by Anya Wylde
“Miss Fairweather, you remind me of a rose at dawn, a fresh new rose that is about to bloom, its petals bedewed and …” Lord Poyning said, ignoring Lady Radclyff and endeavouring to get one peep out of the Penelope.
Penelope couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Lord Poyning frowned and then smiled wryly, “Ah, I see flattery does not work on you. I will have to change my tactics. Let me be honest then, Miss Fairweather. I think you are the prettiest girl in the room.”
Penelope, aware of Lady Radclyff silently seething, said, “I did not laugh at your allusion to my being a rosebud.”
“No? Then what was it?” he asked, quickly scanning his clothes to make sure everything was in order.
Now, Penelope had never been subjected to the full blown charm of a handsome man, and that too a blue blooded lord. She had normally been ignored by most eligible men back in Finnshire. Therefore, she was more than a little rattled by Poyning’s persistent interest in her. It stood to reason that such circumstances would have tipped her over the edge. Her nerves could stand only so much oozing maleness. She did what she did best. She babbled.
“No, you see, I am so sorry, but you made me nervous. Terribly nervous because I am sure you are a perspicacious man and … Well, I really don’t know what perspicacious means, but Madame taught it to me and I clean forgot the meaning. I don’t know why I used it. Where was I? Oh yes, It was because of Madame that I laughed. I mean, Madame Bellafraunde. I am sure you have heard of her. Well, I am a shy retiring creature, not even a wallflower but a shy caterpillar hiding in the leaves. I hate talking. In fact, I despise it because of my delicate nerves. Madame told me to imagine everyone in pink bloomers to soothe those very nerves and make the evening altogether bearable. That is why I laughed, you see? Ah, no you don’t. Well to be honest, the thought of you, Lord Poyning, so dandy in your grey evening coat, wearing pink bloomers underneath is so ridiculous—”
A deep roar of laughter came from behind Penelope, halting her speech mid-stream. She turned to find the duke wiping his eyes and chuckling. He was looking at her in delight, no doubt having overheard her.
His eyes had softened and he looked young and carefree for once. The wicked grin on his face set Penelope’s stomach fluttering.
An adorable, petite blonde girl exquisitely dressed in peach chiffon attached herself to the duke’s left sleeve. He looked down at this new arrival, the smile not yet faded from his lips.
“Charles, I have never seen you laugh like that. I have tried so often to make you smile. You never smile. What was so amusing?” the girl asked the left sleeve.
Penelope looked away feeling as if she was intruding on a private moment. She was intensely curious as to the identity of the girl who had dared to call the duke by his name and stood closer to him than appropriate. She searched for Lord Poyning and Lord Rivers and discovered that they had slinked away.
“Miss Fairweather made him laugh,” Lady Radclyff said irritably, eyeing the girl now attached to the duke’s right sleeve.
The duke stopped smiling and the girl stilled. Her eyes darted around to finally fall on the shrinking Penelope.
Penelope watched the green eyes turn frigid. Her sweet expression briefly slipped to reveal a cruel sneer. She would have never imagined that such a pretty girl with a cute button nose could look so cold. The girl eyed her from top to bottom and then back again. In under a minute Penelope had been judged, sentenced and then dismissed as unimportant.
The duke was back to looking grim and angry, a beautiful girl was sneering at Penelope, and Lady Radclyff was annoyed. The ball seemed to be going extremely badly. Penelope sighed. This is what she understood. This was how it was meant to be. Nice clothes, fancy carriage, blue blooded people, and handsome lords wanting to converse with her were too much to take in a single day. The world had righted itself and she was now on a footing she understood. Why, she wondered, could she not be introduced to everything bit by bit, getting filled like a bucked stuck under a leaky faucet?
“Miss Fairweather,” Lady Radclyff whispered, grasping Penelope’s upper arm.
“Off to the grey silk curtains. I know, I know,” Penelope said, already making her way to the edge of the ball.
