by Nina Rowan
She stared at him. “What am I to infer from that? That I should sit quietly and continue to do as I’m told? Just like I’ve always done? Let the world spin around me while I simply…wait?”
Darius cursed inwardly. “No. I meant—”
“Never mind what you meant,” Penelope snapped. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Hall, and I am quite certain you don’t know me. You never will.”
She spun on her heel and stalked toward the ballroom. As Darius watched her go, a certainty rose with utter clarity to his mind.
Yes, I will, Miss Darlington.
Chapter Two
Wick, Scotland
The Scottish Highlands were saturated with a gloomy, romantic history of clan wars and rebellion. There was a wildness to this place of vast valleys, crumbling castles, and hamlets that grew like mushrooms at the base of mountains. Fog swept ghostlike over the lochs, and the thick scent of salt clung to the air hovering over the coast.
Penelope sensed, too, how the wild beauty of the land could set one’s blood aflame, how it could incite one to be courageous.
Unless one happened to go by the name of Simon Wilkie, in which case one shrank into a quivering mass of jelly.
Penelope sighed. In addition to the unpleasant discovery that the man she’d run off with was, in fact, not a man at all, she had heard more apologies in the past two days than she’d heard in all of her nineteen years. “I’m so sorry, Penny.” “Sorry, lass.” “No, Miss Darlington, I do apologize.” “It’s not here, lass, I’m sorry.”
This most recent apology sent Penelope’s heart plummeting even further, which seemed utterly incomprehensible. She’d believed her heart had sunk as far into despair as it could possibly go.
She’d been wrong.
“It…it must be here.” She spoke through lips numb with cold. Until she’d been abandoned so far north, she hadn’t known such cold existed. “It was sent two days ago from Kirkwall, and I…”
“Sorry, lass.” The innkeeper shrugged, apparently unconcerned with her plight despite his apology. “It hasn’t arrived yet.”
Penelope tightened her fingers on the edge of the worn counter. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She cast a glance at the dining room, which contained a few rickety tables and chairs. The fireplace was cold and black, and the floor dusty.
“Well, I’ve a room, at least,” she said. “Perhaps my luggage will arrive later today.”
“Mail’s already been through.” The innkeeper peered at her over the tops of his spectacles, assessing the damp state of her cloak and hair. “Ye can afford the room?”
“Of course,” Penelope replied frostily, although her heart descended yet another few inches. The remainder of her money was in her portmanteau, which was supposed to have been waiting for her at the inn. She silently cursed Simon for the hundredth time, and in a most unladylike fashion. “Please, show me to my room at once.”
The innkeeper pushed the ledger toward her to sign, then took a key from the rack behind him and led her up the stairs to a small but clean room. The hearth was stacked with wood, and the innkeeper muttered beneath his breath as he lit the fire.
“Water closet is down the hall,” he said, his eyes still narrowed with suspicion.
Penelope drew her shoulders back and gave him a firm nod, shutting the door after him with a decisive click.
Only after she heard his footsteps descend the stairs did she sink onto a chair by the fire and hold out her cold hands to the flames. If nothing else, at least she could be grateful for the heat of the fire.
She removed her boots and put them closer to the flames to dry. Then she dug into her pocket and pulled out what little money she had left.
Down went her heart. Three shillings. She couldn’t possibly get back to Inverness with three shillings. And if she paid for a night’s stay at the inn, she’d have nothing left tomorrow unless her portmanteau arrived by post.
Surely it would. That coward Simon had sent the blasted thing off before he’d even told her he couldn’t, in fact, marry her. Penelope had been so incandescent with rage that she hadn’t wondered why he’d gone and done such a thing.
Now, somewhat thawed and dried by the fire, she realized he’d done it to lessen the risk of her opposition. He’d sent off her portmanteau and made her travel arrangements back to Wick in the hopes that she’d storm off with the anger of a woman betrayed.
Which is exactly what she had done.
