by Anya Wylde
Penelope, momentarily shaken out of her fog, looked over at Madame, who was blushing in pleasure. She hadn’t been aware the duke was capable of charm.
“Keep your eyes locked on the duke, Miss,” Madame corrected.
Penelope forced her lashes to lift back up and look into his inky blue eyes. Her stomach flipped.
“Should I call you Madame or …” the duke asked, wrenching his eyes away from Penelope.
“Madame will do,” she replied hastily.
“But I know …”
“Concentrate on the steps, your grace, and look at Miss Fairweather. Why are you trying to distract yourself from the lovely girl in your arms?”
The duke reluctantly brought his eyes back to Penelope.
After a moment, Madame asked, “Are you thinking of your grandmother, your grace?”
The duke stopped dancing.
“How did you ...?” he spluttered.
“I know men,” Madame replied smugly.
“Why were you thinking of Grandmother?” Lady Radclyff spoke up.
The duke looked embarrassed, and noticing Penelope’s baffled face, he abruptly stepped back.
“Enough of this nonsense. I don’t care if you promise me a month of no tears, Annie. I am not getting involved in her training. I am sorry, Madame, but I have just recalled some urgent business. Please excuse me.”
Penelope shared a confused look with Lady Radclyff. What in the world had made the duke run out in such a hurry, and why was Madame looking pleased? And how was the duke’s departed grandmother involved?
Lady Radclyff followed the duke out to get some answers while Madame took pity on Penelope.
“Miss Fairweather, when a man holds a desirable woman in his arms, he thinks of his grandmother. It helps dampen his baser instincts.”
“The duke thinks I am desirable?” Penelope asked in disbelief.
“Men find all girls in skirts desirable depending on their mood. A man need not love to make love.”
Penelope blushed and avoided Madame’s eye.
“You danced the Waltz well enough. I think you deserve a few hours rest. Practice on your own in the evening before supper. And, Miss Fairweather, keep an eye on the dowager. I don’t think she felt very well this afternoon. She barely touched her meal.”
“Madame Bellafraunde, what shall I learn tomorrow?”
“A woman’s weapon.”
Fans, Penelope thought. It had to be.
“Very good, Miss Fairweather. Tomorrow’s lesson is the language of fans, the importance of parasols, and the art of polite conversation.”
Penelope blinked. Madame was sometimes uncanny in her mind reading abilities.
“I don’t read minds, I simply observe better than others,” Madame said, waving goodbye to the open mouthed Penelope.
Chapter 13
“Choose your weapon.”
Penelope stood staring at the colourful array of fans lying on the couch. Her hand hovered over the peacock feather and the ruby satin, but finally her eye was caught by a simple oriental silk fan with a mother of pearl handle. She picked it up and was pleased to see that Madame approved of her choice.
“Positions, ladies.”
The maids formed a line in front of long table, each one holding a fan. Penelope went and joined them.
“Do you know the basics?”
“Yes,” Penelope said uncertainly.
“Very good, now follow my commands. Place your fans.”
Penelope watched the maids gently lay the fans down on the table and she did the same.
“Up,” Madame roared.
The girls picked up their fans with a flick of a wrist.
“Unfurl,” came the cry
The fans were opened with a crack akin to a pistol shot.
Penelope fumbled. Her fan had not made that sound, but it seemed everyone else’s had.
“Throw,” was the next shout and Penelope quickly tossed the fan onto the table.
“Up … and flutter, flutter, flutter,” screeched Madame
Penelope fluttered.
“Down, and stop.”
Madame wiped her brow and glared at Penelope.
“You know the commands, but the execution ... Miss Fairweather, the fan, this beautiful creation, is meant to keep our hands occupied, cool our heated skin, hide our blushes, help brush over awkward situations, communicate secret messages, but most of all it is a weapon whose breeze should be strong enough to send a man flying through the air, the sound scare a murderous bandit, and its beauty entrance a beloved. What you did was shameful, an embarrassment to all the women in England. You have disrespected our only weapon.”
