“After you,” Jo said pleasantly enough, but Pen could tell she wasn’t moving until Pen did. She was not going to let Pen escape.
Oh, what did it matter? One way or another, the story would come out. Such stories always did.
Pen shrugged and, somewhat gracelessly, followed Caro into the sitting room. She wanted to take a seat in the farthest, darkest corner, but she knew she wouldn’t get away with that either, so she flopped into one of the chairs closest to the hearth, directly across from Caro, and glared at her. Caro glared back.
“Isn’t this cozy?” Jo said with false gaiety as she went over to poke the fire awake. She looked from Pen to Caro. “I think we might need a little brandy.”
Pen had already had a little brandy, but she wasn’t going to say that. And her . . . exercise seemed to have burned off any of its drugging effects. “That sounds splendid.”
Caro just grunted.
Jo fished the key to the spirits cabinet out of her pocket. She’d learned, after dealing with more than one drunken resident over the years, to keep the brandy locked away. Escorted by Freddie, she fetched the decanter and brought it and three glasses over to the table.
“Not too much,” Pen said—and then watched Jo fill her glass.
Perhaps it was just as well. The brandy would blunt her emotions and give her a welcome, if false, feeling of contentment.
“Let’s start with a toast, shall we?” Jo said. “To the Home.”
“To getting Widow’s Brew in every London tavern.” Caro looked at Pen and pulled a face. “Or in some London taverns.”
Pen smiled back at her. Caro could be overly ambitious and extremely annoying, but no one worked harder than she did. Her doggedness and enterprising spirit were responsible for much, if not all, of their financial success. Pen just wished Caro would be less busy about Pen’s personal business.
Pen lifted her glass. “To a good harvest.”
They clinked glasses and drank. The brandy’s warmth loosened the knot in Pen’s stomach a little. She took another sip and felt the tension in her neck ease, too. She settled back in her chair and looked at the other women.
As much as Caro might annoy her, Pen knew she—and Jo—cared about her. They were her friends, deeply committed, each in her own way, to a common goal: seeing the Home succeed. She’d never felt this sort of shared purpose before.
If I go with Harry, I’ll have to leave all this behind.
Worse, if she went with Harry, she’d be neither fish nor fowl. His noble friends would look down their long noses at her, both for being Harry’s mistress and for her common roots. As a farmer’s daughter, she was as common a commoner as they came. Yet the common people among whom she’d live would give her the side-eye as well. They’d see her as a fallen woman, but too close to the master to treat with all the scorn and disparagement they felt.
As to how they’d treat Harriet, the master’s bastard . . .
No. Free from Harry’s seductive presence, she could see that agreeing to go off with him was a very bad idea.
But what about love? Must I give up all hope of love?
She could not imagine ever loving anyone the way she loved Harry.
“So,” Jo said, “what were you two, er, discussing so intensely—and loudly—in the entry just now?”
Good God! “Did you hear it all, then?” Pen asked, appalled at the thought she’d so lost awareness of her surroundings that she might have aired her dirty laundry for the entire Home to inspect. She didn’t feel a bond of friendship with any of the other residents—especially not with Rosamund.
“No,” Jo said calmly. “If I had, I wouldn’t need to ask.” She smiled. “And don’t worry. There was no one else within earshot, but as your volume was rising, you did risk attracting an audience.”
Well, thank God for that, at least.
“Pen was down at the cottage with the earl, Jo”—Caro sent Pen a dark look—“for almost two hours.”
Lud, had it really been that long?
“Oh.” Jo frowned slightly, the way she always did when she was concerned, and stroked Freddie’s ears. “I knew you’d gone out, but I’d assumed I’d just missed your return. And I didn’t know you’d gone to the cottage.” Her frown deepened. “Was that wise, Pen?”
“It would be if she’d spent her time persuading the earl to open his wallet for us,” Caro said sharply, “but if she got any money from him at all, it wasn’t for the Home.”
“Caro!” Pen and Jo said in unison.
