Penelope

by Beaton, M. C.

  “Precisely,” said the Earl. “You see it has happened before. But you have given me your word, Charles, that you have ceased gambling and it is monstróus of me not to take you at your word. Come, little brother, shake hands with me and say you forgive me.”

  Charles glared at him and then felt the Comte prod him urgently in the back. “Oh, very well,” he said ungraciously. “But mind you don’t do it again. You ain’t my father, you know.”

  “No,” said the Earl with a sigh, “I’m not—although I sometimes think it would be easier an’ I were.”

  The Earl bowed to the Comte, nodded to his brother, and turned on his heel and walked back into the ballroom. A frown of worry creased his brow. Charles had been lying, of that he was sure.

  Charles drew a breath of relief and then turned to his companion. “Look, de Chernier,” he said. “I can’t stand much more of this. I snitched these papers from Horseguards when I was visiting old Colonel Witherspoon. And I’ve been thinking. You can’t expose me without exposing yourself. What if I tell Roger everything?”

  “Then you will hang,” said the Comte, “and so will I. But think, dear boy, my work here is nearly finished. Two more months and then you shall be free.”

  “I can’t go on,” said Charles, his thin face working with emotion. “I’m a traitor to my country. Do you know what that means, damn you!”

  “Keep your voice down,” said the Comte smoothly. He produced a roll of bank notes from his pocket and held them up in front of Charles who stared at the money as if hypnotised. “Payment for services rendered,” said the Comte softly.

  “I won’t take it,” said Charles wildly. “At least you will no longer be able to say I took the money.”

  “At Watier’s this evening,” said the Comte, still holding the money in front of Charles’s face, “there is a game of hazard. Golden Ball is playing.” “Ball” Hughes was reputed to be the richest man in London.

  “No,” gasped Charles. “I won’t.” But already the gambling fever was burning in his eyes.

  “Think,” went on the Comte, leaning his thin face close to the Viscount. “If you pay me back, all I have given you, then I shall return you the papers and you will be free.”

  “You swear it,” gasped Charles.

  “My word as a de Chernier,” said the Comte with a smile.

  “I’ll take it, God damn your rotten soul,” said Charles. “I know I shall be lucky tonight.” He tore the money from the Comte’s hand and almost ran from the room.

  The Comte brushed his fingers lightly and turned to enter the ballroom. He found his way was blocked by a large lady with a smile like an alligator.

  “’Scuse me, dear Comte,” said this apparition, “being so forward and all. But I am a friend of the Hestletons. Miss Augusta Harvey is my name. Feel free to call on me anytime you wish. I know….”

  But the Comte rudely pushed past her without a word, and Augusta watched him go with an unlovely smile on her face which changed to one of real delight. Penelope was waltzing with the Earl.

  Penelope had danced every dance except the waltz since she had not been given permission by the Patronesses to dance it and none of her partners had been enterprising enough to request that permission. It was the Earl who had prevailed on Lady Cowper to allow Penelope to stand up with him.

  He now held her in his arms and looked down at her flushed and happy face. “You look so beautiful, Miss Vesey, he whispered, “that I am sorely tempted to kiss you again.”

  “Oh, how can you,” cried Penelope with flaming cheeks.

  “Quite easily,” he teased. “But not at Almack’s. I should never live it down.”

  “I-I d-do not want y-you to think I l-let gentlemen kiss me,” stammered Penelope. “I had never been kissed before.”

  “Let me assure you,” replied the Earl earnestly, “that you do it very well.”

  “Oooooh!” breathed Penelope. “How infuriating you are! You obviously think I am not a lady.”

  “On the contrary,” he said in a husky voice, “I find you adorable.”

  Penelope glanced swiftly up into his eyes, and the warmth and intensity of his gaze nearly stopped her heart.

  The dance came to an end, and Penelope’s next partner immediately appeared. She stared back at the Earl with an almost pleading look on her face, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

  The Earl had tumbled suddenly and irrevocably into love. When he had held her in his arms during the first bars of the waltz, he had realised with a shock of alarm that he never wanted to let go of her again. He thought wildly of what he owed his ancient name, he thought of Augusta Harvey—and all in vain. He wanted Penelope Vesey as his wife.