Once again a canoodling couple was shooed away and Lady Radclyff’s lecture began, “How could you? How could you tell Lord Poyning, of all the people, that you were imagining him in pink bloomers? I will never forgive you. Oh, what will he think of me?” she wailed.
“I am sorry,” Penelope replied miserably.
“Miss Fairweather, I think it is best if we depart. I am not sure how many people overheard you. I can feign a headache, and the duke will have us bundled up in the carriage in no time. We also need to confer with Madame on what to do about your nervous habit.”
“I think that would be best,” Penelope replied unhappily.
“Well, then let’s bid Lady Hartworth goodbye and find Charles. The ball has been a bit of a damper. I know you expected a lot but we have all season.” Lady Radclyff patted her on the shoulder half-heartedly.
“Lady Radclyff,” Penelope said, stopping her from pulling the curtain aside. “Who was that girl, the one with the duke?”
“Oh, that was Lady Lydia Snowly, the duke’s fiancée,” she replied, stepping back into the ballroom.
Penelope stood for a moment longer staring at the draping grey cloth.
“The duke’s fiancée, Lady Lydia Snowly,” she said aloud.
The music, laughter and the din of people chattering in the room suddenly made her want to weep. Her first ball had been an utter disaster.
Chapter 16
Penelope bumped into the duke outside his study door.
“I don’t like you,” the duke said, holding her arm with two of his fingers and helping her to right herself.
“I despise you,” Penelope retorted feeling hurt. She knew he didn’t like her, but it wasn’t very nice of him to say so to her face. She brushed his hand off and stepped back.
“Why don’t you leave?”
Penelope shrugged.
“Go back to Finnshire,” he ordered.
“I like London, your grace. You are an excellent host,” she said politely.
“Are you deaf, woman? I asked you to go back to your village,” he growled irritably.
“Your mother wants me here, your grace,” Penelope replied sweetly.
“I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see your infuriating face every damn day!”
“Well, then you leave,” Penelope said getting annoyed.
“This is my house,” he roared.
“Speak to your mother then and tell her that you want me out of this house,” Penelope snapped, blowing an escaped curl off her face.
“I am warning you, Miss Fairweather, I want you out of this house or things are going to get ugly. You do realise I am the duke and … Will you stop blowing that blasted curl?” he said, glaring at the shiny ringlet.
“Foo, foo, foo,” Penelope taunted.
“What in the world …” the duke said, gawking at her.
“I am blowing the curl of my face. Fooooo … See? It is my hair. It is my breath. I will blow if I want to—”
“Stop … just stop talking for one moment,” the duke thundered, grabbing her shoulder. He reached for the ringlet and tucked it behind Penelope’s ear.
Stunned, Penelope looked into his eyes.
He stared back.
Things became awfully quiet.
Penelope’s eyes slid to the duke’s right forefinger still lingering at her left ear.
The duke’s eyes also slid to his right forefinger still lingering at her left ear.
The two leapt apart.
Avoiding each other’s eyes, they turned around and walked off in opposite directions … Only to meet a moment later near the duke’s black pantheon. They were all going shopping together.
***
Penelope, ensconced in the duke’s beautifully lacquered black pantheon, bounc
ed her way to the shops. She was wearing a powder blue Parisian walking dress made of muslin and bordered with white flounces. Blue gems had been woven through her hair and blue ribbons added to her bonnet. On her feet she wore soft grey half boots. That morning Mary had liberally anointed her with Royal Tincture of Peach Kernels and perfumed her hair with Maharani’s Lavender Love. She felt, smelled and looked like a lady.
She was unhappy to note that the carriage windows were tightly shut preventing her from observing the streets in broad daylight. If the shutters were opened she was informed, it was only a matter of time before they were covered in black mud splashed by the wheels of wagons, drays and other carriages passing by. Although the shutters concealed the view from her eager eyes, they could do nothing about the sounds assaulting their ears.
Clattering wheels on cobblestones, peeling church bells, shouting children, off-key musicians strumming away on badly tuned instruments, yodelling flower girls and milk maids, sailors, pirates and thieves yelling creative curses, and hawkers screeching their wares, made a racket out on the streets that nicely provided fodder for Penelope’s imagination. She sat back listening to it all in delight.
