Penelope

by Beaton, M. C.

“I had to go to my estates. There was trouble with one of the tenant farmers. How else could I leave you?”

  Penelope’s heart began to beat very quickly indeed, and she looked shyly up into his face; it was in the shadow as his back was to the moonlight. “I cannot see your face,” she whispered.

  “Can you feel my lips?” he asked, bending slowly towards her until his head blotted out the moon and his warm lips closed on hers and all the world went flying away leaving her alone on a black plain of passion, held closely in the Earl’s arms.

  They kissed with increasing ardor, Penelope innocently matching passion for passion, until he slipped her low gown from her shoulders and bent his mouth to her breasts and she began to tremble in his arms. “I go too fast, my darling,” he murmured, releasing her. “I must endeavor to wait until we are married.” He gently pulled her gown back on her shoulders.

  “You will marry me, Penelope,” he said.

  “With all my heart,” said Penelope softly.

  “Then we shall announce our engagement,” he said. “Our very short engagement.”

  But, oh Lord, thought the Earl as he led Penelope back towards the house. How Augusta Harvey will gloat!

  Chapter Seven

  THE EARLY DAYS of Penelope’s engagement passed like a golden dream.

  Augusta was ecstatic! She had vowed to fire Miss Stride should the Earl ever propose to Penelope. But now that that glorious day had arrived, she felt strangely reluctant to do so. It was almost as if Augusta, having very little conscience, felt it necessary to hire a social one. Also she was shrewd enough to note that when she followed Miss Stride’s strictures on decorum, society found her at least tolerable. There must be no more talk of hellfire, Miss Stride had told Augusta firmly. It was as well for Augusta that Mr. Manton was a gentleman and a friend of the Earl or she would be the laughingstock of London.

  So Augusta had treated the surprised Penelope with a gentleness and kindness foreign to her cold and grasping nature, and Penelope returned this false warmth with all the gratitude of a very innocent heart.

  The love match was the talk of the town. The Earl looked like a much younger man, the austere lines of his face softened with happiness. His young brother had given his blessing in no uncertain terms and the Earl did not know of Charles’s relief. Augusta could have no more hold over the Viscount now that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain.

  Augusta planned a lavish wedding. She also planned to move into the Earl’s household as soon as he and Penelope were married, but she kept that part of the plan to herself.

  One morning when Penelope was out driving with the Earl, Augusta received a caller in the shape of the Comte de Chernier. She clucked with irritation because Mr. Liwoski was just coming to the crucial part of the portrait.

  She reluctantly ushered the Comte into a small study at the back of the house and then looked at him with shrewd hard eyes. The two blackmailers surveyed each other in silence for some minutes. The Comte was the first to speak.

  “We have not been formally introduced,” he said. “But I know you have heard of me. I also know you were hiding behind the screen that night at the Courtlands’ ball.

  “So Charles has done his part,” he continued. “And your niece is to be a Countess. You, I gather, think you can hang onto her petticoats and climb the social ladder.” He shook back the lace at his wrist and took a delicate pinch of snuff. “But that will not be the case, madam. Oh, dear me, no.”

  “What d’ye mean?” grated Augusta.

  “It is like this, Madame Harvey… I may be seated? Yes?” He sat down on a high-backed chair and studied Augusta insolently. “The young couple is very much in love and very much du monde.”

  “Speak English,” snapped Augusta.

  “Ah, well,” he sighed. “Tell me, has the so elegant and grand Earl shown any sign that he would wish your company after he is married?”

  “Course he will,” said Augusta stoutly but experienced her first twinge of doubt. The Earl did indeed usually look at her as if she were something that had crept out of the back recesses of the kitchen stove.

  “So little Charles has gone bleating to you,” said Augusta nastily, deciding to attack. “Well, you traitor, I shall report you.”

  “You are a traitor yourself, if only by proxy,” he sneered. “If I thought for a minute you would betray me, I would shoot you dead.” He produced a long and lethal pistol and tossed it carelessly up and down in his long fingers.

  “Pah!” said Augusta. “That toy don’t frighten me. If you shoot me, you’d have to shoot all my servants as well. They know you’re here.”

  “What is to stop me shooting you and leaving the country?” asked the Comte.

  “’Cause if your dirty work was finished, you’d have left long ago,” replied Augusta. “You’re wasting my time. Why did you really come here?”

  “Because I do not like to see such a clever woman work so hard to achieve social recognition—and then fail.”

  “I’ll not fail,” said Augusta with grim echoes of Lady Macbeth.

  “Oh, but you will, madam. The high and mighty Earl will drop you like a hot carriage brick as soon as his beloved Penelope is out from under your roof.”

  “So?” said Augusta with a fake yawn.

  “So, my dear lady, the only answer is for you to enter the ranks of the aristocracy yourself.”

  “And how do I do that? Marry you?” sneered Augusta.

  The Comte raised his hands, one of them still holding the pistol, in mock horror. “Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed. “But how would you like to be a Countess yourself?”

  “Me! How?”

  “You use your talents for snooping to good effect. The Earl has a great deal of high-ranking friends in the military. You supply me with little secrets, I supply them to the Bonapartistes and our very grateful Emperor will award you with a title and estates in France.”