Caro had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t get paid for what you did, Pen.”
Pen opened her mouth to deny Caro’s insinuation—
No. It’s safer not to pursue the matter.
“Pen.” Jo put her hand gently on Pen’s knee. “You’re a grown woman and a mother, responsible and sensible. I’m not about to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, but do be careful. The earl may not have your best interests at heart.”
Caro snorted rather elegantly.
“No, he . . .” They didn’t know Harry. “You misunderstand.”
Jo’s brows shot up at that, and Caro snorted again, less elegantly.
Well, yes. Pen would admit she’d sounded defensive.
“Har—that is, the Earl of Darrow, ah—” She couldn’t discuss what she felt about Harry, at least with Caro there. What could she . . .
They had discussed business. That’s what she needed to concentrate on, not all the other. “He invited me to look over the letter he’d written to the duke in support of the Home, in case I had anything to add.”
Caro sat up straighter. “Really? What did he say? Was it a strong letter?”
Clearly, she should have taken this approach the moment she’d encountered Caro in the entry.
“Yes, it was.” Pen grinned. “Though I did tell him you’d like to see him dwell even more than he did on the brewhouse operations.”
“Of course.” Caro’s brows knitted. “I’d like to have a look at it myself to be certain he got things right. We don’t want the duke cutting off our funds if an extra sentence or two—another detail—could have persuaded him.”
“I don’t think you have to worry, Caro.” Pen looked at Jo, too. “Har—Lord Darrow seems certain the duke will continue his support.”
“But if that’s the case, why didn’t he send his donation this year?” Jo asked. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Apparently, the duke truly didn’t know what it was he was supporting. He thought perhaps there was a bastard involved.” She flushed. “The previous duke’s bastard, that is.”
“I see.” Jo chewed on her bottom lip as she considered that. “The earl did tell me that the relevant entry in the duke’s books was labeled quite mysteriously as JSW. My initials, I presume.”
Caro grunted suspiciously. “I, for one, won’t breathe easier until the funds show up,” she said. “But I suppose there’s nothing to be done right now.” She finished her brandy and stood. “I’m off. I’ve got a few accounts I need to update before I go to bed.” She gave Pen a speaking look. “I had meant to get to them earlier.”
I didn’t ask you to spy on me.
Pen managed to swallow those words and just give Caro a tight smile.
“Sleep well, Caro.” Jo picked up the decanter as Caro headed for the door. “Let me pour you a little more, Pen.”
“No, thank you.” She’d finished what was in her glass and was now feeling a pleasant sense of detachment. She saw her opportunity to escape and was going to take it. “I’m tired. I believe I’ll go up now, too.”
Jo caught her hand. “Stay a little longer. We still have things to discuss.”
“We do?” Pen’s heart sank as she looked longingly at Caro’s departing back.
The door opened—and closed, leaving her alone with Jo.
“Yes.” Jo lifted the decanter again. “Are you certain I can’t give you some more?”
“Er . . .” If she drank enough, she’d become so
bosky, Jo wouldn’t be able to get anything out of her. “Oh, very well.”
Jo concentrated on pouring as she said, “I congratulate you on distracting Caro. Very wise to bring up the earl’s letter. That—as I’m sure you were hoping—took all of her attention.” She glanced at Pen. “It did not, however, take all of mine.”
“Oh.” Pen shifted in her chair and took an incautious sip. The brandy went up her nose and set her to coughing.
“Careful. Are you all right?”
Pen nodded, trying to think quickly, though she’d already had enough brandy to make that difficult. How much did she want to tell Jo? Not all the details, of course. Those were private. But should she admit she’d been in Harry’s bed?
Blast! She felt a hot flush sweep over her face. Hopefully the light was too dim for Jo to notice.
She glanced at Jo.
Jo had noticed. “I don’t believe you spent almost two hours going over the earl’s letter, Pen.”
“N-no. We also talked about Harriet. Har-Lord Darrow is her father.”