Anne had stuffed her ears with wool, and the duke had closed his eyes feigning sleep. The carriage meandered on its way, turning sharply every time someone dashed across the road. It dipped and rose over the potholes on well-sprung wheels.
Penelope soon grew impatient. The congestion on the roads was terrible making their progress slow, and the din outside sounded so exciting. She could not wait to get out and explore.
She wondered if she could pluck the wool out of Anne’s ears, then thought better of it. Instead, she asked the duke how long it would be before they arrived. A muscle twitched next to his mouth, the only indication that she had been heard and ignored. She eyed him irritably. How could a beautiful woman like Lady Lydia Snowly want to marry a man like him? She continued staring at him hoping that he would feel her eyes on him and answer her question.
For a while she meditated over this last thought. How did people know when they were being watched? It was a little strange and more than a little creepy. Eyes did not have rays like the sun that poked a person in the neck to alert them as to another’s regard. She squinted. If there were heated rays shooting out of her eyes, then perhaps squinting would strengthen their effect and burn a hole through the duke’s splendid white shirt. Oddly, she did not want to look directly at his face. Sleeping duke or not, she did not have the nerve. Instead, the white shirt was subjected to all of her attention, silent admonishments and mental lectures. She was in the process of sticking her tongue out at the infernal piece of clothing when the carriage halted to a stop. They had finally reached their destination. Mayfair Street.
The duke leaped out and was followed by Anne, who kept muttering about wanting to go to Cheapside and Fleet Street instead.
Penelope scrambled after Anne and poked her head out of the carriage. She quickly jumped back in. She had spotted four soot stained faces leering at the carriage from across the street. Anne coaxed her out, and the footman helped her descend right into a pothole.
The road, she was surprised to note, was paved, pitted and broad. Two or more carriages could easily go along side by side. Across the road stood rows and rows of gleaming shops jutting out onto the street. The glass windows sparkled in the sunlight and the area surrounding the shops was kept clean. Penelope, Anne and the duke leaped over the puddles, skirted the racing children and avoided the passing carriages, horses and wagons to arrive on the pretty side of the street.
Penelope paused outside almost every shop window. A large silver shoe gleamed outside the cobblers. Golden filigree scissors hung outside the tailors. Piles of Spanish grapes, lush peaches, and mounds of oranges and apples, beckoned from the grocers. The prettiest was the confectioner’s shop decorated in soft pastels and filled with beautifully crafted cakes and biscuits. She stood outside the door taking deep whiffs of fresh pastry, coffee and cinnamon.
Anne caught her hand and dragged her to a shop at the far end of the street. It was a discreet establishment; grey and dull on the outside with a solid olive green door. Only the sign above gave an indication of what it truly was.
Beany & Sons, 23 Winmore Street, Mayfair
Shawl and linen warehouse offering the finest from England and foreign markets
Inside the shop was bustling with female customers and busy male workers. It was a huge room with sofas and cushioned seats strategically placed in front of large wooden tables. The salesmen pulled out giant rolls of cloth in different colours, materials and textures and laid it out on the table for the women to inspect. Hundreds of such rolls were fitted into the shelves on every wall from top to bottom. Champagne, wine, tea and coffee were liberally served free of cost.
Anne settled into a chair, ordered a cup of coffee and got to work. The duke, after ascertaining that his sister would not move from her place for at least an hour, departed to see to some business.
Penelope was already bored. She had no idea that brocade was now out of fashion and that gold muslin was the next new thing. Besides, she had only fifty pounds to her name, which she could not afford to spend on frivolities. However, she had convinced herself to bring along two pounds in case something truly marvellous caught her eye. The cakes at the confectioners had done just that and her growling stomach wanted to go sniff outside that shop some more. After listening to an oily salesman trying to sell her yards of hideous brown silk, she gave up.
“Lady Radclyff, I am hungry.”