Penelope blinked back tears of renewed fury. There were many ways she had imagined the end to her engagement, and none of them had included being ousted from a damp, dark castle while her once-future mother-in-law pierced her with a stare so disapproving that Penelope felt as if she were being damned.
And yet, in the center of her heart—which was still somewhere in the vicinity of her toes—she was relieved by Simon’s cowardly betrayal. Over the past week, her misgivings had grown stronger with every mile they’d traveled from London through the desolate expanse of northern Scotland and into the Orkney Islands. Then when they’d arrived at his family estate, Penelope had struggled with the notion of living there for the rest of her life, much less under the thumb of Simon’s overbearing mother.
“Och.” As they stood outside the castle, Simon had smiled that beautiful smile that had once made Penelope’s breath catch in her throat. “I reckon we were a wee bit hasty in our flight, eh?”
“Perhaps you were a wee bit hasty in choosing your prey,” she’d retorted.
He looked stung. “I hadn’t thought of ye as my prey, Penelope. I did want to marry you. It’s just that my maw…” He glanced back at his mother, as if afraid she could hear him even from a distance. “I canna go against me own kin.”
“Then why did you ask me to come with you?” Penelope asked, though she already knew the answer. She’d been Simon’s last hope this year to snare a woman whose family wealth might salvage the Wilkie clan’s fortunes. But the daughter of a shopkeeper was not good enough for Mrs. Wilkie.
No. She wasn’t merely not good enough. She was just plain unacceptable.
“I loved you, Penny, you ken that. And ye’d have made a good wife, if…if all’d gone as I’d hoped.” He tried to smile again, but this time it came across as a grimace. “Maw does have her expectations.”
Of course Maw did. And Maw’s expectations did not include the daughter of a shopkeeper, no matter how prominent Henry Darlington had become over the years. But Simon’s expectations, on the other hand…
Penelope’s fists clenched so hard that her fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t know whether she was angrier with Simon or herself. A foolish, stupid girl she was to think Simon Wilkie would actually give her everything he promised. Including his name.
She pushed up from the chair and paced to the window. At least she had another dress in her valise, though no nightclothes since she’d expected her portmanteau to be waiting. She splashed cold water on her face from the pitcher on the table, then changed clothes and went downstairs.
The smells of soup and bread wafted from the dining room. Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And that if she paid for supper, she’d have, at most, a shilling left.
Penelope approached the front counter, forcing herself to give the innkeeper what she hoped was a winsome smile.
“Mr. Harvey, I’ve been traveling since morning and haven’t had a chance to take either lunch or tea. My purse will arrive tomorrow with my portmanteau, but I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind if I—”
He shook his head. “And if yer portmanteau dinna arrive, Miss Darlington?”
With effort, Penelope kept her smile in place. “Oh, it will, Mr. Harvey. I assure you it will.”
It did not. The next day the mail came and went without the delivery of Penelope’s portmanteau. Finally in the late afternoon Mr. Harvey relented and allowed her to take tea and toast, both issued with the warning that he would inform the constable if she were unable to pay her
bill.
After devouring the scant meal, Penelope paced her room again, at a loss for what to do. God strike her down if she became desperate enough to try to return to Belman Castle. Yet it would cost her at least ten shillings to pay for transport to Inverness, where she could find a telegraph office and…
With a groan, Penelope sank onto the narrow bed.
…send a telegraph to her father in London that she was in dire straits and needed help.
Oh, heavens. If Henry Darlington hadn’t already disowned her, surely the receipt of such a message would have him redrawing his will within an hour.
No. She couldn’t possibly do such a thing. Her father had disliked Simon to begin with, and he’d no doubt instruct her to find her own way home.
If she even had a home anymore.
Penelope stood up and grabbed her cloak. No sense in wallowing over the hopelessness of her situation. Wick was a market town dependent on the herring industry, so surely she could find some form of work. Just something to earn enough money to get her out of this wretched town to Inverness, where she would be better able to determine her next step.
