Your father and I are bringing her to London at once on the next stage. Perhaps you can talk some sense into Penny. She will not listen to me or to him. She can share your room, to prevent midnight escapes, and we will sleep in the guest bedroom that Terence mentioned.
It is a great advantage under the circumstances that you are always at home. Penny will have to be watched like a hawk day and night.
Your loving Mama
P.S. We can take turns.
Jo’s heart sank. She threw the letter upon the floor. There was no sense in writing back. By the time her response reached Bath, her parents and Penelope would already be in London.
The snake in the grass would follow, no doubt.
She wondered who he was and what he looked like. Her mother had offered no particulars. If they were to protect Penny, Jo would have to have this vital information.
Not that she wanted it.
She would be unable to go to the theater. She would have to stay home and hover over Penny. Lord York might visit at Guilford Street, because her parents knew him, but she would not be able to ride in his carriage, or dawdle the afternoon away, laughing with Lizzie and Ginny in the dressing rooms, or watch rehearsals, or help Mr. McNeel build and paint.
Noooooooooo. She would have to be perfectly respectable and set an example for her wayward cousin, who had always been perfectly respectable herself until the appearance of the snake.
Jo might even miss opening night.
She flung herself back into the pillows and closed her eyes. She was too angry to cry.
Chapter Eleven
Two days later at Guilford Street …
Dinner was a grim affair. Penelope refused to eat, wiping her tears away with a drenched, twisted handkerchief, looking utterly miserable and faintly sick.
Jo waved to the maid to clear the table. Penelope rose. They all rose with her.
“I do not plan to throw myself out the dining room window, if that is what you are all worried about. You do not have to watch my every move, you know.”
Mrs. Shy coughed discreetly and cast a look at the wide-eyed maid. “Let us discuss this in the drawing room, if you please, Penny.”
Jo’s plain cousin let out a lugubrious sigh. If only Penny would not carry on like the heroine of a bad opera, Jo thought with some annoyance. After all, she had done nothing but exchange kisses with a man under the moonlight. Jo had done the same. The situation was not all that dire.
“My dear aunt,” Penelope began, composing herself. “We have endured two days in each other’s company, crowded inside the stagecoach from Bath. I daresay you and Uncle found it quite trying.”
“My health is not the best, my girl,” Mrs. Shy said crisply.
“You must rest,” her husband said to her. He glared at Penelope.
She cast down her eyes. “I am dreadfully sorry for the trouble I have caused. But I must talk to Jo … alone.”
“Very well. I am exhausted.” Mrs. Shy threw down her serviette and left the dining room, trailed by the vicar.
Jo looked after them with surprise. “Really, Penelope, how could you be so foolish? Such a brouhaha over a few kisses.”
“Let me explain,” Penelope begged, “but not here.”
Jo took her cousin’s arm and walked with her to the drawing room, not saying another word. She settled herself in one armchair and indicated that Penelope should take the other.
“Please do explain. I am ready to listen.”
“You must promise not to tell your mother everything, Jo.”
“All right,” Jo said slowly, wondering what revelations lay in store.
“Oliver has disappeared.”
“That does not surprise me. Well, it does a little. My mother seemed to think he was after your inheritance. Money exerts a powerful magnetic force, you know. She expected him to follow you to London.”
“He did not. I never told him of it, and it is not as if I wear fashionable clothes or jewels. How would he have known? Your mama would never dream of mentioning my money.”
Jo nodded. “Were you two really engaged in the study of hieroglyphics?”
“I was teaching him. He pretended to learn.”
“How romantic.”
“It was to me,” Penelope said wistfully. “One wants to share what one loves with one’s lover.”
“I have lost track of the ones. But never mind. You and Oliver were—was he a scholar?”
“No, but he looked ever so handsome in spectacles.”
Jo sighed. “Penelope, you have had the benefit of an excellent education. Surely you know that looks are deceiving.”
