can know he is innocent,” Miss Lorraine countered. “You can know something so intimate to his very nature, and yet you proclaim that you do not know him well enough to love him. I think you misunderstand the very nature of love, Penny.”
Penelope sat, her brows furrowed, and her mind working. “What is the nature of the thing then? What is it that makes love so vexing?”
“You cannot control it,” Miss Lorraine said with a smile. “That is what people fear so much about love. There is no rhyme or reason to it. There is only insanity and chaos. A man and woman might meet with their eyes, and in that instance, there is love. There are desire and passion without knowledge or time.”
Penelope laughed and waved her gloved hand at Miss Lorraine dismissively. “What you speak of is lust, not love,” Penelope assured the woman.
“What I speak of is the yearning of one soul for another,” Miss Lorraine said. She had never taken offence to Penelope’s aggressive stances, and Penelope laughed at the smile that played over the woman’s lips as she countered Penelope’s point.
Penelope nodded. “Very well,” she said. “If love is so beyond reason, then you are assigning away the guilt of those embroiled in scandal.”
“Not at all,” Miss Lorraine said. “Psh, Penny, of course not. We as humans were given divine free will for a reason. Just because our nature says we want something, does not mean that we have to follow it blindly. If we had no free will, then there would be no sin, because the fault would not lie within us.”
Penelope grinned. “Ah, so we are talking theology then?”
“I find that in most societies, everything comes back to theology. Why is that?” Miss Lorraine asked, and Penelope heard the teacher in her rise up to the surface, asking Penelope to answer a question for a quiz to prove her mastery.
Penelope sighed and said, “I suppose it would seem that way because most civilisations are based around common moral rules of conduct. Most often rules of conduct are derived from the teachings of the spirituality of the civilisation.”
“You sound like a philosopher, and I have never been prouder,” Miss Lorraine said with her soft musical voice encased in a smile.
Penelope smiled back at the woman and leaned back heavily against the cushions. “Debating with you is wonderful, but I fear it has not helped calm this battle between heart and head.”
“Well, nothing can do that,” Miss Lorraine said and gave Penelope’s arm that lay on the cushion a comforting pat. “That is the curse of free will. You have to decide it for yourself.”
Penelope nodded and thought that was probably true. That sounded like just the kind of curse that she would be stuck with. “I do not suppose you could offer some straightforward advice?”
“Men are simple mysteries,” Miss Lorraine said with a smile.
Penelope laughed at the wordplay. “If ever men were anything, then they are at odds with themselves.”
“Exactly,” Miss Lorraine said with a nod.
With a frown, Penelope asked, “Do you think he is innocent?”
“I thought you had certainty on your side?” Miss Lorraine asked. “I have not met the man. Indeed, if I did, then he would just look like any man to me. I do not have a painter’s soul.”
Penelope frowned. “You act as if by painting that I gain some supernatural gift to discern people.”
“Painters are often observant people,” Miss Lorraine explained. “They see things that others simply overlook. I would see a man, but you might see his calloused hands and the way he limps and discern something about him that I would never have known.”
Penelope suddenly wished to talk of anything other than the Duke of Richmond. She sighed. “What will you do once my father has sold me off?”
Miss Lorraine clucked her tongue and gave Penelope a chiding look. It was just the sort of look that a mother would give her wayward child who was exaggerating about some perfectly normal thing. “It is a normal state of affairs for parents in this world to help their children find appropriate marriages,” Miss Lorraine reminded Penelope.
“Yes, I am aware of that,” Penelope said with a nod of her head. “I just wish that perhaps I did not have to marry.
Miss Lorraine smiled. “I thought you were pondering that Duke of yours.”
“He is not my Duke,” Penelope whispered as if scandalised. “I think you are only catching me out on minor things to keep from answering my question.
The woman patted her hair which was twisted up into a bun that was pinned most flippantly to one side with strands hanging here and there defiant of any order that might be set for them to follow. “You are perhaps wise,” Miss Lorraine said. “In truth, I do not know what I shall do. I have been your governess for so long, it seems odd to contemplate a new chapter.”
“Will you be governess to some other girl then?” Penelope asked with interest.
Miss Lorraine lifted her arms in a gesture of helplessness. “I had thought of going back to France once you were happily paired off with your husband of choice, but I do not know now. I have grown fond of England’s ever dreary weather. It makes me shine in comparison.”
