by M C Beaton
She arrived at last at Brook Street and paused for a moment, clutching the railings and holding her side, waiting to recover her breath. The butler answered her knock at the door and looked curiously at her tearstained face, but Penelope flew past him and up the stairs to her room. She hurriedly crammed her old clothes into a bandbox and then scrambled out of her court dress. She must get away before Augusta returned. She must escape in case the Earl arrived to taunt her further. She was ruined! All London would know by morning that she had slept with the Earl! “Augusta will kill me,” thought poor Penelope, little realising that Augusta was actually capable of doing just that.
She did not want to take any of the dresses Augusta had given her but common sense prevailed. She took three of the plainest dresses and packed them with the old ones and then sadly put on the old gown she had worn when she had travelled to London so hopefully those few months ago.
It was then she realised she had no money. The only place she could think of to go to was back to the seminary in Bath, but she had not even a penny of her own. There was the diamond pendant, but she did not feel she could take it.
Suddenly she remembered the artist, Mr. Liwoski. He had been very kind to her and they had often chatted together when he had finished his work for the day. Augusta had his address in the drawing room bureau. She ran softly down the stairs and gently opened the drawing room door.
The Comte de Chernier rose to his feet. Penelope gave a gasp and stared at him in dismay.
“Do not be frightened of me, Miss Vesey,” said the Comte. “I am waiting your aunt’s return from Clarence House. You are back early.”
Penelope hardly knew the man but his voice was sympathetic and, before she could stop herself, she was pouring the whole story into his ears.
The Comte surveyed her thoughtfully. It was entirely in his own interest to have the beautiful Miss Vesey out of the way. Augusta’s plans for social advancement would then only rely upon himself.
“Come, my child,” he said. “I am a great friend of your aunt and you must think of me as an uncle. I am ever ready to help beauty in distress. I shall give you money, my dear, and you may make your way to this seminary in Bath. No, no! I insist. He pulled three rouleaux of guineas from a capacious pocket and put them into her hand.
“This is a fortune!” said Penelope. “I do not need all this. I only need my coach fare to Bath.”
“Come now,” said the Comte. “I insist. I think I hear your aunt’s carriage.” He thought no such thing but he was anxious to be rid of Penelope. Penelope turned white and ran to the door.
“Au revoir!” called the Comte after her, “et bon voyage.”
Penelope had only been gone a half hour before Augusta’s carriage rattled to a halt outside.
She waddled into the drawing room and stopped short at the sight of the Comte. “Where is she?” she snarled.
“Penelope?” said the Comte, raising his thin brows. “Your niece has left, madam. She said something incoherent about throwing herself in the river.”
“Good riddance,” said Augusta, sitting down heavily.
“She’d bedded with Hestleton which would have been all right had she kept him engaged to her. But she didn’t. So she’s labelled a tart.
“Had she still been here, I would have whipped that slut within an inch of her life. Barrington called me a Covent Garden Abbess. Said I had been trying to foist a shopworn slut onto him. Was there ever such a night!”
“It looks as if you will need me more than ever,” murmured the Comte, but Augusta was still reliving the humiliations of the evening.
“And if that weren’t enough,” she went on, “Hestleton starts sneering at me in front of everyone. Called me the pig-faced lady and said it was the first time he had seen a sow crossed with a mushroom.”
The Comte raised his hand to hide a smile. “Never mind,” he said, “if you continue your work, you will soon have your title.”
“I want it in writing,” said Augusta.
“Come now, madam, you cannot expect me to commit myself on paper.”
Augusta looked at him, her eyes suddenly gleaming with triumph as she remembered that her evening at Clarence House had not been a total disaster.
“Oh, yes you will,” she said. “Would it interest you to know that I was hidden in a certain antechamber when the Duke of Wellington and the Prince Regent were having a certain private discussion?”
The Comte surveyed her for a long minute. Then he rose and walked to a desk and pulled the inkstand towards him.
“As you will, dear Miss Harvey,” he said over his shoulder. “What an enterprising lady you are, to be sure.”