Penelope hung her head, her eyes falling on the object in question. She guiltily acknowledged that she had always considered the fan a silly foppery, something that was a bother to hold and carry around.
Madame sighed and collapsed back on her seat. “Tea. I need some refreshment after this latest debacle.”
It was two hours before Madame recovered. The dowager, looking a little pale, joined them as did Lady Radclyff. The three of them spent the entire day teaching Penelope the nuances of diplomacy, the language of fans, and the correct way to unfurl and place a parasol.
“Do not speak about anything other than the weather. Remember, if you feel nervous, imagine the person you are conversing with in pink bloomers and nothing else,” Madame advised.
“Encourage the other person to speak about themselves. Ask about their health if you have to speak ... say at a dinner table. Divide your attention equally between the two people seated on either side of you,” the dowager suggested.
“I will stay by your side during every social gathering. I will guide you. Don’t worry if a situation we haven’t dealt with today arises,” Lady Radclyff comforted.
Penelope nodded weakly, her brain full of advice, admonishments and warnings. Her head therefore ached dreadfully by the time she retired for bed. Even Mary’s sassafras tea didn’t help ease the pain. She tossed and turned all night. How was she to remember everything? The dancing, the fan and the rules of polite society? She knew it was hopeless, half of it was already forgotten.
That night her dreams were vivid. She dreamt of fans wearing pink bloomers scolding her for eating the head of an exquisite biscuit sculpture. Then the fans morphed into nameless lords and ladies that ordered her to dance for the duke. And all of a sudden she was no longer in control of her feet, as they capered about the room on their own. The duke, sitting upon a golden throne, smiled derisively, and the ladies started laughing and pointing at her … She looked down at her clothes and found herself wearing a tattered grey dress splashed with dirt. The dress was slowly disintegrating and her dancing feet were shoeless.
She woke up groggy and depressed.
***
The duke too had woken up in a foul mood. Sleep had been fitful since the day that blasted woman had arrived. He lay in bed staring up at the ornate ceiling and scratched his ear, his right ear, the same ear that she had pinched and mauled.
From the moment he had set eyes on her she had irked him. She, the inconsequential country fodder, had tried to warm his bed. He had won that round, he thought smiling. Put her in her place and soundly frightened her.
His thoughts turned gloomy. She had somehow won his mother’s and sister’s support. He had been forced to let her stay, even after the drinking debacle. She was a clever player. All his attempts at sending her packing were failing, and he never failed. Her village must have some masterminds to produce such an ingenious, evil specimen. His ego was bruised. He had been proven wrong again and again. Her ankle had truly been sprained. Whether in an honest accident or by design, he wasn’t sure. But the point was that he felt like a fool, and he had looked like a fool in front of his mother and sister.
He slammed his hand on the bed. In the Blue Room he had found her naked. He paused. Well, almost naked. She had been wearing bloomers, stockings and a corset. A sudden picture of her without the b
loomers, stockings and corset rose in his mind. He growled low and deep. He had danced with her and she had appeared different … and smelt of roses. He frowned.
It was a deuced thing, this whole mess. His mother and sister should have supported him and not some annoying stranger. He would have to come up with another plan and this time it had to work. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that Miss Fairweather was like a fruit fly— unwanted and insignificant. A fruit fly that could not do any lasting harm, but was nevertheless irritating and should be gotten rid of.
All thoughts of Penelope vanished when Hopkins, his valet, said urgently from the door, “Your grace, your mother has been taken ill.”
The duke did not waste a single moment. He jumped out of bed, threw on a robe and rushed to his mother’s room.
His sister sat by his mother’s side while the fruit fly perched at the other end of the bed. He ignored their presence focussing on his mother instead. She looked ashen.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
“My throat hurts,” the dowager rasped.
“She has a fever,” Lady Radclyff added.
