Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

“Lady Bathsheba, the dowager thinks my family is counting on me. Why, I swear by my rosy buttocks ….” She stopped, glancing guiltily at the cupboard where her mother’s portrait lay. She started again, “What I mean to say is that the guardian angel has not arrived. Mother has been busy tossing her halo for heavenly wolfhounds to fetch. That is if dogs are allowed in heaven. Lady Bathsheba, where do you think you will go when you die?”

  She paused to collect her thoughts. Well, there was some truth to the dowager’s words. Her family did not solely consist of the harridan but also her younger stepsisters and her father. If she married well, then she could help them in some small way. Maybe help launch Celine into London society. Celine was just a year younger than her, and in spite of Gertrude, they were close to each other. They met secretly away from her stepmother’s watching eyes and shared their deepest darkest secrets, if young girls could be said to have any deep, dark secrets. Besides, Finnshire did not offer much in terms of available men. It was possible that one of her five sisters could end up being shackled to Lord Weevil. She shuddered at the thought and pulled the quilts closer.

  Should she stay and forget the drunken debacle? Take the new day as a new beginning? She drained her cup and set it aside and snuggled down deeper into the bed. Mary would be around soon enough to collect it and take the goat down to the servants’ rooms. She yawned, too sleepy to decide on a proper course of action. Perhaps things would be clearer in the morning. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Chapter 7

  The clock struck a late hour and Penelope, along with the other inhabitants of the Blackthorne Mansion, slumbered.

  Lady Bathsheba eyed her mistress thoughtfully. She blinked her long lashes twice, and then as if making up her mind on some grave matter, baaed. She baaed loudly and clearly and kept it up until Penelope sat up with a jerk.

  She blinked her bleary eyes open.

  “Lady Bathsheba? You should be sleeping with Mary in the servants’ quarters. She must have forgotten … Shhh, be quiet. Someone will hear you. Oh no, you are bamming me. You want to do your business now? Alright … alright, I will let you out. I am not sure of the way … a moment, I need to put on my robe. Fine, I am coming. I can’t see a blasted thing in this dark anyway.”

  Penelope staggered towards the door and opened it slightly. Perhaps a candle burned outside that she could use?

  Unfortunately, Lady Bathsheba had other ideas. She nudged the door open with her peachy nose and ran out.

  Horrified, Penelope rushed out after her into the hallway.

  “Stop, Lady Bathsheba, stop. You come back here now or I won’t give you a single carrot ever again,” Penelope whispered, hobbling after the goat. The shooting pain in her leg was making it difficult for her to walk, let alone run.

  Lady Bathsheba took no notice and raced onwards. She ran down the long corridor, galloped up a flight of stairs, hurried down the hallway, scurried up a second flight of stairs, and arrived at her destination. She disappeared into a room on the right.

  Penelope stared at the door which was slightly ajar. It was a massive door, and if a door could look manly, then this one did. She felt an urge to giggle and shoved a fist into her mouth. If anyone found her lurking in the corridor in the middle of the night laughing hysterically to herself because she thought a door looked manly, she would be off to a madhouse before she could say picaroon ever again. She bit down on her hand and forced herself to calm down.

  A minute went by, and when Lady Bathsheba did not emerge, Penelope cautiously approached the door and stuck her ear to the crack. She strained to hear a single sound that could enlighten her as to who or what was behind the door. She heard nothing and her piteous calls to Lady Bathsheba were ignored.

  She took a deep breath and dropped down on all fours. She nudged the door open and peeked in.

  A candle burned somewhere in the room and the light was dim. It was a bedroom with a large bed at the centre. A lump on the bed indicated that someone was asleep. Penelope smothered a squeal and got ready to back up out of the room when she noticed Lady Bathsheba’s white tail sticking out of the wardrobe.

  Penelope hesitated. Should she wait outside or drag the goat out? What if Lady Bathsheba started baaing? She could wait outside, but she had no idea what the time was and when the occupant of the room arose. What if the person found Lady Bathsheba before she did? She couldn’t afford to upset anyone in the household any further.

