Penelope

by Anya Wylde

  The man was close to her now, gin strong on his breath. She watched as if from somewhere far away as he lifted his hand. It was all so slow, she thought confused, as if time had slowed. Her vision became clear and precise. She could see a young boy scratch his nose from the corner of her eye, another one shuffled his feet somewhere, and the man’s large tobacco stained hand was about to touch her. She closed her eyes.

  “Unhand her,” said a voice behind her. A voice she had never before thought she would be glad to hear. A voice that was commanding, strong and deep.

  Her eyes popped open and she whirled around to find the duke standing right behind her. The man made a grab for her but the duke had already caught her waist and deposited her behind him.

  “Let us go and I will not inform the authorities,” the duke suggested.

  The man sneered, “Lady is mine.”

  “Dear fellow, I would love to hand you over this young lady with all of my sympathies, believe me. But my sister and my mother would have my head. She, you see, belongs to them,” the duke countered.

  The man paused, his eyes assessing the duke. In a split second the decision was made.

  “Lads, we can’t let a drop of good stuff like this go,” the man bellowed, lifting his hand to strike the duke.

  The duke had meant to react. In fact, he had lifted his hand up to counter the blow but Penelope, now fearless with the duke beside her and emboldened by the man’s war cry, lifted her parasol first.

  She whacked the man on the head and then for good measure between his legs. The man collapsed and the children scattered. And as quick as that the war was won and she burst into tears.

  “Do you think he is dead?” she blubbered.

  The duke took a deep breath. “The young chaps may bring more of his friends. We need to get back to Mayfair and quickly. Now run!”

  Penelope ignored him and moved to touch the man lying on the ground. The duke grabbed her arm, whirled her around and dragged her out of the lane.

  “When I say run,” he said through gritted teeth, “you run.”

  Penelope ran.

  They finally reached the duke’s carriage, and he quickly opened the door and pushed her inside. The driver came around and the duke gave him instructions to drive if any odd characters came sniffing near the carriage. He then sent a message to his sister to stay put at the shop.

  Penelope sat with her head between her knees trying to catch her breath and listening to the duke issue instructions. He seemed so calm, she thought enviously, and not at all out of breath.

  “Thank you,” she gasped, her head still stuck between her knees.

  He ignored her and started searching for something under the seats.

  When she straightened, she saw him pocket a small pistol.

  “I said thank you.”

  He did not reply.

  “Well, I am thankful. You saved me from that rotten man. But you could have nudged him with a toe to at least ascertain that I did not kill him. I could have murdered the man and not know it. For the rest of my life I will be crossing the street every time I spot a priest or a runner—”

  “Quiet! For a moment stay silent. How could you be so ridiculously stupid? Do you have any idea what the man was about to do? Do you? You foolish girl, by the end of it you would have wished you were dead—”

  A sob from Penelope stopped him. She knew she had made a dreadful, dreadful mistake. Those few moments in the laneway would give her nightmares for the rest of her life. That man’s leering face was imprinted on her mind and she felt dirty and disgusted.

  The duke saw the change in her expression and the genuine regret on her face. He came and sat by her. His arms slipped around her shoulders.

  “I am sorry. I have always felt so safe in Finnshire. I never understood how dangerous London was. I chased after that boy for two pounds, but two pounds is not worth my life,” she cried, her hands clenching his shirt and her face buried in his chest.

  “The man was not dead. I saw him breathe. It’s alright. Nothing happened. You are safe now … shhh,” he comforted, rocking her.

  “I am sorry. I am always making you angry, and I am not good enough for the ton, and my stepmother hates me. I can’t go back to father’s house, I miss Lady Bathsheba and Anne is waiting all alone in the shop,” she wailed.

  “Anne will be fine. She will happy to have a few more minutes to shop. You will see Lady Bathsheba as soon as we get home. As for your stepmother, I can’t do anything about that but you will have a good mother-in-law. She will love you, I am sure.”

