“Not at all. Penelope is intrepid and intelligent, though she is somewhat shortsighted.” Jo was eager to see her and wondered how Penelope was getting on. It had taken a week to get her parents established and comfortable in the cottage, which had needed a great deal of airing out and dusting by the maid and Jo. There had been no note sent from Derrydale during that time.
It had seemed best to separate Penelope from the Shys upon the party’s arrival. Feelings had been running high on both sides, and Jo had been afraid that Penelope might blurt out the truth in an anguished moment. If Mrs. Shy could disapprove so thoroughly of a few kisses, Jo could not imagine what the old lady would say or do if she knew that the unmarried Penelope was with child.
Come to think of it, Jo wondered what Lord York would say or do. He was considerably less priggish than he had seemed to her at first, but she would not dare to confide in him on that subject.
She looked up. He was watching Ginny get over a stile, nimble as always. Penelope and Lizzie stayed on the other side of it, seeming flummoxed.
Penelope seemed to be listening to Ginny’s instructions and climbed awkwardly over the stile, catching her dress upon it and tugging it free.
Lizzie stood where she was, bellowing like an ill-tempered cow.
“I suppose she will not climb,” Lord York said. “And she is very careful of that damned dress. Not the sort of thing one wears to gather mushrooms, but I think she imagined herself doing it onstage, singing all the while.”
Jo laughed under her breath, just in case the breeze should carry the sound to Lizzie. She watched Penelope and Ginny reach out their hands to Lizzie, encouraging her.
At last Lizzie put a foot upon the first rung of the stile and went over it, basket upon her arm.
The singer’s dress was unharmed, but the handle of her basket caught and mushrooms tumbled out of it. Jo saw rather than heard Lizzie’s gasp, and then laughed again as the singer began to stamp upon the fallen mushrooms in a fit of pique.
Lord York grinned. “She is like a child sometimes.”
“Yes.”
He looked down at Jo. “Were you going to tell me again that she has a good heart? I know that. But oh, what a terrible temper.”
“Indeed it is. I am glad that it has never been directed at me.”
“No, but those mushrooms are getting the worst of it.”
“Lizzie, stop!” they heard Ginny call faintly. “Ye’ll ruin yer fine shoes! Come along.”
The three women quickened their pace and came closer. Ginny and Penelope saw Lord York and Jo, and waved to them, but Lizzie was watching where she walked, grumbling loudly and pausing to catch her breath in between grumbles.
“Blast my bloody … fine shoes! I … have had … quite enough … of this rural frolic … and I hate … gathering my own … food! I want … to go back to London … where … oh, dear, I have stepped in something awful … where they bring it to you … on a tray!” Lizzie looked up at last and spied Lord York and Jo. “Oh, hello. Sorry about the mushrooms, but they filled their baskets to the brim.”
“How nice to see you, Lizzie,” Jo said impishly.
“The same to you, my pet. How are your parents? Snug in their sweet little cottage?” Lizzie swept past, not waiting for an answer. “Good, good.”
Jo stepped forth to greet her cousin, very pleased to see that Penelope had roses in her cheeks and seemed a great deal happier than when Jo had seen her last. They embraced. Jo and Ginny clasped hands, and shared a silent laugh at Lizzie’s expense.
“Herself is in a swivet,” Ginny said, “but that can’t be helped.”
“I think we will have to send her back to the theater,” Lord York said. “Sunshine and fresh air are very bad for her.”
“Oh, no, Lord York,” Ginny said. “If she goes, then I must go with her. Keep her here another day.”
“Very well, but I have sent for Tom and the wagon.”
“Why, sir? There will be room enough in the carriage.”
“Oh, you will all ride in the carriage. But Terence has asked that we send some of our old furniture, and other odds and ends. He thinks he might be able to use it. There is enough rubbish like that in the house, God knows.”
“Very well.” Ginny looked disappointed.
“But you are welcome to return whenever you wish, Mrs. Goodchurch.”
“Thank you, sir!” She dropped a curtsy and followed Lizzie’s path to the house quite quickly, as if she feared he might change his mind.
Jo took Penelope’s arm. “My dear cousin Upton gave me a cup of tea but perhaps you would like some refreshment. And we have not talked for a week. You do not mind if we wander off, do you, Daniel? There seems to be no end of drawing rooms in your house.”
He bowed ever so slightly. “Not at all. Just tell the tweeny where you will be so Mrs. Nottingate can send her up with a tray. Most of the servants are too old to walk much.”
“I understand.” His regard for them touched her.
“Penelope’s bedchamber connects to a very pleasant little room where you two can be quite private and giggle to your hearts’ content.”
“Thank you, Lord York,” Penelope said.
Jo heard the sadness underneath her cousin’s polite tone. Indeed, there was nothing to giggle about. But Jo was very glad to be at Derrydale with her.
The tweeny, a strapping maidservant of fifteen or so, set down the tray between them. Mrs. Nottingate had provided heartier fare—indeed, it would serve them well for lunch.
Penelope looked at it a little queasily when the tweeny had left.
“You must eat a little, Penny.”