Penelope giggled softly. “I wish you could stay on with us.”
“Perhaps when you have children of your own, I can come and stay with you,” Miss Lorraine said with a smile.
Penelope had not given that any thought. If she were to be married, then the children might need a governess. “Would you really?”
“Of course,” Miss Lorraine said as if the answer to that question should have been obvious.
Penelope leaned over and whispered, “What about that captain you keep mentioning?”
Miss Lorraine’s laughter was bright and warm. “Oh, that devilish fellow only knows the sea as his beloved. I fear that I may never surpass the love Captain Ralston has for his ship and the ocean. But he is a handsome rogue.”
“And here I thought he would whisk you away the moment a ring was placed around my finger,” Penelope said with a grin.
Miss Lorraine chided, “That man would sooner die than be tied to the shore.”
“Then you should go sail the world with him. I have heard of such,” Penelope said encouragingly.
Miss Lorraine laughed. She seemed lost completely in mirth. “For someone who does not want or need love, you have a strange way of wanting to foster it in others. Do you wish me such torment then?”
“Not at all,” Penelope assured her. She flipped her hand over helplessly. “Just because the women of my family have poor luck in love it does not mean that everyone does. Surely someone out there has a love like the poets write about.”
Miss Lorraine gave Penelope’s hand a squeeze. “You must not give up on love, dear. It is what makes the very world go around. Take your friend, Gina, for example. Love keeps her going.”
“I do not know if I can love like that. She is braver than I,” Penelope said in a soft voice. “Besides, her husband is gone. I am grateful that she had family to fall back upon. I dare not even think what would have happened if she had not had them.”
Miss Lorraine nodded slowly. “The world can be a cruel place for a woman. Yet, you let the cruelty win if you give up. You have to stand up for what you want.”
“Like my mother?” Penelope asked.
Miss Lorraine had been with the family since Penelope was a small child. If anyone outside of her parents knew of what had happened between her mother and father then Miss Lorraine would. Penelope watched the woman intently.
At length, Miss Lorraine sighed. “I know that you think the worst of your mother. Truth be told, I have had my moments where I wondered what sort of woman she was, but I have found over the years that you cannot judge something you are not privy to, Penny.” Miss Lorraine shook her head, her expression solemn. “Lady Winchester is a driven woman, who has to deal with a wall of a man. She does her best.”
; “I used to think Father was the bravest man in the world,” Penelope said. “Then I started seeing him, really seeing him. I saw a man who was afraid of so many things, but mostly losing control of what he deemed his.”
Miss Lorraine eyed Penelope and said, “Your painter’s soul serves you well. I have often thought your father was an odd man. He was so doting upon you when you were little and in the same breath so severe with your mother and the staff … and even me. I thought he might just split in two if he contradicted himself any more than he had already. “
“I am glad that I no longer hold such a fantasy of the man in my mind,” Penelope said. “It is better to just know the truth.”
Miss Lorraine frowned. “Do not let your father strip away from you what you want out of life, Penny. Do not give him that power.”
“I do not even know what I want out of life anymore.” Penelope made a helpless gesture with her hand. “What should I do?”
With a nod of her head, Miss Lorraine said, “Only you can answer that. I know from what your mother has said that you are not making a good showing this Season. I would think that a clever and beautiful girl like you would have suitors by the carriage load arriving here to ask your father for your hand.”
Penelope looked down at her hand. She probably would have a suitor or two if she had put her best foot forward. Now she wondered if the men had truly been so bad or if she had just seen her father in them because she had been looking for it.
“Perhaps I can work as a governess as you do,” Penelope suggested.
Miss Lorraine nodded. “You are certainly clever enough. You have the bearing for it, but is that truly what you want? You have always seemed like you wanted a family of your own.”
“I do not know what I want anymore,” Penelope said with a sigh.
Miss Lorraine gave Penelope’s hand another squeeze. “I am sure that what you want will occur to you. You simply have to stop trying to press your hopes into someone else’s mould. Forget your mother and father, Penny. Think about what you truly want.”
***
The evening after everyone retired to bed lay heavy and desolate before Penelope. If this were any other evening, Penelope might read or paint to pass away the time until she was beckoned to sleep. This, however, was not any other evening.
On this particular evening, the Duke of Richmond laid scant rooms away dreaming. What did Dukes dream of? Penelope did not know. She imagined it was the same sort of things that others dreamed of, but perhaps their dreams were on a grander scale.