  Chapter Six

  DESPITE THE EARL’S social power, not all of polite society rushed to leave cards at the house in Brook Street. But a few did arrive, and that was a beginning as far as Augusta Harvey was concerned.

  Her daily lessons from Miss Stride continued and did much to modify her dress and manner although she could only sustain the latter improvement for very short periods indeed.

  Mr. Liwoski worked diligently on Augusta’s portrait, and Penelope sat on the window seat and alternately watched him and dreamed of the Earl.

  She had not seen him since that ball at Almack’s. Three long days had passed and still he did not call. She tried to put him down in her mind as an accomplished flirt and then remembered the warm expression in his eyes and was slightly comforted.

  The Prince Regent had held a tremendous dinner at Clarence House in honor of the visiting French royal family the day before. Neither Augusta nor her niece had been invited. That was aiming too high, too soon, Miss Stride had informed them with a superior air.

  Clarence House and its grounds had been thrown open that day to the curious public, and Augusta had had to be almost forcibly restrained from going. Only the common people would be there, Miss Stride had assured her.

  Charles had not called either. Rumors were flying about London that he had won a vast amount at Waiter’s. Penelope, who had guessed that Charles suffered from the Fatal Curse, wondered if concern for his young brother had kept the Earl away.

  The Earl had in fact been called away to his estates on urgent business and had therefore not heard of his brother’s gambling success.

  Charles at that moment was triumphantly rapping on the Courtlands’ knocker. He had gone to settle his debt with the Comte. Yes, the Comte de Chernier was at home and would be pleased to see him, he was informed, and Charles took a deep breath of relief. The nightmare would soon be over.

  The Comte was not yet dressed and was wearing a magnificent brocaded dressing gown. He turned with a smile of welcome when Charles was announced which faded when he saw the triumphant smile on the other’s face.

  Charles waited impatiently until the footman had withdrawn and then said, “The day of reckoning has come, my dear de Chernier. I am here to pay back every penny I owe you!”

  “Nonsense, dear boy,” said the Comte, cleaning his nails with an orange stick, “I would not dream of taking it from you.”

  “What!” The smile was wiped from Charles’s face. “But you gave your word. You gave your word as a de Chernier.”

  “So I did,” said the Comte languidly, “and I hope the de Cherniers appreciate it—or their headless ghosts rather. If I have it right, the complete line of de Chernier died out under the guillotine.”

  “You are an impostor,” said Charles, his face turning ashen.

  “That, yes, and a few other things too tedious to mention,” said the Comte, throwing down the orange stick and standing up.

  “What is your real name?”

  “None of your business, dear Charles. Come now! Enact me no Haymarket tragedies. This is real life. What is a country after all? What is patriotism? A myth. I work for money and so should you.”

  Charles thrust his hand into the pocket of his frock coat and drew out a pistol which he pointed at the Comte’s head with a trembling hand
.

  “Oh, go ahead and blow my brains out if you must,” sneered the Comte. “But my papers will be examined after my death and your name is mentioned in them. Believe me. It is very much to your interest to keep me alive. Come now, only two months and you will be free.”

  Charles let the pistol fall and sank into a chair with a groan and buried his head in his hands. “Two months! I don’t think I can live through another hour of it.”

  “You will, you will,” said the Comte indifferently. “And now, dear boy, this is what I want you to do…”

  “If my brother ever finds out,” interrupted Charles, beginning to cry in a hopeless, dreary way, “he’ll kill me. Anyway, Augusta Harvey knows about it. She was hiding behind that screen on the night of the Courtlands’ ball and heard every word.”

  The Comte’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides and shook the sobbing Charles until his teeth rattled. “She has been blackmailing you, yes? What does she want?”

  “She wants Roger to marry her nice. She wants to be accepted by society.”

  “Vraiment! And that is all this woman demands in return for her silence?”