“I have been sick every morning. Ginny is in the next room and she hears, I think. But she does not ask questions.”
“She would not.”
They sat for a minute or two in silence. Penelope would not meet Jo’s eye.
“How have you been? Have you decided upon anything—where you will go or who will go with you?”
Penelope shook her head. “I can only say that I will remain in England. I am not inclined to take an extended tour of the Continent, as ladies in my circumstances do.”
“Then you are not going to Egypt.”
Penelope smiled. “No, that was a wild fantasy. I scarcely knew what I was saying that night. I could not think straight. The journey from Bath was so wearying and your dear mama had not one kind word to say, though I was grateful that she did not scold me. And again, Jo, I was—am—so very sorry for the trouble I caused her. And you …” She trailed off.
Jo laid a hand upon her cousin’s arm. “Mama is quite recovered from the shock of finding out that you allowed yourself to be kissed, I assure you. As for the rest, she will never know unless you decide to tell her.”
Penelope nodded and folded her hands in her lap. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
“Penny, listen to me. Whatever happens, I will be by your side. You are not alone in this.”
“Jo, do not speak so. You are young and unmarried. My foolish mistake is my own. I cannot allow you to be tainted by scandal.”
“I care nothing for what people say. You are my friend.”
“Thank you,” Penny said in a whisper. “May I stay with you in London for now? I cannot go home. There is no one there but the servants, but they will talk. Everyone will know.”
“Of course you may stay with me, for as long as you like.”
“We will have to tell Terence,” Penelope pointed out.
“He is impossible to shock. My dear brother is rather, ah, unconventional. Yes, that is the very word he used to describe himself.” Jo rattled on, not wanting to reveal that she had already told Terence. “And as for scandal, I hear a thousand scandalous things a day at the theater.”
“I am sure that Miss Loudermilk says half of them.” The ghost of a smile touched Penny’s quivering lips.
“Yes, but I find that I am no longer shocked. My dear mama would not like to hear me say it, but words are only wor
ds. I find a refreshing lack of hypocrisy among the theater folk. They are vain, quarrelsome, and free with their affections, as my brother puts it, but they are not hypocrites.”
“Well then, I ought to go upon the stage,” Penelope said wryly.
“Oh, dear me, no. Promise me you will not.”
“I was only joking. I have no talent, and no inclination to do so, Jo. But Miss Loudermilk says that you do. You are not considering joining the company of players, are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“She says you are always at the theater.”
Jo nodded. “That is true. I was very cross when my mother said she was descending upon us, for I have never told her of that, and Terence would not. No, I help him when I can, and I also assist Lizzie with her vocal practice.”
“She seems …” Penny took a moment to find the right word. “Indestructible.”
“That’s our Lizzie. Now eat something, Penny. You must keep your strength up.”
She watched Penelope stick a fork in a piece of country ham and nibble on it as if it were a child’s sweet on a stick.
“It is very good ham,” she said after a minute. “Have some yourself, Jo.”
“I will. I must set a good example.”
“Too late for that,” Penelope said.
Jo laughed. “You are quite right. Now take little bites so you won’t get sick.”
“Yes, mother.” Penelope took her time about finishing the ham. She ate half of a buttered roll and nibbled on a sprig of watercress.
“This was growing by the river. We had a pleasant picnic there. And that reminds me—Lord York said that you and he are hoping to find a frog that lives there. Old Gus, I believe he called it, and he said, I quote, that it is an amphibian of legendary size and cunning. He wants to catch it. But what will he do with it if he does?”
“Let it go, I expect. He is very kind.”
Penelope nibbled on another sprig of watercress. “Do you love him, Jo?”
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“You talk about him with such tenderness. And he too is always at the theater, according to Lizzie. Is that another reason you spend so much time there?”
“Perhaps,” Jo said, blushing.
Jo went down to the river that very afternoon. She found the right place easily enough. Daniel had posted a flag, as he’d said he would.
He had gone to the trouble of sending a written invitation to her room, delivered by the young lad who had scampered about after Upton, when the old butler was not sleeping, and ran errands for him.
She pulled the invitation from her basket and read it again.
The presence of Miss Josephine Shy
is respectfully requested
by 2:00 o’clock at the river
(a red flag wil be posted at the spot)
for a matinee performance of
“Good Old Gus”
Refreshments will be provided.
She settled herself upon the riverbank and slipped off her shoes. She had come a bit early and felt inclined to go barefoot. The grass was delightfully warm.
Jo drew up her legs under her dress and rested her chin on her knees, staring into the water. It eddied around mossy rocks and flowed on, sparkling in the summer sun. She could not quite see beneath its surface … but could that unmoving lump be Gus? No, it was a submerged rock.
She looked where the water was still. Of course, she thought, if she did glimpse the monstrous frog, she would not do anything that might startle him. Daniel would not forgive her if the Great Uncatchable Sir Slippery escaped him once more.
If the legendary frog still lived.
She saw bubbles rise upon the water and pop one by one. Was that Gus? No, it was a pike, gliding through the water, narrow and sleek.
She jumped a little when a picnic basket landed on the blanket beside her.
“Hello, Jo. Have you seen him yet?”