Penelope was filled with that energy that radiated out, or seemed to, from her belly. It spread to every corner of her and set her ablaze until she thought for sure that she would just explode or perhaps burn away. Instead, she just lay there in agony, and Penelope thought that the worst fate of all.
There was nothing so long and cold as a night spent when the one you wish to see was so close and yet so far. Penelope rolled over and cursed herself. She cursed her governess too. Perhaps her father was right, and those love poems and prose should have been left aside. No, she had no way of saying the things she felt, and there was no point in saying the words even if she knew them.
She sat up on her bed, her legs crossed in a fashion that her mother would not approve of at all. Her thoughts wandered away and crept down the hallways. Her thoughts went into the Duke’s room, but she stayed in place like all good and decent ladies should.
Penelope sighed and fell back against the blankets. The Duke’s dark eyes asked her all sorts of questions, but she had no answers. She thought of the moment at the table when his foot had fallen onto hers. He had acted as if it was not on purpose, but Penelope imagined that it was. She giggled at the thought of it despite herself. She clapped her hands over her mouth to keep the sound from carrying.
Finally, she lay still and exhausted. “Will sleep never come?” Penelope asked the ceiling, but it stayed quiet on the matter.
“You must be very good at keeping secrets,” Penelope whispered to the ceiling.
Penelope sat up and looked around her dark room. It was quite plain that sleep would not be coming to Penelope anytime soon, so she got up and went to her desk. She lit a candle and sighed.
Her eyes fell on her wardrobe. She went over to the wardrobe and opened it with a smile. “Want to see where I keep my secrets?” Penelope asked the ceiling then laughed at her own silliness.
Inside the wardrobe was a little piece of wood that could be removed if you knew how to do so. She had discovered it only a few years back, and it had become her secret stash for all things she wished to keep to herself. Penelope opened the wooden compartment and pulled out a leather bound journal.
She brought it over to her desk and sat down under the light and warmth of the candle. The journal was really more of a diary. It had belonged at one time to her mother. Penelope had found it while rummaging in the attic for interesting tidbits. Their attic was a treasure trove of family heirlooms and secrets if you knew where to look.
Penelope opened the book and let the pages slide through her fingers until she came to the place where she had marked the book. Finding the book a few months back had marked the end of Penelope’s golden view of the world. There were no great and noble princes riding out to save their princess. No, the only thing that took place in society was the bondage and muzzling of bright, clever young women.
Lady Winchester had gone into her marriage with the Marquis of Winchester full of hope. Her light shone through the words hurriedly written down between kisses and dances. There were passages exalting the very love of the pair, then the clouds had come.
Her mother’s writings had grown sparse and brittle. Lady Winchester wondered in her writing if this was all life truly was. What a cruel joke had been played on her mother.
Penelope flitted her fingers through the weeks and months after her parents married. Her mother withered away until the woman’s bitterness consumed her hurried sprawling words. Then the worst of all happened.
Her mother became resigned to her fate. Her writing became subdued. She wrote of her child growing within her and of her husband less and less often. When Lord Winchester was mentioned, it was merely a matter of fact remark. Gone were the words of that clever, bright young lady describing a love she could hardly imagine, let alone contain within herself.
Sighing, Penelope stood and made her way back to the bed. Along the way, she tucked the journal in her dresser drawer before she collapsed over into bed. She should sleep, Penelope told her tired brain. If it heard, then it did not let on, but little by little, Penelope’s eyelids did droop, and she became blissfully unaware of all that was around her.
Penelope lay in her bed and dreamed of swirling gowns and strong arms, of grassy meadows and fields of flowers. There was nothing there but music and the feel of his arms around her. His smile made her feel safe. She would always be safe here. There was nothing to fear in the Duke’s embrace. The man had never harmed her, would never harm her.
Yet, there was a shadow at the edge of the meadow that threatened. Her father was the shadow, and Penelope knew it. It was not the man, but what he was. For the man was the idea and the image of what all men were.
The Duke changed as the music changed and became a dark melody. Even in this perfectly painted world of her own brush strokes, the hand of man crept in and changed the subtle notes. Penelope cowered; she fled. He was horrible. There was a tyrant in the man who made her less, who ripped her gown and broke her spirit.
Penelope ran, and she found herself in a dark place between buildings. No, it was not just any alley, it was the very alley she had found him, saved him. Only she had not saved him at all.