But she had not counted on the strength of her feelings. When she looked at him, it was as if the past years melted away, and she was once again a girl of sixteen, in the throes of her first infatuation. It was beyond all reason and logic.
The theater lights began to dim. “Perhaps I may see you again,” Mr. Wolcott said.
“Stay with us,” Lady Whilton commanded. “There is an extra chair, and afterward you must join us for supper. Lady Torringford and I would enjoy hearing of your travels.”
No. He must not stay. Already his mere presence had disordered her feelings. It was folly to encourage him to renew their acquaintance. She opened her mouth to object.
“Indeed you must join us,” Penelope said, and was rewarded with another of his well-remembered smiles.
“As you wish,” Mr. Wolcott replied.
Thirteen
As it turned out, there was no opportunity for Penelope to speak privately with Mr. Wolcott. As his hostess, Lady Whilton claimed the lion’s share of his attention at the theater, and during the supper afterward he was in general demand, telling one anecdote after another of his travels. From his stories it seemed he had been traveling constantly over these past five years, visiting Italy, Greece, and more recently the Continent.
Conscious of their audience, her own questions were impersonal, giving no hint of the close friendship they had once shared. Had Mr. Wolcott encountered any personages of note? Did he share Byron’s appreciation for the Greek isles? Did he find travel inspired his creative muse?
Her calm demeanor masked her inner turmoil. She did not ask any of the questions that had been burning inside her for the past years. Why had he left, without telling anyone of his plans? What had brought on this sudden urge for travel, when he had given every appearance that he was perfectly content with his life in Edinburgh? And the most burning question of all, how could he have left her, without so much as a word? They had pledged their undying affection toward each other, and then, without warning, he had disappeared, taking her heart with him.
His desertion had cut her to the quick, and she had vowed never to marry. And yet, a scant five years later, she was a married woman, a duchess no less, while Mr. Wolcott was the same as he had been. A few pounds heavier, perhaps, and his blond hair was thinner than it had been. But his voice had lost none of its magic, and his words still had the same power to compel.
She could not help wondering what would have happened if Mr. Wolcott had chosen to return this spring. Would there still have been a connection between them? Might she even now be Mrs. Stephen Wolcott, rather than the Duchess of Torringford? As quickly as the thought formed, she banished it. Such imaginings were folly, and made her feel disloyal toward Marcus. It did not matter what might have been. What was done was done, and it was up to her to make the best of things as they were.
The next Wednesday she had her customary at home for callers. After three hours of receiving visitors, she had just bid farewell to the last of them, when Mr. Wolcott was announced.
As he entered the drawing room, she took the opportunity to study him. The daylight revealed what the gaslights had hidden, that the years and constant travels had not been kind to him. Mr. Wolcott’s once fair skin was now reddened, and his slender frame had grown soft with indulgence. Even his clothes, once impeccably tailored, now looked vaguely old-fashioned, as if they were relics from his wardrobe, or had been inexpertly tailored in foreign lands. She marveled for a moment that she had once thought him the epitome of male beauty.
And then he spoke, and the rich mellow tones of his voice banished all other thoughts from her mind.
“Lady Torringford, I hope I find you well,” he said as he advanced into the room.
“I am quite fine,” she said, allowing him to press her hand before indicating that he should take a seat opposite her. “And yourself?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mr. Wolcott replied.
“I am afraid you just missed my other callers,” Penelope said. “Mrs. Lawton was here earlier. You remember her, she was Miss Anne Cameron before her marriage to Roger Lawton?”
Stephen Wolcott nodded.
“Anne is now one of the patronesses of the Edinburgh Reading Society, and she mentioned that she would like you to come speak to their members, if you would be so kind,” Penelope said.
“I would be honored, of course,” Stephen said. “But you must forgive my presumption if I say that I am pleased to have found you alone. I have been hoping for an opportunity for private conversation. There are things that must be said.”
“You had your chance five years ago,” Penelope said. “Whatever needed to be said was said then.”
She was proud of her composure. She had no intention of making a spectacle of herself, or allowing him to speak of matters best forgotten. Since their meeting at the theater, she had had several sleepless nights to resign herself to the knowledge that there could be nothing between them but casual friendship. It was up to her to set the tone of their new relationship.
Stephen Wolcott leaned forward, fixing his gaze on hers. “Five years ago I was a fool,” he said. “I feel I must explain, although I know that I do not deserve your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Penelope said. She would not reveal to him how much his actions had hurt her.
“On the contrary, I did you great wrong. I engaged your affections without once thinking of the consequences. It was only after I had fallen in love that I realized how impossible such a match would be. I had no prospects, no hope of caring for you as you deserved. And so I left Scotland.”
She swallowed. Stephen had loved her. He had been in love with her. It had not been a schoolgirl fancy. If his words were to be believed, he had returned her affections in full measure. They were words she had once longed to hear, but now instead of happiness, they brought only regret.
“But why did you leave? Without even a word to me?”
Stephen glanced down at the floor, his face coloring in shame. “I knew it was impossible, and yet, I hoped, that is, I thought…”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“I went to speak with your father—”
Her father?