“No. Are you sure that old Gus is still here? What is the life span of a frog?”
“I have no idea. But this is the right spot.”
He sat down beside her and crossed his legs, thought better of it, and removed his boots. They were old and worn, and came off easily. He left on his stockings, which were nice and white and new, she noticed.
“Shall we eat first? Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.”
“May I tempt you?”
“Please do.”
He unfastened the leather-and-peg clasp of the basket and looked inside. “Mrs. Nottingate always does a good picnic. There are rolls, and cake, and ajar of berries.” He took these out. “What is in the damp napkin? Oh, cheese. Of course. Two bottles of beer. And there is a ham someone has been hacking at. It looks familiar. I believe I made its acquaintance at breakfast.”
Jo giggled. “So did I. It is very good. I would not mind a bit more in a little while.”
“We must save the bone for Caesar. He expects it. No doubt he has been dreaming of it. We must render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and all that.”
“Yes. He is a fine old dog.”
“He came to Derrydale some years ago. I am afraid everyone at Derrydale is on the old side.”
“You are not, Daniel.”
“No, but taking care of it all makes me feel old sometimes. I have had to close off many rooms to save money on firewood and coal, and the plaster is falling in many more. I cannot afford to fix everything at once. It is a struggle to keep up appearances and my brother is no help.”
“I see.”
He let out a sigh. “Gerald and I do not like each other. He often let me know when we were boys that he would be quite happy if the gypsies took me or a fever finished me off.”
“But surely—”
“In time, I came to feel that way about him. But he is healthy enough, though the only exercise he ever gets is throwing dice and fanning out his cards. He would stake Derrydale at the gaming table if he felt like it.”
“Oh.”
“The estate is his—our—only source of income. And it is mortgaged to the hilt.”
She gave him a long look. “But you would not sell the place, would you?”
“It is not mine to sell, Jo.”
“No, of course not,” she murmured.
“Gerald expects me to manage it for him. Derrydale is dear to me and so I do. But to answer your question … no. I would never sell it.”
He leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs.
“Let us talk of other things. Are you happy here, Josephine?”
“Yes, of course. I quite enjoy being home.”
“Do you miss London?”
“Not yet.”
He rolled over to look at her.
“Do you miss the theater?”
“Not at all. It has done us all good to get away from that dusty cave and its endless corridors.”
“Lizzie doesn’t think so.”
Josephine flopped onto her front and ran her fingers through the warm grass. “She was born in a stage trunk or so she says.”
“Really?” Lord York said. “Then her mother must have been a very small woman.”
“You are being silly.”
“That is because I suddenly feel silly. Wonderfully silly. I have not a care in the world at the moment.”
“What about Gerald?”
“To hell with Gerald. I am sorry that I mentioned him. Forgive me.”
“You are allowed to complain,” Jo said. “He sounds horrible. More like your enemy than a brother.”
“I insist that we change the subject!”
“Very well. What about Gus? Your manly honor requires you to catch him.”
“Oh, yes, good old Gus.” He rolled back and sat up, taking off his stockings and unfastening his breeches at the knees to roll them up. “Here I go.”
He strode down to the river, a fine figure of a man in breeches and shirt. Jo looked with open admiration at his back and his bottom and his strong legs. Th
ere was no one there to chide her for doing so.
He stuck a toe into the water. “Ah, most refreshing.” He waded in. “Slippery, though.” He stood for a bit, getting his balance as he turned to face her with a grin. Then he looked down into the water. “I see everything but a frog. Minnows. And little creeping things. And—that was a pike!”
“I saw that pike.”
“He is too young to be worth catching, and I have no tackle.”
“I saw an angler’s net in one of the closets.”
“Really? I was wondering where that was. Did it have a hole in it?”
“I don’t remember. The net is presently occupied by a very large spider.”
“Oh,” he said absentmindedly, looking down into the water again.
Jo studied him from the front. Even better. What a handsome man he was. And that smile. Oh, dear, perhaps she should not have come out alone with him. It was dreadfully improper—and she realized that she did not care in the least.
“Come to me, Jo.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do not talk in that missish way and do not beg my pardon. You want to wade in the water.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Their eyes met for a long moment, and Jo could not look away.
“Sweet Jo,” he said softly, “there is no one to see. If you get a bit wet, the sun will soon dry you.”
“Turn your back.”
“Why?’
“I must roll up my drawers.”
He shook his head sadly. “Must I look away?”
“Yes.”
He turned his back to her and she stayed sitting to roll up her linen drawers to the knee, standing up to roll them a little higher. Then she bent down to take the hem of her dress in hand, and straightened.
He had been watching her all the while over his shoulder.
“You are not a gentleman!”
“No.” He grinned rather wolfishly. “Not always.”
“Do you promise not to splash me?”
“I will not, I promise. But the rocks are slippery, Jo. You must be careful.”
She walked down to the riverbank and stuck in a toe just as he had done. “Oo, that is indeed refreshing.” She stepped into the water. “But I can see much better when I look straight down. The water is as clear as crystal. Look—over there! Is that a frog?”
Lisa Noeli Page 14