Penelope wiped a tear. “Perhaps I was willing to be deceived. Jo, imagine my situation. There I was in Bath, accompanying my elderly aunt and uncle to the Pump Room and other smelly places filled with complaining invalids.
“Yes, I wanted to go and I am very fond of your mother. But I felt … almost invisible. Not one man looked at me. Not really. A few looked through me, if you know what I mean.”
Jo raised an eyebrow but she let her cousin talk.
“It is not easy to be plain and a little plump, you know,” Penelope went on. “An excellent education is all very well but what use it will ever be to me, I do not know. No one wants to dally with a bluestocking.”
“Perhaps not,” Jo agreed.
“And is there something wrong with wanting something more? Oliver was kind to me. Oliver was interested in my work. Oliver danced with me. Oliver kissed me.”
“And now Oliver is gone. But the world continues to spin. You will get over him.”
Penelope rose to walk about the drawing room in an agitated way. Jo could see that her cousin was perhaps a bit plumper than the last time they had met and as ungainly as always. She did feel sorry for Penny. She just felt sorrier for herself.
Jo had to pretend she actually enjoyed humdrum domesticity for as long as her parents chose to stay at the Guilford Street house. It was not indefinite, of course, but still … it was an awful nuisance.
She had dashed off a note to Lord York, explaining the matter in a few brief words. At least he knew her parents. He would be sure to call at the house as soon as he could and had been instructed to behave with exemplary restraint.
She could not tell her dear mama of her tender feelings for Daniel, or any of the rest of it.
Especially not since Penelope had been caught kissing—oh, dreadful deed!—a fortune hunter, posing as a scholar in prop spectacles. But apparently Oliver had not even been a real fortune hunter, only an ordinary bounder. Her cousin’s misadventure had a whiff of farce about it. But Penny’s misery seemed all too real.
“Penny, did you truly know nothing of love?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, dear. But it seems to me that you are too intelligent to be so distraught over losing a false lover. He kissed you and he danced with you. But your little affair, if I may call it that, clearly meant much more to you than it did to him and that is unfortunate.”
Penny swallowed hard. “Do you remember the romance novels that you gave me, Jo?”
“Yes. You said you did not see what all the fuss was about.”
“Now I know,” she said sadly.
“But those books are fiction. You were taught to value facts.”
Penelope wrung her hands. “To hell with facts. I never learned about heroes or villains or how to know if love is real or what a woman scorned should do. They do seem to survive in books, as a rule.”
“Well, yes,” Jo agreed. “If the heroine throws herself off a cliff on page two, there will have to be a lot of talking at her funeral, pages and pages of it, to fill up the rest.”
“Yes,” Penny said, “that is what I am getting at. She must tumble down and crawl back up the rocks, and struggle. And her hero will be waiting.”
Jo was quiet for a moment. “You don’t expect that Oliver is waiting for you, do you?”
“No.” Penelope looked at her with stricken eyes and sat dow
n in the armchair again.
“Penny, what really happened? Why are you so upset?”
“He … he did more than kiss me, Jo. I have missed my courses for two months. There is nothing I can do about it. I am going to have a baby.”
“Oh!” Jo was thunderstruck. “Does my mother know that?”
“No, and you promised not to tell her.”
“I would never. Oh, my poor Penny! I had no idea! But I will help you, however I can.” She embraced her friend, now in a full flood of tears.
“You are very kind, Jo. Most would not. But I will not abandon my baby to a wet nurse or leave it at the Foundling Hospital. I might … go away somewhere. I have enough money to live wherever I want to. I could go to Egypt.”
“Of course,” Jo said, patting Penny’s tear-streaked cheek and crying a little herself. “Why didn’t I think of that? You and your innocent babe will ride off into the sunset upon a camel, wrapped in yashmaks or whatever it is they wear.”
“Djellabas, I believe. It is a sort of loose robe. The yashmak is a scarf.”