“But I pray you, send me no more pickled bodies. It quite upsets my digestion. I have not drunk a glass of canary since!”
While Augusta and the Comte bargained, Penelope was lucky enough to obtain a room at the Belle Savage on Ludgate Hill. For one hundred and six shillings and three farthings, she managed to secure an inside seat in the coach which left at five o’clock in the morning.
She tossed and turned on the damp, unaired sheets of her bedchamber, waiting for the dawn, dreading that any minute the door would open and Augusta would waddle over the threshold.
Penelope was now very frightened of her aunt. If only she had left long ago. But she had hung on, hoping against hope for a reconciliation with the Earl. He had turned out to be a heartless, mocking dandy and Aunt Augusta, an evil, callous woman. As a rosy dawn sent long fingers into the dingy room, Penelope’s despair and misery began to flee before an overpowering hate for the Earl.
He had not wanted to marry her after all! He had become engaged to her only to trick her into his bed, and, having done so, had no more use for her.
She would pay back the Comte every penny he had given her. There, at least, was one gentleman!
By the time Penelope had dressed and washed, eaten a surprisingly good breakfast, and climbed into the coach, her youthful optimism had begun to rise to the surface. Life at the seminary would be hard, but after a few months she would ask the Misses Fry to find her a position as a governess.
For three long days the milestones passed Penelope’s unseeing eyes—Hounslow, Windsor, Maidenhead, Reading, Newbury, Marlborough, Chippenham, and so to Bath.
Penelope dismounted stiffly at the White Lion. She was too anxious about her future to wait there for breakfast but immediately hired a hack to take her to the seminary.
How dark and dingy it looked, she thought as she paid off the hack and pushed open the tall wroughtiron gates.
The tall, thin house had a silent, brooding air and an unseasonal chill wind was blowing from the crescent of hills which surrounds the city of Bath.
Penelope rapped on the knocker and waited. The door opened a crack and the sleepy face of little Mary, the scullery maid, peered out through the opening.
“Oh, miss!” cried Mary, opening the door wide. “Have you come to take me away? Remember as how you said I could be your lady’s maid.” Mary’s voice faltered as she noticed Penelope’s old dress and shabby bonnet.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” said Penelope gently. “I have come back to try to find work. Things did not work out at all as we hoped.”
“Oh, you poor lamb,” cried Mary, pulling her into the house. “The dragons isn’t awake yet, only me, so come down to the kitchen and I’ll brew us a nice cup of tea.”
Penelope wearily followed the little scullery maid down the stairs. She suddenly felt very tired indeed.
“The Misses Fry was ever so proud of you,” said Mary, pouring boiling water into a teapot. “They saw your engagement to that Earl in the Court Circular and showed it all round the school. They …”
“Mary,” came a stern voice from the doorway. Miss Harriet Fry stood there, her curl papers bristling. “That tea is not for the servants.” She suddenly caught sight of Penelope.
“Miss Vesey,” she cried. “How nice of you to pay us a visit.”
Penelope got to her fe
et and Miss Harriet’s quick eyes took note of her shabby appearance and her face hardened.
“I—I am actually come on a matter of business.”
“In deed !” said Miss Harriet majestically. “Then please follow me to the study. I will speak to you later, Mary.”
Penelope followed the stout little figure of Miss Harriet up the familiar steps and into the study. She had a desolate feeling of once more being under authority.
“Well, Miss Vesey?” said Harriet, sitting down and addressing herself to the fire irons. She did not ask Penelope to sit.
“My visit to my aunt was not successful,” said Penelope, “and I wondered if you would consider employing me as a governess?”
“You were engaged to the Earl of Hestleton,” exclaimed Miss Harriet. “We read it in the Court Circular. What happened?”
“The Earl and I decided we should not suit,” said Penelope quietly.
Miss Harriet arose and addressed herself to the clock on the mantelpiece. “We have no vacancies, Miss Vesey. Had we not just employed a music teacher—a singularly charming man and distantly related to the Smythe-Bellings—perhaps we might have seen our way to taking you back. But as it is …” Her voice trailed off.