  “Yes,” said Charles sulkily, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve.

  “Then I shall call on her,” said the Comte softly. She is dangerous… and must be removed.”

  Penelope and Miss Harvey had been invited to a party to be given at a Mrs. Skeffington’s villa that very evening. The villa was some way out of town on the Richmond Road with beautiful stretches of formal gardens running down to the brown and gray waters of the Thames.

  It was a glorious evening when they arrived accompanied by Miss Stride. The air was very still and sweet and heavy with the scents of summer. A Viennese orchestra was playing waltzes under the trees, and a blackbird, silhouetted against the pale green sky, added a glorious counterpoint to the lilting music.

  Penelope found herself trembling with anticipation. Perhaps he would be there. But one by one the guests arrived, and there was no sign of the tall figure of the Earl. She began to feel sad. Augusta was noisily and resentfully drinking tea, Miss Stride having forbidden her to touch anything stronger. Port wine had a nasty habit of bringing all Augusta’s horrible manners to the surface.

  “If you sit there all night with a long face, nobody’s going to look at you,” said Augusta sourly to Penelope. “What is more, God will never forgive you for passing up your opportunities. He’s like that, you know. He strikes the sinner with a bolt of lightning from on high. Don’t ever forget it, Penelope. I don’t,” she added moodily, alternately picking her teeth with a tired goose quill and slurping her tea.

  “Miss Vesey?” said a tentative voice at Penelope’s ear. She looked up and saw a stocky young man with a pleasant tanned face and merry blue eyes.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he went on. “The name’s Manton, Guy Manton, friend of Hestleton. Roger’s coming along later, but he asked me to take care of you. They are making up a set for the quadrille, and I wondered if you would grant me the honor of a dance, Miss Vesey?”

  Penelope’s heart soared like the song of the blackbird. The Earl had not forgotten her. He had sent this charming young man to look after her and… wonder upon wonder… he would be here in person later.

  She smiled her assent and rose gracefully from her seat and allowed Mr. Manton to escort her towards a marquee in the garden which had been turned into a flower-bedecked ballroom.

  Augusta had fastened her gooseberry eyes on the large ruby winking in Mr. Manton’s stock and had given her assent with her eyes still fixed steadily on the jewel as if she were allowing the ruby rather than the wearer permission to take Penelope into the ballroom.

  Mr. Manton danced the quadrille with more enthusiasm than finesse and made Penelope laugh, when the musicians struck the last chord, by saying he was glad the awful dance was over. “The quadrille’s more suitable for a caper merchant than a gentleman,” he said roundly. “But let me get you some refreshment, Miss Vesey.”

  He led Penelope towards another marquee which contained a long buffet and a series of little tables. Unfortunately Augusta had not only found the buffet but the port wine as well. Port was drunk with everything, most of society still considering such wines as Burgundy and claret “wishy-washy stuff.” She came waddling up to them with her protruding eyes slightly glazed.

  “Ah, Mr. Manton,” she smiled while her busy brain turned over the information she had received from Miss Stride—Guy Manton, country squire and soldier, comfortable income but nothing near as much as the Earl. “So you have been looking after my little Penelope. Pretty little thing, ain’t she. All the bucks is mad about her, ain’t they, my duckie?” Here she pinched Penelope’s cheek. “Why, even the Earl of Hestleton had taken such a fancy to her as never was. It’s the good Lord looking after the orphan, that it is. Although she owes everything to her auntie and she’ll never forget it for she don’t want to be struck dead from on high. People don’t, you know.”

  Penelope’s face flamed crimson with embarrassment. Her aunt’s subdued behavior of the last few days seemed to have miraculously disappeared.

  Mr. Manton was surveying Miss Harvey with amusement. “That’s a good Christian spirit you have there, ma’am,” he said gleefully. “I gather you believe strongly in divine punishment.”

  “Of course I does,” said Augusta earnestly. “Do you know what happens to you when you go to hell?” She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “She’s mad,” thought Penelope wildly.