“He never spoke of this,” she interrupted. Neither her mother nor father had ever hinted at such a thing, even as she moped around the house, wondering aloud what had happened to her former suitor. How could they have kept this from her?
“Yes, I went to see your father, to ask his permission to court you,” Stephen said. “He made it clear to me how foolish my expectations were. He told me he would never consent to our marriage. I knew I could not stay in Edinburgh, where seeing you would be a constant torment. And so I made up my mind to leave.”
“But why? Why would he forbid such a match?.” She knew her parents had loved her, indeed they had indulged her in every way. And yet they had denied her this chance for true love. Without even a word of explanation. It was monstrous.
Stephen Wolcott shrugged. “I can not speak to all his reasons. We were both young, of course. And as a fourth son, my prospects were poor. I had hopes to someday support myself through my poetry, but my meager earnings were not enough to support a wife. Or a family.”
“You should have spoken to me,” Penelope said. “I know I could have convinced my father.”
Given time she knew she could have made her father see sense. And then, how very different her life would have been. She would have been a wife, married to the man she loved, rather than wasting five years lost in regrets.
“I could not take such shameless advantage of you. I knew your father was right, I did not deserve you,” Stephen Wolcott said. “And yet I knew I was weak. Were I to see you, to speak with you, I knew I would not be able to give you up. And so I took the craven’s way, and left Edinburgh in order to protect you from our folly.”
He had loved her. Enough so that he had sacrificed their love in order to protect her. It was a gesture worthy of the romantic hero that she had p
ainted him in her youthful imagination.
And yet at the same time it made her angry, that he and her father had conspired between them to arrange her life, without once consulting her.
“You should have spoken with me,” she repeated. “I deserved that consideration at least.”
Somehow she knew Marcus would never have behaved in such a way. He would never have left without speaking to her, and asking her opinion. Never left her to sleepless nights of fretting and wondering. Marcus would never have broken her heart.
Then she realized that she was not being fair to Mr. Wolcott. She and Marcus rubbed along so well precisely because their marriage was based on friendship and respect. No doubt Mr. Wolcott would have behaved better, had not passion overwhelmed his good judgment.
He nodded. “I can see that, now,” he said. “But back then, my pain was too great for clear thinking. In fact I have spent the past years wandering, trying very hard not to look back at what I had left behind. It was only when I learned of your marriage that I knew it was once again safe to return to Edinburgh.”
It was some comfort to know that she was not the only one who had suffered. Stephen Wolcott had also spent the past years mired in regrets. At least she had had her family and friends, while he presumably had had no one to comfort him during his exile.
“And now that you have returned? Where does that leave us?”
“I can see I did the right thing. Your father was right, you would have been wasted on a mere poet such as myself. You are an ornament to the rank of duchess, and the Duke of Torringford is a lucky man indeed,” Stephen said. He gave a wistful smile. “It is enough for me to see you happy, and to hope that we can remain friends.”
“Friends,” she echoed, wondering if such was indeed possible, given the strong feelings that had once existed between them. And still existed now, if her quickened pulse and queasy stomach were any indication.
“Of course, if you do not wish this, I would abide by your decision and leave Edinburgh. Perhaps London would be far enough away, or there is always the Continent,” he mused.
“No,” she said quickly. “Scotland is your home, and I will not be the cause of driving you into exile for a second time. We are both civilized persons; surely it is possible for us to behave as friendly acquaintances.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Stephen said.
Later, after she had time to reflect, Penelope wondered if it had been wise to promise Mr. Wolcott her friendship. Would he really be satisfied with such a relationship? He had hinted that he was still in love with her. What if he wanted more from her, more than she was prepared to give? Perhaps it would have been better if they remained mere acquaintances.
But her doubts proved unfounded, for Mr. Wolcott behaved himself with strict propriety, as befitted a gentleman of such noble character. Soon she fell into the habit of accepting his escort to various entertainments. It was pleasant not to always have to rely upon the Lawtons and her other friends for such services. And his obvious pleasure in her company satisfied that part of her vanity that was piqued by her husband’s continuing absence. Here, at least, was someone who preferred her company to that of his hounds.
But not everyone shared her pleasure in Mr. Wolcott’s return, as she learned one afternoon, as she accompanied Anne and Harriet Lawton to the mantua maker’s.
Anne Lawton stood on a small stool, as the dressmaker’s assistant pinned up the hem of a creamy peach gown, while Penelope and Harriet leafed through fashion books, eyeing the sketches of the latest French design.
“It is a shame the high-waisted gowns are no longer in vogue for evening wear,” Harriet Lawton complained. “They were so slimming. These new Parisian styles show every pound and curve.”
“Or lack of curves,” Anne Lawton said with a laugh, gesturing toward her own rather flat chest. “Even tiers of Belgian lace and special undergarments can not make up for my lack of endowments.”
“Nonsense,” Penelope said. “You will look lovely in that gown; it suits your complexion perfectly.”
“And my brother Roger is still besotted after all this time, so you need have no fears there,” Harriet Lawton added.