“Hmm, what do you think of this silver pashmina? I have never felt anything so soft in my life.”
“It looks expensive. Can I go down to the confectioners? I will be back within five minutes.”
“Hmm, do you know how to test a good quality shawl, Miss Fairweather? Take any ring off your finger, and then gathering up the shawl pull it through the hole in the ring. If the entire shawl comes out through the tiny hole, then it is worth buying,” she said demonstrating.
“How fascinating. Now, can I please go? I won’t be long.”
“Yes, yes … Can you show me the black in this?” Anne said, half listening to Penelope, her eyes on the bolts of cloth.
Penelope shot off the chair and rushed out of the door. She breathed in the stench of London and sighed in pleasure. Away from the stuffy, fancy shop at last. She quickly made her way to the confectioners and paused outside. Her eyes were glued to the giant cream cake decorated with candied rose petals and white jasmine flowers. Her mouth watered, but she dithered knowing the prices would be exorbitant. Should she save her pennies for something that would last, for a ribbon or two perhaps?
A swift yank at her petticoat had her look up. A young boy stood grinning a few feet away from her holding what looked like her drawstring reticule.
She stared at him in confusion. Surely that wasn’t hers. She had carefully sewn her bag in the hidden pocket inside her skirt. How had the lad managed to extract it in a moment, and then had the audacity to show her his handy work. A quick check confirmed the skill of the lad and in a trice she was after him.
She sprinted across the street, her skirts flying and ankles on display. To hell with propriety, she thought. Two whole pounds lay in that bag. Besides, the bag was from Madame and therefore expensive.
She raced after the soot faced imp, leaping over pot holes, avoiding the gin sellers, and ducking under the arms of tinkers and thieves. She had clearly crossed the elegant Mayfair and reached murkier parts of the city. The boy disappeared into a tiny lane on the right and Penelope hesitated. Should she or should she not, she wondered.
The boy poked his head around the corner and stuck his tongue out at her. Gripping her skirts, she wasted no more time on thought and followed the boy into the darkened London alley.
Chapter 17
‘24 Gin road’, as it was appropriately named, was warm, dank, sunless and smelly. A few cats sat cleaning their paws on the back steps of various
grey buildings jammed together on either side of the lane. A dozen mean looking, dirt smeared boys aged around nine to fifteen were sprawled on the filthy street. Some sat playing marbles. Another sat with his back against the wall chewing what looked like a piece of wood. A few were smoking, and the thief who had stolen her purse sat on top of a mountain of sacks filled with rubbish. Unlike the clamour and crowd of Mayfair Street, here it was all quiet with only a few shady characters lazing about. She was suddenly feeling not at all brave but did her very best to look it.
“He stole my reticule,” she announced to the group in her haughtiest voice.
No one even glanced at her except the little thief who sat watching her like a curious little monkey. A bark of laughter from one of the children had her jump in fright. At this point another of the youngest devils noticed her.
“Lady got pretty gloves and shooos,” he said, advancing towards her.
Penelope brandished her parasol like a weapon. One whack and the lad would go squealing to his mamma, she thought.
“Joe, see pretty lady.”
Joe appeared from behind the sacks of rubbish. He was not a child but a full grown man with a short beard and muscular arms. Her parasol was no match for this man. She inched backwards suddenly terrified. She knew she had lost her way in her mad dash to catch the thief, but surely if she could go back to the crowded street someone would help her.
The man’s eyes gleamed and he licked his thick lips. His eyes were not on her gloves or shoes but on her. She turned to flee and found herself surrounded by the boys. They had silently formed a ring around her trapping her. She could have handled one child, possibly two, but not fifteen. She held the parasol out aiming the pointed end. She slowly turned in a circle trying to find the smallest child to dodge. The group tightened leaving her no room to exit.
A brief prayer escaped her lips. She heard her father’s voice scolding her for all her rash decisions and her stepmother’s sneering voice warning her that her thoughtless actions would one day lead to an ugly end. Was this it she wondered? The ugly end?