  What if the occupant was Sir Henry Woodville and he ordered the chef to cook her goat?

  This last thought decided her and she entered the room. She crawled on account of her painful ankle. Besides, it was easier to be sneaky on all fours. She made her way towards the wardrobe, grateful that the floor was thickly carpeted. Her heart thundered as she neared her goal.

  She stared at the goat’s behind. The white stubby tail swished back and forth. She could lunge at the goat and pick her up and run, except her foot may give way and the noise would definitely wake the unknown person. She had no choice but to coax the blasted animal out. She softly patted the goat on the back.

  Lady Bathsheba poked her head out and glanced at Penelope inquiringly. She held a piece of cloth in her mouth.

  Penelope lunged and grasped the end of the cloth. Thereafter, a silent tug of war ensued. Lady Bathsheba held on to the cloth with her teeth and tugged while Penelope, using all her might, pulled.

  Penelope finally won, but before she could grab the goat by the neck, Lady Bathsheba had disappeared into the wardrobe again and emerged with another piece of cloth.

  Penelope emitted a soft moan of frustration. She glared at the goat and then glanced at the cloth she had managed to save. Her eyes grew large in horror. For the first time in her life she beheld, good lord… a man’s underthing.

  She flung it away, and then stared first at her hand and then at the cloth. Had she just held Sir Henry’s … She squeezed her eyes shut and scrubbed her palms on her skirts.

  She eyed Lady Bathsheba reproachfully while the goat sat chewing contently. She had a curious feeling that the other cloth hanging out of the goat’s mouth was also of the same type.

  “Lady Bathsheba that is … that is very undignified. You cannot be chewing on a man’s underclothing. Please be a good lady and drop it at once. I truly cannot touch it again,” she whispered pleadingly.

  Lady Bathsheba ignored her whispered plea and continued chewing blissfully.

  Finally, tired of waiting, Penelope bravely closed her eyes and grabbed the cloth and tugged.

  “Let go… Lady Bathsheba, I am warning you, no carrots. A refined woman does not behave this way. Please, just give it to me. You are a good goat, aren’t you?”

  Penelope gave up. She would drag the silly goat out, underthing and all. She could always wrestle it off in the hallway and shove it in a potted plant. She could think of no other solution. She grabbed Lady Bathsheba by the neck and started crawling backwards.

  Halfway through her buttocks hit a wall. She didn’t remember any obstacles on the way in. Had she moved too far behind? Confused, she glanced back and let out a small scream.

  The duke, with his arms crossed, stood in his robes watching her.

  Penelope sprang up, wincing as her foot complained and swayed.

  The duke didn’t help steady her. He stared at her, anger etched in every line of his face.

  “Miss Fairweather …,” he said sarcastically and then paused. He had spotted his undercloth still held in her hand.

  Penelope blushed and hastily dropped it. She then gripped her night gown and curtsied.

  “I am sorry, Lady Bathsheba escaped—”

  “And out of two hundred and fifty rooms in the Blackthorne house, she happened to find mine to hide in. By complete coincidence, I suppose?” he asked, raising a disbelieving brow.

  “Yes,” she replied in a small voice.

  “It is well past midnight, Miss Fairweather, but I still have my wits about me. You are here to warm my bed.”

>   “Is your bed cold?” At his thunderous expression, she hurriedly continued, “I did not know this was your room. How was I to know? I just arrived.”

  “A coin to the maids would have told you.”

  “Well, I did not ask a mopsqueezer … maid,” she clarified at his baffled expression. “Lady Bathsheba escaped and I ran after her …”

  “Stop acting dim. You came here to seduce me. I am sure you had planned to have us caught in a compromising position. You had only one night left in London. Therefore, you were desperate enough to—”

  “Seduce you?” Penelope snapped. “Why you pig headed nincompoop. I planned no such thing.”

  “Nincumpoop? Mopsqueezer? Where in the world do you learn these … these fascinating words from? Fishwives?”