“Penny, dear, you cannot go to Egypt. Please don’t talk nonsense. There is a way out of every difficulty.”
Penelope wiped her eyes. “Not this one.”
“Perhaps I can help,” said a masculine voice.
Jo looked up. “Terence! How much did you hear?”
Terence walked into the room. “Something about a camel. And a djellaba. What is going on? Mama and Papa have retired for the night after arriving quite unexpectedly from Bath—you never did tell why they were coming, Jo—and now I find two weeping women in the drawing room. May I venture a guess that all is not quite right with the world?”
“Oh, the world will continue to spin. Jo says so.” Penelope sniffed back her tears.
“Jo is always right, you know,” Terence said breezily.
A few hours later …
Jo made Penny comfortable in her own room and tiptoed down the stairs. Terence was waiting for her in the drawing room, she knew. She opened the door quietly to see him sitting by the lamp, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“What was that all about? I have never seen Penelope so emotional.”
“Oh, nothing. A broken heart. She will get over it.”
“Is that why Mama and Papa brought her back from Bath?”
“Yes.”
“How long are they all staying?”
“Until … I don’t know, Terence. I expect that our parents will want to return to The Elms as soon as possible, but they want me to stay here with Penny and keep her from running away with a fortune-hunting blackguard.”
“Who? Is he here? I seem to have missed the second act.”
“He has disappeared. And he is not really a fortune hunter. Apparently he did not even know that Penelope was an heiress. They were studying hieroglyphics together and one thing led to another—”
“Damned hieroglyphics,” Terence said affably. “There you are, looking at cartouches of jackals and ibises and crocodiles, and before you know it, someone is nuzzling your ear. Happens to me all the time.”
Jo did not know whether to laugh or cry. The lateness of the hour, Penelope’s earth-shattering news, her own shock—everything had her on an emotional edge.
“It is good to see Penelope again. I have always liked her. Intelligent girl. Not a beauty but most enjoyable to talk to.”
“Yes. Yes, she is.” Jo had not known that her brother thought so highly of their cousin. Her heart rejoiced, then sank. She took a deep breath, remembering her mother’s motto: Always do the right thing, Jo. Your heart will tell you what that is.
She was not at all sure that telling Terence of Penelope’s predicament was the right thing to do. But she trusted her brother, despite his eccentricity, and time was of the essence.
“I am glad to hear that you like her. I was hoping you would—that is, if you felt so inclined—”
“Oh, stop hemming and hawing. Do you want me to escort her to a ball or something like that?”
“No, I was going to ask you to marry her.”
“What?”
Chapter Twelve
“I mean a sham marriage, of course. A real divorce afterward would require an Act of Parliament and—”
“Have you lost your mind?” Terence rose and placed a hand on her forehead. “Are you suffering from a fever?”
Jo batted his hand away.
“Penelope needs our help.”
“A few hours ago she seemed to be needing a camel. What the devil is going on?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“You must.”
Jo took a deep breath. “Penelope is going to have a baby.”
“What? Whose?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Terence, as was his wont, began to pace. “Well, it matters to me. She is my cousin, but it is not my baby, and I should like to know who done the deed. Oh …” He paused. “The student of hieroglyphics, was it?”
Jo nodded.
“So you think I should marry her.”
“In a sham ceremony.”
He threw up his hands. “There. You have been at the theater too long. I blame myself. You now believe that paper moons are real and that Molly can actually fly.”
“Penelope’s dilemma is very real.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But that does not mean that I—do you know, Jo, not two days ago Tom Higgins and I were getting to the bottom of a rather good bottle of madeira. I said in jest that all our problems would be over if only I could marry an heiress with something to hide. And it seems that divine providence has dropped one in my lap.”
“Think of it as a sign.”
“But what does it mean?” Terence shook his head. “It seems incredible. Penelope with child? And unwed? She was always such a serious girl.”
“Yes, and she still is.”
