A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  Penelope flew to the window and, after struggling with the latch, opened it. “What’s happened? Has Clara taken a turn? Has she lost the child?”

  “Miss Bromley’s gone and hurt herself. I went up as soon as I could after church. She’d gotten into Lord Turner’s medical bag. He sent me to fetch you.”

  Oh dear Lord, no. She’d been prepared to talk to Clara for days now. Why hadn’t she done so sooner? How could she have allowed herself to be so diverted by her hopes for Lord Turner? “Wait for me. I’ll be right out.”

  Penelope latched the window and walked to the door of the parlor. The house was quiet. Since this was their afternoon off, Fanny and Hannah must have finished cleaning up from luncheon and gone visiting. She left a quick note in case she was still gone when they returned, took her cloak and hat from their hook, and let herself out.

  When she and Ellen arrived at the Hall, they found Lord Turner in bloodstained shirtsleeves next to Clara’s bed. He stood when he saw them.

  “Sit with her for a few minutes, Ellen,” he said, coming toward them. He led Penelope outside and shut the door behind them.

  “What happened?”

  “She found a scalpel in my bag and cut her wrists.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even know I had left something like that in there. It must have slipped down inside the lining.” He leaned his head back against the doorframe.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “My lord, this wasn’t your fault.” Would he believe that? Or would this push him back into the darkness?

  “When Ellen found her, she was awake and frightened,” he said. “I gave her a little laudanum, and she fell asleep. But I don’t think she should be left alone.”

  “I’ll go and sit with her. You should change.”

  He pushed away from the door and left. If the sight of his retreating back pained her, how would she ever be able to convince him to leave permanently? She pressed her hands against her warm cheeks before entering the room.

  “You’d better go before you’re missed, Ellen,” she said as she walked to the bed.

  Ellen nodded and gave Clara a kind, sisterly look before she quit the room. Her compassion was touching. Most would have been condemning.

  Penelope removed her cloak and hat and set them aside. She lowered herself to her knees and propped her arms on the edge of the bed to pray. Father, use me to bring her back. My past has ruined me, but it may help heal her. When she was finished, she drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down, watching her friend’s face. Painful experience played across her features even in sleep.

  An hour or so passed. Lord Turner had not returned. Perhaps he had decided to retire to the library.

  Clara roused and opened her eyes. They grew glassy when she saw Penelope.

  “I am so sorry.” A tear slipped down her face. She raised her hand to wipe it away, and more began to flow when she caught sight of the bandages on her wrist. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Penelope. Truly, I don’t.”

  “I know, darling,” she soothed and wiped her face with her own handkerchief. “You’ve been so melancholy.”

  “I’ve been unsure of the state of my own soul.” Clara closed her eyes. “What must God think of me?”

  Penelope gently took hold of her hands. “God loves all His children. Even when they make mistakes.”

  “I know I should believe you above all people.” She looked to the ceiling. “Does God really forgive women who’ve fallen as we have?”

  John watched the two women through the crack in the door. He couldn’t have heard Clara correctly. Fallen? No. How was that possible? He focused his attention on Penelope. At the ruins, she’d said that God’s grace covered not only his mistakes, but hers as well. Was this what she’d meant?

  She answered Clara’s question by pulling something from her pocket and laying it in the young woman’s hand. A rock. Clara looked at her questioningly, almost fearfully.

  “I used to be the apple of my father’s eye,” Penelope said. “But when I ran away with Edmund Kern and he violated me, Father gave me this.”

  Violated? The wood doorframe should have cracked. No, the whole door—the whole wall—should be giving way in the wake of the fire which burned through his chest. If this Edmund Kern was anywhere in England, he would find him and throttle him with his bare hands. For the moment, he’d settle for the doorframe. It prevented him from committing murder, but it also kept him from striding into the room. There was more. If he walked in now she’d never be able to say it. She needed to tell him without knowing she was.

  “In his eyes, my fall was terrible. He gave me this as a reminder.” She took the stone from Clara and turned it over.

  The young woman squinted at it. “What is that carved there?”

  “John 8:1-11. The story of the woman caught in adultery.”

  Clara stared at her.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You’re not an adulteress. He attacked you.”

  “Adulteress, loose woman—all the same in my father’s eyes. He said Edmund only did what any man would do in his situation, and it was my fault for stepping into the carriage. My father gave this to me as a reminder of what I had done. As a way of keeping me from straying again.” Penelope leaned back in her seat and clasped her hands in her lap. “I read that passage every day for years. Twice if I happened to see a handsome young man. I kept myself from forming any kind of relationship, in part because of that passage and in part because when I had my daughter, there were complications. I can’t have children.”

  His hands fell from the doorframe. She couldn’t have children? No. No, she was made to be a mother. Sadness tamed the angry flames and his arms ached to hold her close and never let go.

  “Oh, Penelope, none of that is your fault.”

  “I know that now. It’s funny how you can read something over and over and still not really read it. One day I read through it again, and I saw it.”

  “What?”

  “The rock.”

  “Which one? Everyone has rocks in that passage, Penelope. They were ready to stone her.”