Anne Lawton blushed delicately, and for a moment Penelope envied her. It was true, Roger Lawton did dote on his wife, and Anne Lawton returned his affection in full measure. Even after a year of marriage the two were nearly inseparable, much to the amusement of Edinburgh society.
The assistant rose, and walked slowly around Anne Lawton, viewing the dress critically. “There now, that’s done it,” she declared. “Let me help you off with that.”
Anne Lawton was helped out of the gown and into a linen wrapper, and she took a seat on the small lounge opposite Penelope and Harriet.
“There are some bolts of new fabric from London that the mistress wants you to see. Let me bring this to the sewing room, and then I’ll fetch them. And Mrs. White will be down directly with the crepe gown you had fitted last time,” the assistant said, directing her last comment toward Penelope.
“So, have you found any designs to your liking?” Anne Lawton asked.
“This walking dress is rather fine, don’t you think?” Harriet asked, handing over the sketch. “Perhaps in a sprigged muslin?”
“It is indeed fine, although with autumn approaching, I might suggest a heavier fabric. There is no sense in having a gown made that you can not wear until spring,” Anne Lawton said. “And for you Penelope? Is there anything here that catches your eye?”
“No,” Penelope said, shaking her head. “I indulged myself several weeks ago, and have no need to add to my wardrobe. Indeed, I only came today to ensure that the crepe gown was finished. I had hoped to wear it to the Hamptons’ ball on Friday evening.”
“And will you be joining our party?” Anne Lawton asked.
“No, Mr. Wolcott has offered to escort me.”
“Hmm,” Anne Lawton said with an unhappy frown.
Penelope looked up from the sketches to see Anne was wearing a frown. “Is there something wrong?”
“I have noticed that you often rely upon Mr. Wolcott as an escort these days,” Anne Lawton said. “He seems to spend much time in your company.”
“Mr. Wolcott is an old friend, and a pleasing companion. Why should I not enjoy his company?”
“It is one thing to enjoy his company. It is another to show a marked partiality to a gentleman who is not your husband,” Anne Lawton said, in patient tones as if addressing a schoolgirl.
Penelope resented being called to task by one who was the same age as herself. “Are you questioning my morals? I assure you I have behaved with complete propriety. As has Mr. Wolcott.”
“We know you are blameless. But in society it is appearances that matter, and your preference for Mr. Wolcott’s company has been quite marked. If we can see it, others can as well, and they will begin to talk. And given the circumstances of your marriage, it is unwise to provide any fuel for the gossips’ tongues.”
Penelope was stunned. Harriet had been her friend since infancy. Of all people, she had expected Harriet would understand her. But instead Harriet had sided with her sister-in-law in mindlessly preaching propriety.
“It is precisely the circumstances of my marriage that make his companionship so welcome,” Penelope said. “Unlike Roger, my husband does not crave my company. He and I have an arrangement, and I will abide by that. And if there are any explanations to be made, I will make them to Marcus. Not to you.”
Anne Lawton opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she would have said was lost as Mrs. White opened the door to the sitting room, and her assistant followed carrying an armful of fabrics.
Penelope was still fuming during the carriage ride home from the dressmaker’s. It was as if her friends no longer knew her, no longer trusted her character. Did they think marriage had changed her so much? That after living a blameless life, the acquisition of a husband and a title had somehow transformed Penelope into a jade? How dare they c
riticize her?
Her head was aching as she reached the town house, and after one look at her mistress, her maid Jenna tactfully drew the drapes closed against the afternoon sun, and offered to fetch a cup of soothing chamomile tea.
Slowly the tea worked its magic, easing her headache, and her fit of temper eased as well. She knew Anne and Harriet well enough to realize that they had acted out of the best of intentions. They did not wish to see her harmed in any way. It was unfortunate that they had begun espousing the most rigid ideas of propriety, but they were hardly to blame. If the situation had been reversed, Penelope might have found herself giving similar advice, urging a rigid adherence to the rules of society.
The circumstances of her marriage were unique, after all. It would take time for society to fully accept her. It was no wonder that her friends urged her to err on the side of caution.
But she was not one to let caution rule her life, nor would she live in fear of disapproving society matrons. She would show them that a gentlewoman of good character could have an intellectual friendship with a gentleman. In time even the worst of gossips would be forced to realize that there was nothing scandalous in their behavior.
With that in mind, she turned to the stacks of letters that had arrived in this morning’s post. Among them was a note from Mr. Stephen Wolcott, offering his escort to Lady Swinburne’s monthly poetry reading on Thursday. She had planned on attending by herself, there being no need for an escort to an afternoon function. But now, fueled by the remnants of her earlier pique, she changed her mind and dashed off a quick note of acceptance.
Thursday was a fine day indeed, as the city basked in the September sun, enjoying the warmth against the promise of the coming autumn. It seemed a shame to spend such a day indoors, and after spending the morning receiving callers, Penelope felt she deserved a reprieve. A stroll in the park, perhaps. It would not be the same as walking the gardens at the Abbey, but it would have to do.
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