Her brother looked at her levelly. “This wild idea is all yours, I take it.”
“Yes.”
He began to pace again. “Have you ever wondered why you and I are so unlike our parents? They are deeply moral people, upright, blameless in every way, eminently sensible—”
“Perhaps we were left upon their doorstep by fairies.”
Terence snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I knew there was a rational answer.”
“Oh, Terence. It does not matter if we are not like Mama and Papa in every respect. We are no less moral than they are, but we are … oh, what is the word?
“Less conventional.”
“Yes, that is it exactly. Perhaps living in London has changed us, or—well, as you say, perhaps it is the theater. But surely helping Penelope is the right thing to do.”
Jo allowed her brother to lead her to a chair and settle her into it.
“Helping Penelope is one thing,” he said. “Marrying her is quite another. You are overwrought and overtired. But there is a lesson to be learned here. Kisses have consequences.”
She burst into tears.
“Jo! Whatever is the matter now?”
She found the sodden handkershief that Penelope had left behind and bawled into it.
“You are not … you cannot be … has Daniel? No, he would never—dear God, girl! Explain yourself!”
“It is not what you think! He has kissed me. I let him. I liked it. But that is all.”
“Then why are you crying, Jo?”
She gulped. “I don’t know. I was so shocked by Penelope’s news, and so afraid for her. And I still am. I could not think what to do and said the first thing that came into my head. I need a rest. Do you know, Daniel invited Ginny and Lizzie and me to Derrydale.”
Terence nodded and stroked her hair. “You must go.”
“What about Penelope?”
“She can go with you. Send him a note and say that your cousin has arrived unexpectedly. He will not mind. You will require a chaperone. I cannot spare Lizzie and Ginny for more than a few days in the midst of rehearsals.”
Jo smiled wanly. “Chape
rones are supposed to be elderly females of ironclad respectability, not unwed mothers. What will he say?”
“I daresay Penelope looks respectable enough. She was never one to follow the fashions. And she has told no one but you about her condition, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then he doesn’t have to know. Go to Derrydale, and take Mama and Papa back to The Elms. I will carry on bravely by myself at the theater.”
Jo patted his hand. “My hero.”
He shrugged. “An unlikely one, to be sure. But perhaps I can find a way to help Penelope. Never fear.”
“Derrydale–Richmond coach, leaving now,” said Tom. “Drop yer luggage here, ladies. Ow! I didn’t mean on my foot, Lizzie.”
“Then get your foot out of my way.”
He picked up her portmanteau. “Still haven’t forgiven me for pullin’ ye and Molly apart, I see.”
“No, and I never will.” The bosomy redhead swept by him regally.
“Suit yerself.”
Tom tossed her luggage atop the rest. He was driving the wagon they used to transport large pieces of scenery, as the party had grown so large. There was just enough room for them in Lord York’s black carriage but none for their things or the Shys’s maid-of-all-work, who would ride with him.
Josephine, her parents, her cousin Penelope, Lizzie, Ginny, and Lord York himself milled about, seeing to last-minute preparations.
They clambered into the carriage one by one but Lizzie lingered upon the cobblestones until Harry Longwood came tearing out of the theater.
“Here is my blacksmith! He has hammered my heart upon the anvil of his love!”
“Oh, do shut up, Lizzie,” said Ginny. “Yer nonsense quite gives me the headache.”
The blacksmith bestowed a gentle kiss upon Lizzie’s cheek.
“Thank you, my darling,” she said, and got in last of all. Harry stood there disconsolately, tears in his eyes and sheet music in his hand, waving good-bye with it when the carriage rolled away toward the Strand.
They had been on the road for less than an hour when Mr. Shy began to snore. The day was warm and his elderly wife leaned against him and was soon fast asleep as well. Ginny, Lizzie, and Penelope jounced up and down, even though they were squeezed together on the backward-facing seat. Jo and Daniel, bracketing the Shys, offered polite smiles.
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