  Penelope blinked the tears away and lifted her head to look at the duke.

  “Truly my mother-in-law will love me?”

  “Truly,” he replied, smiling softly.

  “Promise?”

  “She will truly love you, like your own mother would have.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Penelope searched his eyes. The bare glimmer of light filtering through the shuttered windows hid most of the duke’s expression. London, it seemed, had gone silent.

  For the second time that day time seemed to stop. All she could hear was her thundering heart, and all she could feel was his hand tightening in her hair. He bent his head and briefly touched her lips.

  A knock at the carriage door had them flying apart.

  He cursed. The driver’s voice said something, but Penelope could hear not a word. Her hammering heartbeat drowned out every other sound. The duke had kissed her, briefly, but lips touching lips equalled a kiss. Her hands flew to her face and her eyes clenched shut.

  “Here, eat some of this,” the duke ordered. His voice sounded calm and controlled as if the kiss had never happened.

  She opened her eyes and found a thick slice of the cake she had been eyeing at the confectioners. He held a cup of lemonade in his other hand.

  “How did you know?” If he could pretend that the moment never happened, then so could she.

  “I saw you ogling the cake when we passed by earlier. I could hardly fail to notice it,” he replied, sounding a little embarrassed.

  “No, I meant how did you know where I was?”

  “An acquaintance had delayed me across the street. I saw the boy cut your purse and then I saw you sprinting after him. I followed you, but lost sight of you just before you turned into the laneway. I thought you must have gone straight on, but when after a minute I found no trace of you, I back tracked and took a chance by turning into the lane.”

  Penelope nodded. The cake no longer looked appetising, but she did drink the lemonade.

  The duke took the cup from her, and after making sure that she was not going to go into shock just yet, he said, “I am just going out to have a word with the driver. I am just outside. No one will enter. See, I am leaving the pistol here just so you feel safe. Alright?”

  It was not alright, but Penelope smiled bravely.

  He watched her for a moment and then bent his head to brush his lips against her once more. And then he was gone.

  She sat in a daze, the duke’s brief kisses extinguishing all other thoughts. She did not know what to make of them. Was it kindness on his part or pity? Or was it simply the situation that had compelled him? After all, she too had lost her head for a moment.

  She did not know how long she sat in the darkened carriage. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours before the door opened and Anne and the duke entered.

  Seeing Anne’s concerned expression, things fell into place. The duke had kissed her to give her something to think about other than that man in the laneway. He had told her he was just going outside to talk to the driver when in fact he had gone to fetch his sister from the shop. He had lied to her to keep her feeling safe and knowing that she was in no condition to face the street so soon. He had asked the driver to buy her that slice of cake, and he had left the only pistol with her.

  She hugged Anne tightly, her eyes on the duke. She did not want to think of hi
m as kind, considerate or caring. She wished he would do something, anything, to make her hate him again.

  Chapter 18

  The carriage halted outside the Blackthorne Mansion.

  Anne wriggled across the leather seat and the uniformed footman helped her descend from the carriage. A moment later she dived back in and hissed at Penelope.

  “What is it?” Penelope asked, trying to peer out of the window.

  Anne grabbed Penelope’s head and forced her to duck. “For years Dr Johnson has been badgering Grandfather to take some fresh air. Well, he has finally decided to take the good doctor’s advice. He is currently sitting in the garden, and you will have to walk past him to enter the house … You cannot walk past him, I will not have it. Stay in the carriage,” Anne ordered.

  “But I am hot, Lady Radclyff. Besides, we don’t know how long Sir Henry is going to sit there. What if it is hours before he moves?”

  “He won’t stay long,” Anne insisted.

  “How can you possibly know that? The leather seats are already burning through my skirts and now my buttock—”

  “Oh, alright then,” she huffed. “I will go engage Grandfather in conversation. Try and sneak by in five minutes. Oh, and remember to crouch really low and use the bushes to your advantage.”

