by Anya Wylde
“Yes, her kind. The sort that goes to any length to trap a man. She is desperate to make a match and she … I just don’t want her in this house.”
The dowager looked at her son sympathetically.
“Deny it, tell me she isn’t desperate to marry, desperate enough to trick and cheat. You all heard her at dinner tonight. Hunting for a man like one would hunt down a rabbit,” the duke roared.
“She has to marry, but then so do all young women of her age. True, her family is depending on her, and the pressure may have tickled her buttons a bit, but from her conduct today, I think she is incapable of tricking anyone. Her missteps were unfortunate but not unforgivable. In fact, I have never met anyone so honest or open before. No deceiving, sly creature could make such a blunder of things,” Lady Radclyff argued.
“So you agree that her behaviour was disastrous. How can we let such a halfwit into polite society?”
“Charles, what is it?” the dowager asked gently.
The duke turned his back on his mother and glared at the sleeping girl. He didn’t answer.
After a minute of tensed silence, Lady Radclyff asked, “What did you mean when you said that she almost broke her neck?”
“She tripped coming down the stairs. I stopped her fall and gave her a glass of brandy to calm her nerves. Now I regret that act of kindness. I should have let her kill herself.”
“Now you are being cruel. I will not have you speaking like that. How much brandy did you give her?” the dowager asked.
“A generous amount, and then she asked for more. I could have sworn she had never had it before.”
“And did you give her more?” Lady Radclyff enquired.
“Well, yes ….”
Lady Radclyff hid her smile behind her hand. Another heavily laden look was exchanged between the mother and daughter.
Wiping the smile of her face, Lady Radclyff adopted a firm countenance and faced her brother. “That explains it. No wonder the dear creature drank herself into oblivion. She was in shock and really, Charles, this is all your fault. You should have taken better care of her and ensured that she had eaten a bit before drinking that brandy, or allowed her to retire to her room. She could have been killed, Charles, killed, after tumbling down those stairs. And instead of helping her you go and get her foxed. Mamma, I am sure you agree. He has to make amends for not only being rude to her but also getting her pickled. He has to convince Grandfather.”
“What? That is ridiculous. I did not get her drunk,” the duke roared.
“Hush, the girl is asleep. You have been unkind enough and now it is your duty to set things right. I want to hear no more of this, Charles. She may not know better, but you know the effects of mixing brandy and wine well enough. You should have cautioned her. I am afraid I have to agree with Anne,” the dowager said firmly.
The duke turned puce in rage. His eyes were shooting not daggers, oh no, that would have been too banal an expression, rather it was thunder and bolts of lightning that erupted from the blue flaming depths. He took a deep breath and prepared to launch into a tirade demanding that justice be served.
He opened his mouth and the indignant words rose up to meet his lips, and then fizzed out like cold water dousing a fire for Penelope spoke from the bed, “No, I will go back to my father’s house.”
Penelope had emerged from her drunken stupor and overhead some of the conversation.
The three of them whirled around to look at her.
“Now you have woken her,” Lady Radclyff muttered to the duke. She ran to Penelope’s side and sat on the bed. “How are you feeling? Drink this. The cook said it works wonders. I know it looks dreadful, but it will make you feel better.”
The quilt was forcefully extricated from her fist and the rest of Penelope’s head finally emerged.
“I am sorry,” she said miserably. “I agree with the duke. I should go. I am incapable of handling London.”
“No one is blaming you. We understand. The circumstances were unusual, and we really should have taken better care of you,” the dowager soothed.
Penelope sniffed and a tear ran down her cheek. Flashes of the night’s events came and went in her mind. She felt terrible. Her head ached and her stomach turned, but her brain at least seemed to function normally once again.
The dowager came and sat next to her on the bed. She took Penelope’s hand and stroked it gently.
Penelope could not believe how good the dowager and Lady Radclyff were being to her. She knew she had made a mess of things, and her own pride and embarrassment wouldn’t allow her to stay a minute longer. She brushed away her tears and flung back the quilt. She avoided everyone’s eyes as she said, “I want to go ho … leave London.”
“But we don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault,” Lady Radclyff soothed.
“Your stepmother is counting on you,” the dowager added.
Penelope didn’t answer. She knew her options were limited, but it was better to leave before she embarrassed the duke and his family in front of the ton. She was bound to do or say something silly, and she no longer had any faith in herself. She had been pickled at the dinner table on the first day in London. A lot more could happen in three months. She silently slid off the bed and stepped towards the wardrobe. The moment her right foot touched the ground, she screamed and fell.
“What is it?” the duke asked sceptically, looking down at her.
She looked at him, her eyes full of pain, “My… my ankle.”
His eyes sparked with anger. He shot her a disbelieving look.
“Let me see,” the dowager said, rushing to Penelope’s side.
Penelope, in spite of the pain, was aware of the duke looking on. She blushed, refusing to pull her dress up. She couldn’t show him her unclad foot … that was simply scandalous.
Lady Radclyff glared at the duke, who didn’t want to leave.
“Leave us, please,” the dowager said, eyeing the duke.
He opened his mouth to argue, but her steely gaze halted him. He hesitated, his eyes falling on Penelope’s ashen face.
“Fine, but from now on everything will go according to my wishes. Mother, you have always listened to me, and I am warning you that keeping her here is a big mistake. Anne, don’t you dare shed any more tears. It will not have any effect on me,” he snapped, turning on his heels.
“Aye, aye, picaroon,” Lady Radclyff saluted.
The duke slammed the door shut behind him.
Penelope sagged in relief. The dowager gently pushed her dress up and revealed her ankle. It was red and swollen.
“Oh dear, you must have twisted it when you fell off the chair,” the dowager tsked.
“I will be alright. Just ask someone to carry me to the carriage. I cannot stay on any longer… not after …”
“Hush, child, I will not let you go home in such a state. What will your family think?”
“Please.”
“Stay for a few days. Let your foot heal. We can discuss your leaving after that. If you still want to go in a week’s time, I won’t stop you. Your family is counting on you. Stay for them if nothing else,” the dowager coaxed.
Penelope nodded unhappily. She didn’t want to stay, but the pain in her leg was making it hard for her to argue her case. Perhaps in the morning she could request the dowager to change her mind and let her go. It was just one more night. Nothing further could go wrong.
The dowager and Lady Radclyff departed leaving Penelope to her thoughts. A steaming cup of tea fragrant with herbs lay by her bed side. She gratefully cradled it and thought back to the dowager’s last words. What had she said? Oh yes, that her family was counting on her. She scowled. Her family was counting on her, were they? She looked at Lady Bathsheba warming herself in front of the fire.
“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.