The duke came and took his sister’s place on the bed. He held his mother’s frail wrist for a moment and then touched her forehead. It was hot.
“I will send for Dr Johnson. No, Mother, I insist on it. Meanwhile, Annie, leave the room. I am not sure what is wrong and it could be contagious. Anne, that’s an order.”
He waited until Lady Radclyff left and then went to his mother’s desk. He wrote a short note and handed it to Hopkins.
“Leave immediately and make sure you return with the physician.”
Once alone, his face lost some of its composure. He kept his face averted from his mother, aware that his terror was now only too plain.
A soft touch on his shoulder startled him. Miss Fairweather was still in the room. He had forgotten about her.
The glittering sympathy in her eyes annoyed him.
“Get out,” he whispered.
Penelope backed away but refused to leave. “I want to stay by her side. She may need something.”
“Did you not hear what I said to Anne?”
“Yes, that the dowager may be contagious, but then you are still here.”
“I am her son.”
“I am indebted to her.”
“Not enough to risk your life. Get out or I will throw you out myself.”
“I am a nuisance to you. What do you care—” Her words were cut short. The duke grabbed her arm, dragged her across the room and shut the door on her face.
***
Madame arrived later that morning and found her student distracted.
“It is conundrum not conoodrum, thistle not thizzle, cacophony not coca phony ….” Madame slammed the book shut. “You have stolen and read plenty of books from your father’s library, but it is a pity that no one taught you how to pronounce all the big words. Really, you should try and speak in short simple sentences and only use words that you … Miss Fairweather, are you listening to me?
Madame sighed. The physician was with the dowager and until he enlightened the family as to the diagnosis, no one would rest easy. She left after coaxing Penelope to try on a few corsets and measuring her again to check the fitting.
It was another hour before a maid arrived to inform Lady Radclyff and Penelope that the dowager had requested their presence.
The two girls leapt up before the maid had finished talking and rushed to the dowager’s room.
“Don’t look so morose, my dears. I will live. All I have is a sore throat and a slight temperature. Nothing contagious,” the dowager whispered.
“Don’t speak, Mother, I can see it hurts you to do so,” Lady Radclyff said, taking her place on the bed.
Penelope stood uncertainly at the door wondering if she was intruding.
An encouraging smile from the dowager had her pulling up a chair.
“Mamma, we met Charles outside. He said you have to rest for a few days.”
The dowager nodded looking gloomy.
“It will be dreadfully boring in your room all day with nothing to do,” Lady Radclyff continued.
The dowager looked even more miserable.
“Perhaps you can read? Knit?” Penelope asked.
The dowager shook her head and pointed to her eyes and then her head.
“Ah, you will get a headache,” Penelope said. “Can I … Would you like me to read to you?”
The dowager brightened.
“You don’t mind reading?” Lady Radclyff asked doubtfully.
“No, I love reading. I cannot of course pronounce big words like canoozers and conoodrums, but I do have a book that is simple enough.”
Lady Radclyff and the dowager smiled in relief.
“It is an adventure called Bertie’s Botheration. A haunting, gothic tale of …” She stopped for the dowager was frantically gesturing to her heart and grinning.
“You have read it! It is my favourite book. Ah, I see you love it too. Yes … yes, I understand you could never tell anyone that it is your favourite. Not lofty enough. I keep a few acceptable names in my head every time someone asks me what my favourite book is, but one does not really confess what book they actually really like and have read over and over …”
***
The duke glowered at the scene. The fruit fly sat reading some idiotic tale aloud. His sister snoozed on the sofa while his mother listened enraptured to the buzzing creature.
He found himself in one of those situations where you do not like what is happening, but if you stop it, then the consequences may be worse. If he did stop the creature from reading, then Anne would have to take her place. Anne hated reading, despised it in fact, and that meant that in the end he would have to take her place. He enjoyed reading but to himself. Not to his mother, especially when his mother’s taste ran to romance and adventure tales. It was a tad uncomfortable reading aloud to his mother about swooning maidens and passionate kisses. He therefore reluctantly allowed the fruit fly to continue fluttering about his mother.