Penelope picked up the rags of her dignity along with her bandbox. “Perhaps then,” she suggested, “you could recommend me for a post as governess in some household?”
“Oh, no, no. I couldn’t do that,” said Miss Harriet to the carpet. “After all, there’s something havey-cavey about your return from London. If you did not suit such a lady as Miss Harvey—seventy-five thousand a year, charming!—there must be some flaw in your character. You do understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” said Penelope. “You could very well help me, but humiliating me seems to be infinitely more enjoyable. Good day to you, ma’am.”
Penelope left before Miss Harriet could think of a rejoinder.
As she marched to the gate, she heard the light patter of footsteps behind her and swung around. It was little Mary, her eyes wide with concern. “Oh, miss,” she gasped, “wouldn’t they take you back?”
Penelope shook her head and then, searching in her reticule, found two guineas and pressed them into Mary’s work-worn hand. “There you are, Mary,” said Penelope, fighting back tears, “that will at least buy you some cakes.” And she walked hurriedly out through the gates and off down the road, leaving Mary standing in the driveway, staring at the gold.
A pale small sun had risen on a gusty, blustery day with great white castles of clouds sweeping over the hills. Penelope turned a bend in the road and when she was sure she was at last out of sight of the windows of the seminary, she sat down on a grassy bank beside the road and cried and cried. Cried for her lost love; cried because people were never what they seemed, and for the bitter end of her cherished dream of a home of her own.
She was so engrossed in her misery that she did not hear the heavy rumbling of wheels or notice the antiquated travelling carriage rounding the bend.
The carriage lurched to a stop beside her, and a woman’s fat jolly face in an enormous poke bonnet peered out of the window.
Penelope suddenly noticed the coach and the fact that the carriage door was opening and fumbled for her handkerchief.
She looked slowly up. A large motherly woman was standing in front of her. “You’re in trouble,” said the lady. “Mr. Jennings saw you first. He’s got quick eyes and he says, ‘Mrs. Jennings,’ he says, ‘there’s a young miss in trouble. Get down instanter and see if you can help.’ So here I am.”
“I-I’m qu-quite all right,” stammered Penelope. “I-I h-have something in m-my eye.”
“Well, it stands to reason you wouldn’t want to confide in a stranger,” said Penelope’s companion, “but you can’t sit here by the road. You come with us to the nearest inn for we’re both in need of a luncheon and perhaps you’ll feel better when you have had some food.”
Penelope suddenly realised she was very hungry indeed and, apart from that, she no longer cared much what happened to her so she allowed herself to be led into the coach.
Her newfound friends kept a tactful silence until they were all seated round a table in the upstairs parlor of the nearest hostelry.
Mr. Jennings was a complete contrast to his buxom, jolly wife. He was a thin, ascetic gentleman with a dry, scholarly voice. He refused to let Penelope speak until she had eaten a substantial meal, conversing instead with his garrulous wife. Penelope gathered that the couple was setting out from Bath on the long journey to their home in Dover. Mr. Jennings had been taking the waters at Bath for a liver complaint. The visit to Bath had effected a cure, caused, claimed Mr. Jennings, by the rest from work and strict diet rather than by the sulphurous waters of Bath.
When the covers were finally removed, he called for a churchwarden, and once the long clay pipe had been lit, turned to Penelope and asked her in his dry, precise voice if there was any way in which he could be of service to her.
The former sparkling innocence of Penelope’s blue eyes had fled to be replaced by a wary, hurt look. The Jenningses seemed kind, but who could tell? Perhaps they had hopes of marrying her off to the richest man in Dover to further their social ambitions!
Nonetheless she related baldly, in a tired little voice, that she had been seeking her former employment at the Misses Fry’s seminary, without success. She made no mention of the Earl, only stating that she was returning to Bath after a brief stay with her aunt in London. She and her aunt had had a certain disagreement. No, she had no other relatives or friends who would aid her. She thanked them for their hospitality but insisted she must be on her way.