  Penelope waited for five minutes or at least what she hoped was five minutes and snuck out of the carriage. She tiptoed her way to the nearest bush and hid behind it. She parted the leaves and peeked out. Anne was standing right in front of Sir Henry and gesturing wildly.

  If Penelope read Sir Henry’s expression correctly, then the old man seemed rather alarmed by his granddaughter’s enthusiasm. He was bending his entire form as far back as he possibly could from Lady Radclyff, and his eyes were darting around the garden anxiously.

  Penelope felt a twinge of pity for Sir Henry. Lady Radclyff could be remarkably formidable, she thought, scampering away from the sweet briar and towards the rose bush.

  The rose bush turned out to be sparse and thorny. It barely hid her from the view. She nervously glanced at Lady Radclyff, who was now putting on a fully-fledged one woman show for her grandfather. She seemed to be acting out a scene where she was a rider atop a horse wielding a whip. Sir Henry was gripping his chair, his eyes wide and a forgotten pipe hanging out of his mouth. Penelope dragged her eyes away from the spectacle and scanned the landscape. She found that the next decently sized bush was a good distance away from her. If Sir Henry had to spot her, then it would be now. She prepared herself for the dash when a hand clamped on her arm.

  She found the duke smiling down at her. He was wearing a moustache.

  “I am just trying to get to the house without being seen by Sir Henry.”

  “Let me assist you, Miss Fairweather,” he replied, yanking her arm and pulling her away from the bushes and straight onto the path.

  “Don’t, he is going to see me!”

  “Exactly what I intend. Come along now,” he said cheerfully.

  “But you promised your mother.”

  “I had promised not to tell him about you. I am not telling him, I am showing him,” he said triumphantly.

  “Miss Fairweather,” Sir Henry called across the garden.

  Penelope pasted a smile on her face. She had wanted a reason to hate the duke and he had provided her with one. She walked across the lawn silently cursing him.

  “You said that I will have a good mother-in-law. How am I supposed to find one if you send me off to Finnshire?” Her breath hitched the moment the words came out of her mouth. What had happened right after he had said that hung heavy in the air.

  He was quiet for a moment, his eyes avoiding her. When he spoke his tone was light, “I said you will have a good mother-in-law and you will … in Finnshire.”

  Penelope grumbled something rude under her breath making the duke chuckle.

  The duke had left her with no choice. She would have to face Sir Henry. From the corner of her eye she noticed the dowager racing across the garden path. Penelope slowed down slightly to allow her time to reach them. Now all her hopes depended on the dowager’s ability to convince her father to let her stay on. Clenching her parasol in a deathly grip, she took a deep breath just before reaching the old man’s side.

  “Sir Henry,” Penelope said curtsying.

  “Miss Fairweather,” Sir Henry inclined his head.

  Anne grabbed her brother’s arm and dug her nails in hard. “Grandfather informed me that you absolutely insisted that he sit out here at this very spot around this time because you had something special to show him. In a day you managed to do something that Dr Johnson could not do in fifteen years. What is so special about today, Charles?”

  “So I did,” he replied pleased.

  “Yes, what did you want to show him?” the dowager asked, joining the party.

  “This,” the duke said, gesturing to Penelope.

  Sir Henry, squinting his eyes, looked at the duke and then at Penelope. After a moment of contemplation, he beamed. “Something special is it, or should I say someone special? Congratulations, my boy. I think she is simply delightful. I remember how charming she looked at the dinner table that day. She wore the appropriate amount of underskirts, and after only one glass of wine she was foxed,” he chuckled. “What a wonderfully delicate constitution. True, her conversational skills are a bit lacking, but who needs a wife to speak to? At least she understands the importance of marriage. It is hard to find such a gem … If only I had been sixty years younger … When is the wedding?”

  Aghast, the duke opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

  Anne burst out laughing.