“Oh, just call him Harry. I’m not going to rip up at you for the familiarity.” Jo’s right eyebrow rose. “You’ve done far more familiar things with him than referring to him by his Christian name.”
“Yes. Well. Er, of course.” I don’t have to admit I did anything recently. “He is Harriet’s father, so I suppose that goes without saying.” And now she was babbling. Babbling was never good. Jo wasn’t as direct as Caro, but she was nobody’s fool. She’d had years of experience drawing confessions out of people.
But I have no need to confess! I didn’t break into the liquor cabinet or do anything else to hurt the Home.
On the heels of that thought came the question: But what if I decide to leave?
“He’s very interested in Harriet, of course,” she said, pushing aside that question for now. “He didn’t know about her until he came upon her down by the stream and saw her silver streak. At first he thought, as everyone else did, that she was Walter’s. Until he saw me. We were, er, friendly right before he left for the war.”
Jo just sat there, letting Pen blather on until she ran out of words.
“What’s really bothering you, Pen?”
“I—” All at once, the wall of independence and strength she’d built over the years—perhaps starting even when she was a child, growing up with an erratic, drunken father—cracked. “I l-love him, Jo.”
And then, to her horror, she started to cry, great gulping wails and noisy, ugly snuffling.
Jo didn’t say a word—she just moved to crouch next to Pen’s chair. She opened her arms, and Pen threw herself into them, burying her face in Jo’s shoulder and clinging to her as if she were the one solid thing in her world.
They stayed that way for several minutes—Jo holding Pen, patting her back, murmuring soothing platitudes, and Pen sobbing—until the storm finally passed. Then Pen gave a great shudder and sat back, fished her handkerchief out of her pocket, and blew her nose with an inelegant honk.
“Better?” Jo asked.
“N-no!” The tears threatened to flow again. She pressed her eyelids tightly together as if that would dam them. “What am I going to do?”
The last came out as a wail.
She felt Jo pat her hand.
“I don’t know. Why don’t we talk about it? They say two heads are better than one, don’t they?”
“Y-yes.” Perhaps Jo could offer some good advice. She’d once loved a man enough to throw her lot in with his, though in her case that had involved marriage.
Freddie, now that the worst of the waterworks had subsided, came over to lean against her leg. She stroked his head and felt a bit calmer.
“Harry offered to set me and Harriet up in a house on one of his estates, Jo. He wants to be closer to Harriet, to be a real father to her.” She looked down into Freddie’s expressive brown eyes before looking back at Jo. “My father was dreadful, so I never put much stock in the role, but I think—I know—Harry will be different. Harriet is already very taken with him.”
Jo frowned. “She’s not imagining he’ll marry you, is she? Because he won’t. I hate to be so blunt, but facts are facts. The peerage does not marry down, except in very rare situations.”
“I know that.” Pen stroked Freddie’s ears. “I explained the matter to Harriet, but I’m not entirely certain she believes me. She’s young and fanciful and thinks hoping and wishing hard enough will make the impossible happen.”
Jo nodded. “If she lived around the nobility, she’d understand, but Little Puddledon is so far removed from the ton and Society, she hasn’t fully experienced our class distinctions.”
“Very true. But here’s the thing, Jo. Even before Harry arrived in the village, I’d determined to do something to make Harriet’s life more secure. Remember, I told you Verity was bullying her.”
Jo sighed. “Yes. And I think I asked you to give it time. It hasn’t been that long, but is it any better?”
“Perhaps a little. You know I’ve moved Harriet into my room. A lot of the problems were happening at night when the girls were unsupervised, so I’m hoping having her sleep with me will address that”—she smiled—“though it does make my room difficult to navigate. And having Harry acknowledge her helped, too, I think, if for no other reason that it seems to have given her a bit of pride and a little swagger.”
Jo grunted in a noncommittal way. At any other time, Pen might have taken that as an invitation to argue, but she had other things to worry about now, so she let it pass.
“It’s also given her something to focus on, rather than the way the other girls are treating her. So, I don’t want to disparage Harry or break that connection.”