  “Finnshire is not a fishing village,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “And where do you get your clothes from?” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “That is the most hideous nightgown I have ever seen. If you did plan this, then you did not plan it well. You should have arrived naked, then perhaps …”

  “Listen here, I am a country girl,” Penelope growled, pointing a finger at him, “a strong, healthy country girl. You are a duke and no doubt weakened by the London water. Be careful … I … will not have you … you tarnishing my good name …”

  The duke had slowly started closing the distance between them. He now caught her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She grimaced in pain.

  “I am holding you, little sparrow, with one hand. Try and get away now. Let us test that strength of yours,” he said, glaring down at her.

  She squeaked, her eyes leaping up to meet his. The candle cast shadows on his face, making his features look sharper and more angular. The expression in his dark eyes had her shaking uncontrollably.

  Frightened, she squirmed in his grip. He pulled her flush against himself, tightening his hold.

  “You confessed at dinner tonight that you will go to any lengths to trap a man. You then arrive in my room in your appalling, mustard hued, high necked, brown spotted nightgown with a ridiculous tale. Your intentions are clear. I know your sort, Miss Fairweather, and most of the time they are beautifully packaged. I like quality and you are far from it.”

  “I … don’t know what sort of women you are used to, your grace. I am telling you the truth. Please believe me, I am not like that,” she begged, tears stinging her eyes.

  “You are desperate to marry, are you not?” he asked softly.

  “You are h-hurting me,” she stammered, avoiding his eyes.

  He immediately loosened his hold but did not let her go. “This is a dangerous game you play, my dear, and if I ravish you, no one will believe you.”

  Penelope swallowed nervously, “I thought I was not good enough for you.”

  He studied her face, his eyes tracing her dark curling hair and the delicate skin that showed above the neckline. Her squirming made him tighten his fingers on her wrist.

  Something changed in the air and a queer sort of intensity pervaded the room. The duke stilled and his eyes darkened.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said huskily. “You remind me of dark, violent fairy tales. A sprite escaped from the page of a book or a pixie with a hint of madness lurking in big brown eyes. It would be a novel experience …”

  She kept her eyes pinned on his chest. A faint blush started creeping up her neck.

  “You are trembling,” he noted absently.

  Her eyes flitted up to his while her chest rose and fell in agitation.

  He searched her eyes and then his expression changed. Dropping her wrist he turned his back on her.

  His voice was desolate when he said, “I am furious that you tried to trick me, but I am not going to hurt you. Don’t look at me like that.” He turned to face her again, his eyes falling on her trembling mouth. “Someone else may appreciate what you offer, but I am not that man, Miss Fairweather. Be careful whom you choose in the future. Men can be cruel.”

  His head dipped towards her, his eyes dark, troubled and piercing. “Stay away from me, country girl. I am the architect, not the fool. I plan and people follow. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her face white.

  He studied her face, taking his time. His head dipped lower still, his lips a heartbeat away from hers.

  “Leave,” he whispered.

  She did. She ran, forgetting the pain in her ankle. She didn’t even recall Lady Bathsheba until she collapsed on the bed and found the goat nuzzling her. She put her arms around the goat and wept.

  “I want to go home, Lady Bathsheba, I want to go home,” she sobbed.

  ***

  The duke stared at the spot where Penelope had recently stood. His hands curled into a fist as he remembered the feel of her small slim waist.

  He smiled mockingly. At least Miss Penelope Fairweather would never try and crawl into his bed again.

  Her frightened face loomed in front of him and for a moment he felt remorse. What if she had been telling the truth? He banished the thought immediately. She was a conniving, sly woman and the quicker she left his home the better for all concerned. A silly country girl was no match for the Duke of Blackthorne. She would be off to Finnshire before she knew it.

  Chapter 8

  ‘The standard decree on the principles of behaviour within the Blackthorne household’ lay face down on Penelope’s rosewood bedside table. Rules number 5, 11, 13 and 15 were crossed out. Penelope had broken them all in one day (A remarkable feat that is still unmatched to this day).

  The sun, which was missing when one wanted it, was predictably shining bright and happy this morning. Penelope pulled the satin sheet over her face, followed by the quilt and finally the pillow. The cheerful sun wove its way through the very same sheet, quilt and pillow to dance upon her eyelids.