  “I am not marrying her,” he roared.

  “Then why is she special? You said she was special and you forced me come and sit in this blasted heat because it was important. Your reasons better be worth it, boy. Now out with it. What is you wanted to tell me?”

  The duke stared at his grandfather in horror. He then turned a beseeching eye towards his mother. She shrugged her shoulders in response. He was prevented from answering when a coughing fit suddenly overtook Sir Henry.

  They waited and waited and then waited some more for the fit to come to an end. And just when Penelope started becoming alarmed, all went quiet. It looked like Sir Henry had finally breathed his last. The duke gingerly stuck his finger under his grandfather’s nose to check.

  Sir Henry snapped open his eyes and caught the duke’s finger between his teeth and bit down. Hard.

  Sir Henry’s eyes waited for an answer. If the duke wanted his finger back, then he would have to come up with something good.

  “Alright, alright, I am thinking about marrying her. I wanted your opinion but nothing is certain,” the duke babbled.

  Sir Henry released his finger and smiled, “Well, then you have my blessings. The next time I leave Blackthorne Mansion it will be to attend your wedding to that girl.”

  Thereafter, Sir Henry, flushed rosy from the sun and whistling a chipper tune, was carried back indoors.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence the dowager spoke, “You are engaged to be married to Lady Lydia Snowly. Are you now also engaged to Miss Fairweather?”

  “I am not. I couldn’t think of anything else to say to him. I thought he would never want to see her in Blackthorne again. How was I to know the daft man actually liked her? I am convinced Grandfather has gone over the edge, Mother.”

  “No doubt of that, Charles. But now what will you do?” the dowager asked.

  “Make Lydia wear a long opaque veil during the wedding. After the marriage Grandfather won’t be able to do much,” Anne suggested.

  “I am sure Grandfather will forget about Miss Fairweather soon enough,” the duke replied confidently.

  “I doubt that. After all, Miss Fairweather is going to be meeting him at dinner every day from now on,” Anne said gleefully.

  “Fine, the veil it is,” he snapped, before storming off.

  “Well, that’s that.
At least you can join us for dinner now. It is a weight off my mind,” the dowager said pleased.

  Penelope smiled and nodded. Yet at the back of her mind was the knowledge that the duke would not give up. Every obstacle in his path was making him hate her presence in his home more and more. It was only a matter of time before the duke won. How could Miss Penelope Fairweather from a tiny village called Finnshire compete with Charles Radclyff, the Duke of Blackthorne?

  ***

  Later that evening Penelope and Lady Radclyff stood outside Lady Virginia’s house staring at an ornate doorknob resembling a lion’s head.

  “Do you remember everything Madame told you yesterday?” Lady Radclyff asked.

  “Yes, Lady Radclyff,” Penelope replied, swallowing a lump of fear.

  “Nothing will go wrong I hope?”

  “I promise on my honour. No one will even notice my presence.”

  “Good, then let us assume that this is your first social gathering and forget about whatever happened before.”

  “Yes, Lady Radclyff,” she replied, bravely stepping forward towards the entrance.

  “Miss Fairweather,” the formidable butler announced.

  It was a small gathering with no more than forty people invited for the dinner party.

  Lady Virginia hurried over to greet them.

  “Miss Fairweather,” the duke introduced.

  Penelope smiled and dipped in an elegant curtsey.

  The hostess swiftly examined Penelope’s delicate and more importantly expensive silver gown and the genuine pearls woven through her hair. Her eyebrow rose in approval.

  After a short but warm welcome, Lady Virginia departed.

  “That was well done,” Anne praised.

  “Thank you,” Penelope replied pleased. She had answered Lady Virginia’s questions in a demure and controlled manner. She was proud of herself and was feeling slightly more confident.

  Fifteen minutes later, Penelope and Anne were back in the carriage being driven back to the Blackthorne Mansion.

  “What happened?” the dowager asked when they reached home.