  “No, Clara. The Rock. Jesus, the Christ.” She reached up and wiped her cheek. “He is the Rock I stand on every day. He is my sure foothold when I sin, and He does not condemn me. And He does not condemn you either.”

  Tears streamed down Clara’s cheeks as Penelope drew her close.

  John stepped back from the door, shaking. He gripped his head in his hands then swung them to his sides as he strode down the hall. His steps became a jog, then almost a run until he reached the library. William’s Bible. It sat on a stand near the window. He scooped it up and took it to his study, shutting the doors behind him. He read the passage in John, not once, but three times.

  … He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone … where are those thine accusers? ... Neither do I condemn thee …

  Neither do I condemn thee …

  He sank down to his knees. Truly, God? How can you forgive me? How?

  Grace. My grace is sufficient for thee. My power is perfect in your weakness.

  This time he let the verse in. Its warmth wrapped around his chest and back like a father holding fast to his son, pulling him from the edge of danger. He gasped and laughed, his heart pounding out a joy which reverberated through every cell in his body. The endless pit, the freefall, was over.

  He raised himself to his feet.

  He stood on the Rock.

  Always had and always would.

  Robert had been right.

  She had been right.

  Penelope. He needed to see her. Tell her. Tell her everything. That he knew about her past and how little it mattered to him. How could it? After everything he’d done, how could he judge her?

  He wiped his handkerchief across his face and opened the door to his study.

  Penelope stood on the other side.

  He didn’t give her a chance to say or do anything. He swept her into his arms and held her. Her heart b
eat against his chest, and he let himself drown in her scent of lavender and roses. “It’s over, Penelope. I’m not falling anymore.”

  She pulled away from him. “My lord?”

  “No one is beyond redemption.” He cupped her face with both hands. “You’re right.”

  “Clara ... she …” Penelope stammered. “She’s sleeping. Again.”

  He swept a thumb along her cheekbone. “I’m glad you came to tell me that.”

  “I should go.”

  Why was she pulling away? Didn’t she understand? Nothing stood between them now. He held her fast by her forearms. This day would not end without asking her to remain by his side until he drew his last breath.

  “Did you need anything else, my lord?”

  He bent slightly and could feel the sliver of air between them vibrate as he whispered in her ear. “You do know I have a name, don’t you?”

  She tried to step away again. He drew her closer. Bit by bit, he lowered his head until his lips brushed hers. She sighed and relented.

  He drank her in, and she tasted sweeter than before. With a great deal of effort, he lifted his head and found the azure blue of her eyes. “To answer your question, yes, I do need something else. You. Always. Every day. And every night.”

  Penelope stared at him. What could she do? Or say? She was caught between sorrow and joy. He still didn’t know.

  “My lord—”

  “I have a name.”

  The door opened, and they parted. Mrs. Lynch came in, carrying a ledger.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lynch?” Lord Turner asked.

  She walked past them and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “My lord, I need to speak to you.”

  “I’ll leave,” Penelope said.

  “No, Miss Howard,” she said. “Stay. This concerns you as well.”

  Her? Lord Turner took her hand and led her into the study, pulling her behind the desk with him. He sat, and she stood just behind his chair. Mrs. Lynch handed him the ledger.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It belongs to Mr. Howard, my lord.”

  After exchanging glances with Penelope, he opened the ledger. The more pages he scanned, the more his jaw tightened.

  “What’s wrong?” Penelope asked.

  “He’s stealing from me.” He snapped the ledger shut.

  “What?” She flipped the ledger back open.

  Column after column, in Thomas’ own hand, were entries which showed him skimming money from more than one source. The salary for his bailiffs in Somerset and the Isle of Wight were higher than what they were actually given, and he pocketed a portion of the profits from the holdings in Southampton. He had also stolen a portion of the tenants’ rents by lying about the actual amounts being charged and pocketing the difference. A month prior, Ashford House had been let out, and he’d retained the entire amount.

  It was as if her whole body had become a block of ice as shame leached the warmth from it. Thomas, what have you done? How could you? She pushed the ledger away and focused on the edge of the desk.

  “My lord, I swear I did not know any of this.”

  Lord Turner shut the book. “I know.”

  His tone would warm her if she let it. She didn’t.

  “He betrayed all of us,” Mrs. Lynch said.

  “All of us?” Lord Turner asked.

  “Miss Bromley most of all. Has she ever told you who the father was?”

  Penelope started. “No. Harriett, how can you even know? Clara confided only in me.”

  “If you go to your brother’s studio, you will find irrefutable proof that it’s his. Though I warn you, it isn’t proper in the least.”

  What was colder than ice? There was no word for what chilled her now. “You mean—”

  “Yes. He never left his past completely behind. The rest, the money, was because of your uncle.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lord Turner said. “What proof? And how does William factor into this?”

  Proof? Would Harriett say? A portion of her thawed as she answered.

  “Except for the title, Lord Renshaw could have given all he owned to anyone he chose, in full or in part. Thomas was furious when he was left only Fairview and the promise that you would be encouraged to keep him on.”

  “He never acted as if that bothered him.”