  Meanwhile, Penelope’s mother, sitting high above the Blackthorne Mansion on the second cloud on the right, watched her daughter sleep. Her little girl was growing up. Her darling daughter finally understood the dangers of lubricating her insides with brandy and wine. A woozy head and utter mortification were sure to follow. Sighing, she sipped her own heavenly wine in pleasure, her hand automatically shooting out to catch a naughty cupid escaping with her bottle of holy spirit. In heaven one never suffered a sore head, no matter how much liquid sloshed in your belly. Smiling tearfully, she adjusted a halo atop a celestial wolfhound and leaned back on her seat of clouds to watch the day unfold.

  Back in the guestroom of the Blackthorne Mansion, Penelope squeezed her eyes shut harder, trying desperately to sleep for a touch longer.

  The clatter of cups, someone poking the fire and a cheery tune assaulted her ears next. She flung the quilt back and glowered at her smiling maid.

  “Good morning, Miss Pea,” Mary said, her cheeks pink with exercise, her eyes bright and sporting a jolly expression.

  Penelope wondered if women were hanged. If she murdered her maid, would she get away with it? If one planned things properly, she mused, blowing a strand of hair away from her face. Her hair somehow always took time ceding to gravity. Gravity always won, but the battle left her looking like a fluffy new mop every morning. She blearily reached for her cup of tea and sipped in silence.

  Mary’s love affair with the stablehand was progressing satisfactorily. That morning the stablehand had caught Mary’s hand and given her the ends of his candle stubs. She explained this entire romantic scene to Penelope in great detail, stressing the amount of times she had blushed and how many times he had stammered.

  Normally Penelope would have asked her for more details and relished the gossip. She would have been happy for her maid and given her some helpful advice on how best to woo the stablehand.

  But today was not a normal day because tiny little creatures created from a mixture of brandy and wine had made their way up from Penelope’s stomach to her head. They now sat playing untuned violins and strident flutes.

  So while Mary chattered on, P
enelope eyed her through bloodshot eyes and meditated on the number of ways a mistress could kill her lady’s maid.

  Soon things became even more trying for Penelope because Mary approached her with a comb. Mary was clever, she mused. A comb running through tangled hair atop a head that throbbed was an excellent weapon. She stared at her cup mournfully. Not a drop remained of the scalding hot tea which could have been a brilliant counter weapon. Irritably she allowed Mary to attack. It was better to stay passive and suffer than attempt to win a war bare handed.

  So Mary combed, pulled, tugged and struggled. And as Mary battled the knots in Penelope’s hair, her sparkling chatter turned into disgruntled silence, the smile faded from her lips, and soon her good humour was entirely replaced with a glower.

  Nothing annoyed a lady’s maid more than a nest of wild, disobedient and knotted hair. Penelope felt revenged and refreshed. She splashed her face, scrubbed her teeth and wore her new spotted muslin in a more genial mood.

  ***

  Penelope sat on an antique chair inspecting her swollen ankle. It was worse; angry and red. She poked it gingerly and winced in pain. And then a moment later she poked it again. It was still painful. Mornings in the Blackthorne Mansion, it seemed, were a time for self-flagellation.

  Penelope squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relive the night’s events. The drunken debacle, the duke’s horrid words and the goat with the duke’s underthing flashed through her mind in vivid detail. She did not enjoy reliving these scenes, but past experience had taught her that recalling the embarrassing memories soon after the event occurs dampens the cringeworthy feelings a bit. It is never as bad as you think.

  Unfortunately, recalling the night’s events did not make her feel any better. If anything, she was cringing all the more.

  Penelope forced herself to breathe. Her cold hands tried to cool her heated cheeks while her brain tried to figure out the fastest way out of London without being seen. After entertaining herself with thoughts of running away with a circus, begging a gin seller to adopt her, and joining the barmy Finnshire witch in the forest, she arrived at the obvious conclusion. She would have to bid the dowager goodbye. The question was what in the world was she supposed to say to her?