“Where ye be goin’, lass?” Mr. Harvey snapped as she hurried to the front door.
“Er, just out to take some air, Mr. Harvey,” Penelope replied brightly. She had come to realize she was the only guest at the inn, which put her a bit at ease. At least the innkeeper couldn’t force her out on the basis of not having enough rooms available. “My valise is still in my room, should you require assurance as to my return.”
She left before Mr. Harvey could respond. A rush of icy air blasted against her face as she went outside, and her nose filled with the smells of salt water and fish. Although it wasn’t yet three in the afternoon, twilight was already beginning to descend. A cold rain trickled from the gray sky, creating puddles of mud on the dirt roads.
Penelope’s boots sank into the mud as she went toward the port, where fishing boats rocked in the wind and a lighthouse stood guard near the shoreline. Aside from a cat slinking over the docks looking for shelter, there was no one at the piers.
Penelope turned and went into town. Gray stone buildings lined the main street, and the wind blew in the faint smell of whisky from the town’s distillery. Penelope stopped at the butcher’s shop, a fish market, and a grocer’s, but the men shook their heads when she inquired about work.
“Ye’d not be likely ta find anything after fishin’ season, lass,” the grocer told her.
Penelope thanked him and plodded on through the growing darkness. Surely there had to be something…She stopped. A shop window beckoned to her like a talisman. Iced cakes and buns sat piled on plates, surrounded by decorative holly and Christmas ornaments.
She hurried to pull open the door and inhaled a warm rush of cinnamon-and-sugar-scented air. Longing tightened her chest, surprising her with its speed and intensity. Twelfth Night cakes and loaves of bread sat upon the counter, and the baker bustled out from the workroom with a tray of comfits.
“Help ye, lass?” he asked as he began setting the comfits on a plate.
“I…I’m looking for work,” Penelope said. “Just for a few days. I’m new to town, but I’m a hard worker. My father owns a bakery and confectionery in London, so I know all about how your establishment operates. You must have an increase in customers before Christmas. I know my father always does.”
He studied her for a moment. “You worked in your father’s shop?”
“Oh, yes. I spent most of my childhood there too. I can arrange the displays, assist customers, even help with decorating the cakes.” She wasn’t too certain about that last bit, but she’d watched her father ice cakes enough times that she could no doubt muddle her way through.
The baker shook his head with evident regret. “Sorry, lass. Me boys are here ta help for the holidays.”
When Penelope sighed with disappointment, the baker extended a small cake. “Take one of these, if ye like.”
Penelope touched the coins still in her pocket. Foolish thing, to waste her money on a Christmas cake…
“Go on, then.” The baker set the cake on the counter and waved his hand toward it.
Surrendering to the urge, Penelope thanked the kind man and took the still-warm cake, cradling it in her palms as she returned to the inn.
She hurried upstairs to her room, where the pot of tea still rested on a table. Not caring that the tea was now cold, Penelope poured a cup and sat beside the fire as she ate the sweet cake.
The taste of cinnamon elicited a new sorrow, and again that peculiar longing for her father’s shop at Christmastide. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the customers crowded around the counter buying chocolate drops, her father bustling around with a tray of almond cakes, the faintly bitter scent of cocoa drifting from the workroom…and herself sitting invisible in the corner.
She blinked back tears. She was proud of her father. He’d worked hard to make Darlington’s Confectionery a successful establishment. She didn’t resent him because of the time and labor involved in owning a business that had drawn the approval of Her Majesty. And with the promise of a royal warrant, Darlington’s Confectionery was poised on the brink of the country’s greatest approbation.
Penelope would be a selfish girl indeed if she begrudged her father such success. She just wished he had realized she was more than the obedient daughter he’d always expected her to be. She wished he hoped as much for her as she hoped for herself.
After finishing the cake, Penelope crawled into bed and tried to sleep. She was up at dawn the following morning and set forth again to try to find work. A seamstress finally allowed her to hem a gentleman’s waistcoat for two pence, and though the pay was meager, the woman offered her a supper of boiled ham, potatoes, and bread. Penelope devoured half of the meal and wrapped the rest in newspaper to save for later.