  She’s glorious, thought Mr. Manton. Funniest old quiz I’ve met in years. “Go on, Miss Harvey,” he said out loud. “Do tell us all about it.”

  “It’s like this,” said Augusta, moving close to Mr. Manton. “When you die, like, if you’ve been a sinner, they takes away all your clothes, the demons do, so you’re all naked. Then they lead you to the edge of this pit and down below it’s all fire and brimstone. Then they takes their pitchforks and they shoves them right up—”

  “Miss Harvey!”

  Augusta turned round sulkily and then looked like a guilty child as she met the blazing eyes of Miss Stride. Having now some money in the bank had brought out all Miss Stride’s latent and forceful personality, and Augusta, like all bullies, cringed before a stronger character.

  “Miss Harvey,” said Miss Stride again in a very governess sort of voice, “I wish you to accompany me. You have not yet been introduced to Lady Skeffington.”

  Rather in the manner of a jailer, Miss Stride led Augusta away.

  Mr. Manton looked helplessly at Penelope. He tried to speak but could only manage a few choked sounds. Finally he gasped, “Excuse me, Miss Vesey,” and fled out into the garden.

  The Earl of Hestleton, who had entered the Skeffington’s estate by a side entrance, paused in amazement. The most dreadful choking sounds were coming from behind a clump of rosebushes.

  He peered round and found his friend, Guy Manton, doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter. Tears streamed down his face, and he chortled and gasped and snorted.

  “Control yourself, Guy,” said the Earl, much amused. “What is the reason for all this mirth? Have the Skeffingtons hired Grimaldi for the evening?”

  He had to wait several minutes before his friend could compose himself enough to reply.

  “It’s that Harvey woman,” said Guy when he could. He told the Earl about Miss Harvey’s vision of hell, but the Earl was not amused.

  “And you left Penelope standing alone,” said the Earl crossly. “I had better go and look after her.”

  He strode off, leaving his friend to look after him in some amazement. Roger could not possibly be serious about the pretty Penelope. The girl was well enough but—oh, my stars—the aunt!

  The Earl was thinking much the same as he went in search of Penelope. He could not possibly marry the girl! There was a certain amount, after all, that he owed to his name.

  Penelope was not beside the buffet, nor wa
s she in the ballroom. He diligently searched the house and gardens and at last, under the light of an enormous full moon, saw her sitting in a dark corner of the garden on a rustic bench. He could make out the pale aura of her hair.

  He felt a little wrench at his heart as he leaned over her and saw that she was crying. He sat down beside her and gently drew her hands away from her face. He found himself murmuring silly nothings, the way one does to a hurt child. “There, there, Come now, silly little puss. What a fuss! Dry your eyes and tell me all about it.”

  The fact that the stern Earl was talking to her in such a kind way helped to dry Penelope’s tears.

  “Now,” he said, kissing her forehead, “what’s all this about?”

  “I feel so silly,” wailed Penelope. “I can’t tell you.”

  “I am your friend, Penelope,” said the Earl, using her Christian name for the first time. “Tell me.”

  Penelope stared miserably at the toes of her slippers. How could she explain her muddled feelings about her aunt? Augusta often seemed like a summer’s day when a storm is approaching: serene and sunny calm with gathering black clouds of suspected cruelty lit with sudden lightning flashes of pure madness.

  “It’s… it’s just that I am so ashamed of being ashamed of her,” said Penelope at last in a low voice. “I feel so disloyal. Mr. Manton was escorting me to the buffet and Aunt started talking some awful nonsense about hell and it made me miserable to hear her talking so wildly—so strangely.”

  The Earl bit his lip. He longed to tell Penelope that he was sure Augusta Harvey was using her beautiful niece as a sort of calling card on the best houses but did not want to hurt her feelings. Instead he said gently, “Miss Harvey is a trifle eccentric, that is all. London is full of such eccentrics and no one thinks them strange. Also, you have my social patronage. I promised you.”

  “You only promised me vouchers to Almack’s,” said Penelope, suddenly shy. “I was afraid I would not see you again.”