***
Penelope spent the next two days glued to the dowager’s side. She took occasional breaks for meals and to gossip with Lady Radclyff when she came to visit the dowager. Her lessons were not completely suspended. She was forced to endure two hours of lectures and teachings with Madame.
A curious bond formed between the dowager and Penelope in those two days. Penelope’s ability to assess the dowager’s mood and wants made her almost invaluable to the dowager. Her reading skills were wanting, but the dowager was simply happy to be occupied and have her favourite story read to her, however badly.
In turn, a grumpy, petulant dowager put Penelope at ease. She no longer regarded the dowager in awe. The dowager needed her and that made Penelope feel, if only for a fleeting moment, that she had a place where she belonged.
Chapter 14
On the third day Penelope entered the breakfast room to find Lady Radclyff and the duke already present.
“How is mother? Didn’t the physician come to see her today?” Lady Radclyff asked.
“The infection in her throat is improved, but she is still frail. A day more in bed and she can resume light activities,” the duke replied, his eyes on Penelope.
Penelope ignored him and took a seat. He had made a habit of glaring at her at every meal. She was getting used to it.
“Miss Fairweather, would you like to come to my room after your lessons with Madame? You can help me plan what to wear for tomorrow. I am torn between the pink and the lavender silk,” Lady Radclyff said turning to Penelope.
“Did you have something special planned?” Penelope asked, adding a generous helping of cream and sugar to her porridge.
Lady Radclyff giggled, “You have a talent of making me laugh, Miss Fairweather.”
Penelope added chopped fruit and carefully sprinkled cinnamon on top. “Truly, Lady Radclyff, I am unaware of any outing planned for tomorrow.”
“No
nsense,” the duke muttered, and then aloud he said, “Anne, do you want to take her help in choosing what to wear? I mean, look at her.”
“Befogged philistine,” Penelope muttered back. Her high-necked white muslin dress was perfectly acceptable.
“What did you say?” Lady Radclyff inquired.
“Raisins,” Penelope replied.
“Raisins are befogged philistines?” Lady Radclyff asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes, wrinkly little things. I don’t like them,” Penelope said, dipping the spoon into the porridge bowl.
“Madame will be here with her dresses today, Charles, and Penelope will look wonderful at the ball tomorrow. You will have no cause for complain.”
Penelope set the spoon back down, her appetite completely ruined. How in the name of Beelzebub had she forgotten that the ball was tomorrow?
***
“Madame Bellafraunde”
“Miss Fairweather, I heard the dowager is better.”
“Yes, she is better … Do we have enough time?”
Madame smiled. She gestured to one of her maids, Rose, to start playing the piano and then took Penelope in her arms.
“We will practice a few dance steps, and while we are dancing, we will also focus on our plans for tomorrow.”
“You are leading, Madame?”
“Time is short. I don’t have the luxury to coax the duke.”
Penelope’s shoulders automatically relaxed.
“One day is all that we have before Lady Hartworth’s ball,” Madame continued. “It will open the season and everyone worth knowing will be attending. You are sure to meet all the eligible men at Lady Hartworth’s, though their appearance at Almack’s and other occasions may not be certain. If you do catch a man’s eye, then he will be sure to attend every social gathering that you choose to attend. Men in lust can get creative.”
This time Penelope didn’t even blush. She was getting used to Madame.
“I will never be ready in time.”
“I know that. It will take you at least a year to attain perfection. Girls start learning the arts from the moment they are born. Unfortunately you did not pay attention. I was hoping that we would have a few days of rehearsals to go over everything you learnt. I cannot expect you to remember everything in such a short time. I am not that unreasonable … Don’t look so glum. If we cannot attain perfection, we will strive for the illusion of it.”