The seamstress had no work for her the next day, so Penelope inquired at the fishmonger’s and the tavern. The owners of both establishments declined her offer, and Penelope soon found herself wishing that it were the proper season for herring fishing. She imagined she’d be quite good at scaling fish with a sharp knife, especially if she imagined the fish was Simon Wilkie.
Penelope returned to the inn, where Mr. Harvey was standing behind the counter. She found an odd sort of comfort in the fact that the innkeeper was always there.
Not unlike her father. She always knew where to find him.
“Mr. Harvey, I need your help.”
She tried not to sound desperate, but of course she did because, frankly, she was. And her heart pounded with fear that Mr. Harvey would cast her onto the street once he learned that she had very little money and even less hope that her portmanteau would ever arrive.
Mr. Harvey studied her with his pale eyes, his pen poised above his ledger. “What sort of help?”
“I…I have only a few shillings, sir, and I’ve little hope of ever seeing my portmanteau again. And I must get to Inverness. Do you know of a way I might be able to find transport there?”
He frowned. “Ye dinna think ye can leave without paying yer bill?”
Penelope swallowed. “Er, I assure you I will send payment as soon as—”
Mr. Harvey barked out a laugh. “I assure ye, lass, that I’ll send the constable after ye if ye so much as try ta leave Wick without paying me what ye owe. Which amounts ta”—he checked his ledger—“twelve shillings, thrupenny.”
Penelope’s heart went on its downward spiral again. “I don’t suppose there is a telegraph office in Wick?”
“The closest telegraph office is in Inverness.”
Of course it was. And yet she couldn’t send a telegraph if she couldn’t even get there. She tightened her hands on the three shillings in her pocket, then put them on the counter.
“That’s all I have to pay for the room at the moment, Mr. Harvey. I need to send a telegraph to my father in London. If I don’t, I’m afraid you’ll have to turn me over to the authorities. Perhaps
they’ll at least contact my father on my behalf, though I admit to rather dreading the notion of being arrested.”
As if that wouldn’t give Henry Darlington more of an apoplectic fit than he was already experiencing.
Mr. Harvey looked at the three tarnished coins, then back to Penelope. He sighed and put his pen down.
“Tuesdays and Thursdays, the mail coach goes through from Thurso back ta Inverness. If’n ye want to send a message, I’ll convey it ta the driver and ask that he bring it to the telegraph office upon his arrival.”
“Oh, that’s terribly kind of you. I don’t suppose I could accompany…” Penelope’s voice died as she saw his mouth tighten. “No, of course not. Thursday.”
She hoped that meant he would allow her to stay for the next two days, at least. Perhaps by then she could earn enough money actually to send a telegraph begging her father for help. As discouraging as that would be, Penelope simply had no idea what else to do.
Chapter Three
Penelope swept the last of the dust from the floor and set the broom aside. She rested her hands on her hips as she surveyed the dining room, which looked more inviting now that she’d mended the curtains, dusted, rearranged the tables and chairs, and put a bowl of apples and pears on the sideboard. She had also convinced Mr. Harvey to procure a few boughs of holly and ivy, which she had arranged around the front counter. In return for her assistance, he’d agreed to pay to have her telegraph sent.
“I thought ye dinna like Christmas,” he said, peering at her with those narrow eyes.
“I don’t. But most other people do, including those who wish to be guests at your inn. My father makes a great effort every holiday season to entice patrons with special Christmas treats and decorations.” She gave him a pointed look. “Perhaps if you did the same, you might have a few more of your rooms rented.”
He grunted in response.
“I’d even suggest you put a tree in the window,” Penelope continued. “Ever since Her Majesty took up the tradition, my father has adorned our home with a tree in the front parlor, which is decorated with glass balls and tinsel. Everyone speaks of how lovely it is. This year, he even put one in the window of his shop.”