“Oh, but …” burst out Mrs. Jennings and was silenced by a look from her more phlegmatic husband.
“Now, Miss Vesey,” he said, puffing on his long pipe. “It so happens that we can help you. We have two daughters, Jane and Alice, who are at a seminary in Dover. They are just finishing but are in need of some town bronze before their come out. Nothing very grand, you understand. They will only be attending the local assemblies and parties. I am a lawyer by profession and we do not move much in very elevated society.
“My wife is kept too busy to train the girls herself. She …”
“Come now,” interrupted his wife with a jolly laugh. “You know well, Mr. Jennings, that I’m too rough and ready. I’m all thumbs in grand society.”
“But with a very beautiful soul,” said Mr. Jennings simply, and his wife blushed like a girl.
Why, they are in love! thought Penelope in wonder. Love in London society seemed to be an exclusively extramarital emotion.
“In any case, Miss Vesey,” went on the lawyer in his dry, precise voice, “I would have you understand I am not offering you charity. We are in need of a governess to train our girls in the social arts. As I say, we are not very grand people but my wife runs a comfortable home. I shall give you a few minutes to think about it.”
Penelope did not need long to ponder her answer. She simply had nowhere else to go.
Soon the Jenningses’ coach rolled away from the inn, down the dusty road on the first part of the long journey south, taking Penelope with it to a new and unknown home.
Chapter Eleven
Augusta Harvey was suffering from the full weight of the Earl of Hestleton’s dislike. With his patronage removed, society discovered that Augusta was as common as they had formerly thought.
Since that fatal evening at Clarence House, no cards had arrived at Brook Street and there were no more homes of the powerful and influential for Augusta to snoop around.
She had paid a visit to the Comte in Barnet, only to find that gentleman engaged in his packing. In a panic Augusta had insisted that the Comte take her to France with him.
“But Napoleon is, alas, still on Elba,” the Comte had said. “I fear you are premature.”
“I’m going,” Augusta had said mulishly. “I ain’t staying here after all my work for France to be snubbed at and jeered at. Yo
u’re taking me along.”
The Comte had at last wearily agreed. There was a certain Captain Jessey, he had said, whose ship, the Mary Jane, would drop them on the coast of France. Augusta must make her own way to Dover and he would meet her at the Green sure that Miss Harvey fell over the side of his ship before it reached the other side of the Channel.
He shuddered to think what Augusta would say—or do—should she find that there was as little chance of her becoming a Countess in France as there was in England, or that the Bonapartistes had never even heard of Augusta, the Comte having taken the full credit for all of Augusta’s information. Augusta, on her last visit to France, had been hoodwinked by a visit to a chateau in the Loire valley—empty except for the heavily bribed servants. She had spent a pleasant day touring what she believed to be her future estates.
Now Augusta was sitting among her corded trunks, awaiting the arrival of the travelling coach she had hired. She thanked her lucky stars for the day she had overheard the Comte and the Viscount talking. Without her promise of a French title, then life would be bitter indeed. What a waste of time and money that little slut Penelope had been! Fortunately the magnificent diamond pendant Lord Barrington had given Penelope had more than covered the expense of that girl’s wardrobe. Who would have thought that Penelope with all her airs and graces would have fallen so easily from her pedestal of virginity!
She looked up in impatience as Miss Stride was announced. Miss Stride had two angry spots of color burning on her cheeks which owed nothing to rouge. In her hand she clutched a sheaf of bills.
“What is this, Miss Harvey?” she burst out. “My mantua maker has returned these bills to me saying that you have refused to honor them.”
“Quite right,” said Augusta.
“How dare you!” said Miss Stride, beginning to tremble with rage. “The humiliation! And after all I’ve done for you.”
“You! What have you ever done for me, except teach me not to eat peas with my knife?” sneered Augusta. “When Hestleton took agin me, there was nothing you could do, Euphie, for all your airs and graces.”