“Of course not. He seems to be a fine man.” Jo smiled. “And I’m enough like Caro to hope that he does take an interest in the Home and decide to add his donation to the duke’s.” She put her hand on Pen’s and squeezed it supportively. “But your welfare and Harriet’s come first.”
Pen knew Jo meant that. Caro—if she were here—might not agree. Nothing seemed to come before her precious Widow’s Brew in Caro’s mind.
“In any event, I’d decided that I could improve Harriet’s situation by marrying. I had thought to see if I could persuade Mr. Wright to offer for me.”
“Oh.” Jo’s face went carefully blank.
Of course Jo must have heard. “Godfrey didn’t spread the story, did he?” Though it was just the sort of thing that rodent would do.
“Er, not precisely. Bess told Dorcas who told Avis who told everyone else that Godfrey came into the tavern last night with his face a bloody mess and told everyone a man had assaulted him. When the earl walked in later, Godfrey accused him. Things were about to get ugly, but Lord Darrow explained why he’d hit the vicar. I believe he just said Godfrey had attacked you, but everyone filled in the blanks—and sided with you against Godfrey, of course.” Jo smiled tightly. “Godfrey is not well liked, you know.”
“I know now.” She should have given the whole thing far more thought—and paid far more attention to gossip.
Jo leaned forward to put her hand on Pen’s knee. “Are you all right? Godfrey didn’t injure you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.” Pen appreciated her concern, but so much had happened since that unfortunate experience, she was surprised to realize the memory of it didn’t really trouble her.
“But he would have injured me—he would have raped me—if Harry hadn’t come along.” She shuddered. That would have been a nightmare. “Harriet told me Sunday after we left church that Godfrey was horrible. I should have listened to her.”
She was glad Harriet had been able to see through Godfrey’s pious façade. That was a skill that would serve her well over the years.
“Harry is going to recommend that the duke replace him.”
Jo nodded. “I would hope so!”
“So that was why I went down to the cottage—to discuss the new vicar. I was going to ask Harry . . . That
is, I wanted to . . .” She addressed Freddie. “I was going to explain—or at least hint—that there were certain attributes the new vicar should have.”
“Oh? And what would those be?”
Pen flushed. “That he be unmarried. Not old, but not too young.”
Jo’s brows shot up and it looked as if she was trying not to laugh. Her voice did waver a little when she asked, “And how did that conversation go?”
“We never got to it, because . . .” No, she wasn’t going to tell Jo what they’d done. She didn’t need to. Jo must already have surmised what had happened.
“I love Harry, Jo. I think I always will. But he is going to marry soon, likely Lady Susan Palmer.” Pen swallowed. “It makes perfect sense.”
“Yes.” Jo nodded. “It would be a good match.”
Pen wanted to throw the rest of her brandy in Jo’s face, but she took another sip instead. Jo was only saying what Pen had told herself. It would be a good match.
Oh, God, life is so unpleasant sometimes.
And then she spilled the rest of her story.
“Harry wants me to be his mistress, Jo—and, God help me, I really, really want to be. But I’d have to leave Little Puddledon and all we’ve built together here. I’d be totally dependent on him. And, well, I think sharing him with his wife would kill me.” Her voice had got a little shrill.
She took a deep breath and tried to regain some calm. “I swore I would do anything for Harriet, but I don’t think I can do this.”
“Are you certain your becoming the earl’s mistress would be best for Harriet, Pen?” Jo asked gently, clearly choosing her words. “Have you thought the matter through? It might be very . . . uncomfortable for her to be the master’s bastard. People might not accept her.”
“I know.” People had joked about Walter’s whelps, and those children had had at least the veneer of legitimacy.
“And how would you feel when the earl’s legitimate children are born? They would be treated much differently than Harriet.”
“Not by Harry!” Though could she swear to that? She didn’t know the future—nor did Harry. He might say truthfully now that he would always care for Harriet—not just with food and shelter, but with his time and interest—but once he had other children, his priorities might—no, would—change.
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