  “My brother is a clever actor, my lord,” Penelope whispered. “Though I thought I was close enough to him that he could not fool me.”

  Lord Turner grasped her fingers. Thomas’ indiscretions reminded her of her own. The man next to her, attempting to comfort her as best he could, had to be convinced to leave before he knew everything. With a wrench to her heart, she pulled her fingers free.

  “Do you know where he is now?” he asked.

  “He’s gone,” Mrs. Lynch said. “He’s done all the damage he can and left.”

  “How did you know all of this?” Penelope asked.

  Mrs. Lynch worried the edge of her sleeve for almost a minute before answering. “Miss Bromley was not the only woman to be used by him.”

  Their conversation outside the pub, the tie pin. Neither had been innocent coincidences.

  “Are you well, Harriett?” she asked.

  “I was more careful than poor Miss Bromley. What will happen to her? Will her child be all right?”

  “I intend to do everything I can for her,” Lord Turner replied. “As far as I can tell at this point, the child is fine.”

  Joseph appeared at the door. “My lord, there’s a messenger here from Hartsbury Manor. You’re wanted there at once.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Fortis was damp with sweat by the time John arrived at Hartsbury. He dismounted and threw the reins at the groom who rushed out to meet them. His leg throbbed, and he was obliged to pause at the bottom of the steps leading up to the house. Taking them as quickly as he dared, he rang the bell and walked inside as soon as the footman opened the door.

  “Mrs. Baines is expecting me,” he said.

  He was shown into the parlor. The older woman was the only one in the room, and she sat in a high-backed chair, looking like the queen herself holding court. “Ah, Lord Turner. Good afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Baines.”

  He growled the words, but she apparently did not notice. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Actually, I’d rather not.” His leg begged to differ, but he ignored it. “If you could, please tell me why you felt the need to summon me here on a Sunday afternoon. I would like to hear it and return home.”

  “I see. I’m afraid I have received some rather disturbing news concerning Miss Howard.”

  He clenched his jaw and looked over the fussy, ornate room before returning his gaze to her. “And what complaint do you have against her now, Mrs. Baines?”

  “Not a complaint, a confirmation.” She pulled a letter free from where it was tucked in the cushion of her chair. “This was delivered to me not an hour ago. It is a letter to Miss Howard from a Miss Neale. Apparently, they met in London. In a lying-in hospital. As patients.”

  She held the letter out to him, and he snatched it from her hand. He skimmed the contents. Nothing new, but enough to confirm a spiteful old woman’s suspicions. How on God’s earth had Mrs. Baines gotten a hold of it? If only the fire searing through his body would ignite the paper and turn it to ashes. He folded it and she snatched it from his fingers before he could rip it to shreds.

  She raised a brow at him. “Do you have anything to say about the contents of this letter?”

  “No.”

  Her round eyes grew even more so. “No? What can you mean?”

  He worked his jaw. When his classics professor in college had described a harpy from Greek mythology, he must have used her as a template. “I am aware of the situation Miss Howard found herself in several years ago. I know for a fact it was not her fault.”

  Mrs. Baines leaned back in her chair, her chin raised. “I see. But surely you must see how impossible it is f
or her to continue to represent the Hall in your name. Her character has been severely compromised.”

  “I’ll thank you not to speak that way about my future wife.”

  She huffed at him like a locomotive. “You cannot possibly be serious, sir.”

  “I am very serious, Mrs. Baines.”

  The woman leaned forward in her chair. Were her eyes really gleaming with delight? “And what will happen if your tenants discover her indiscretion? Hmm? What then, Lord Turner?”

  “If you so much as breathe a word of this, I will sue you for slander.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Sir James walked into the room. “Lord Turner?” He frowned as he looked from him to his sister. His gaze settled on her. “I see you’re still here.”

  “I am,” she replied. “I told you I wanted to talk to you about this decision of Isabella’s, and I meant it.” She looked at John. “I’m very sorry, Lord Turner. I hope you will excuse us.”

  Sir James held up his hand.

  “Wait a moment, Dorothea.” He looked at John. “What brings you here, sir? I have to apologize for missing your arrival. I was seeing to some details regarding my daughter’s recent marriage.”

  Mrs. Baines gave a sniff. “To a stable boy.”

  “You mean Arthur? Arthur Wilcox?” John asked. He had been here all this time?

  “The very same,” Sir James replied. “I sent for Arthur after he blew up the well. I was curious about this young man who had the audacity not only to defy you but to force his way into my house and be so open about his feelings toward my daughter.” His eyes became tender. “I love Isabella very much. She’s like her mother in many ways, and I admit I indulged her thirst for knowledge, not realizing how hard that would make it for her to marry.”

  “I tried to tell you, James,” Mrs. Baines said.

  “And at first I thought I should have listened, but I’ve come to realize she wouldn’t have been happy. She wouldn’t be our Isabella.” He sat down in the chair opposite his sister and laid his hand over hers. “I came to see she couldn’t marry an ordinary man. When I saw how clever your protégé is, Lord Turner, and how much he genuinely cares for her, I gave them my consent to marry. Mr. Gregory performed the ceremony yesterday.”