  Augusta’s eyes gleamed with a green light like a cat’s. Then she shrugged her fat shoulders, wafting a smell of stale patchouli and sweat towards the Comte who wrinkled his long nose fastidiously. “Bonaparte’s on Elba. He’ll never get off. I’d need more proof than your word.”

  “Travel to France with me, tomorrow,” said the Comte, leaning forward in his chair, “and you shall have that proof. You shall even see the estate that will be yours!”

  “What’ll I do with Penelope in the meantime? Not that I’ve said I’ll go,” said Augusta hurriedly.

  “That’s easy. Tell the enamored Earl to take the girl to see his country home. She will have to learn to supervise a great mansion after all. Then you will be free.”

  “I’m going to the Hart’s ball with Penelope tonight,” said Augusta. “Meet me there and I’ll let you know my decision.”

  “As you wish,” shrugged the Comte. “But I think you have already made up your mind!”

  Augusta rang the bell and instructed the butler to show the Comte out and then returned to the drawing room where Mr. Liwoski was waiting impatiently.

  The artist peered round his easel as Augusta seated herself and received a faint shock. Before, when Augusta had posed for him, she had primped her mouth into a small fashionable “o” and her eyes had been empty of expression. Now her mouth was stretched to its widest in an evil grin like a rictus, and her green eyes gleamed with a mixture of malice and power.

  Mr. Liwoski shrugged. Miss Harvey wanted the picture completed that day and he had only time to paint what he saw. He rubbed on the canvas with his rag and then began to lay delicate brushstrokes, placing them an intricately and delicately patterned as a mosaic, and under his expert fingers he caught Augusta in all her glory.

  Lady Hart tapped the Earl of Hestleton on the arm with her long fan. “Now, I could swear I did not invite that protégé of the Courtlands to my ball.

  The Earl looked across the room and spied the Comte de Chernier bowing to various acquaintances. “Then throw him out,” he said laconically, turning his eyes away from
the Comte to scan the room for Penelope.

  “I do not wish to make a scene, Roger,” said Lady Hart, “Perhaps you might …” She broke off with a sigh. For the Earl’s face had become transfigured. Penelope Vesey had just walked into the room. She was wearing a rose pink silk gown, high-waisted in the current mode, with a spangled overdress floating around her slim figure in the evening breeze which drifted in through the long French windows opening onto the garden.

  The Earl had forgotten about Lady Hart and the Comte, and indeed everyone else in the long ballroom. He had eyes only for Penelope. He crossed quickly to her side, and her face, turned up to his, glowed with love.

  Penelope smiled up at him shyly, wondering for the hundredth time what this magnificent aristocrat could see in her. His black and white evening dress was faultless, from his intricate cravat to the sparkling jewels on his pumps. His copper hair seemed burnished till it burned with fiery lights and his gray eyes under their hooded lids held a message that made her pulses beat.

  “A moment of your time, Roger,” grated a voice in his ear.

  Augusta Harvey stood smiling up at him. A faint look of hauteur at Miss Harvey’s familiar use of his Christian name crossed his features. “What is it, Miss Harvey?” he demanded, none too graciously.

  “I am thinking of taking a little holiday in France,” said Augusta. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris and the countryside but I don’t want to leave my little Penelope alone in Brook Street. Mayhap you could take her to your country home so that she’ll get used to the running of a big house, like.”

  “Yes,” said the Earl slowly. “As a matter of fact I have some unfinished business to attend to in the country. My maiden aunt, Matilda Jefferson, lives with me at the moment and would act as chaperone. When did you plan to leave, Miss Harvey?”

  “Well, I’m having a party for the unveiling of my portrait,” simpered Augusta. “Just a little informal affair with a few friends. I’m holding it in a couple of days time. Let me see, that will be Saturday. And after that, I can leave. Say first thing on Sunday morning.”

  “Very well,” said the Earl. “Does that please you, my darling?”

  “Oh, yes,” smiled Augusta before Penelope could answer. Augusta thought the Earl had addressed the endearment to herself.

  Augusta walked away, well satisfied, and Penelope collapsed into helpless giggles.

  “I cannot wait to see Mr. Liwoski’s portrait of Miss Harvey,” said the Earl. “Now, my sweet, this next dance is a highly energetic Scottish reel. On the other hand, we could walk in the garden and do something … er … less energetic.”

  The Comte watched the Earl’s well-tailored back disappearing through the French windows and waylaid Augusta Harvey.

  “Roger is becoming quite fond of me,” simpered Augusta. “He called me ‘my darling.’”

  “I am sure he was referring to his fiancée,” said the Comte cooly, and watched with satisfaction as a little cloud of doubt settled on Augusta’s brow. “Do not delude yourself, madam,” he pursued. “The Earl will not have you in his household. He lowered his voice. “And if you travel with me, then I can show you the grand chateau that will be yours. Napolean is generous to his friends. Think of it. No longer Miss Harvey but … Madame la Comtesse.”

  Augusta wavered. At that moment Lady Courtland sailed into view. Augusta dropped her a deep curtsey. Lady Courtland replied with a frozen stare and then raised her handkerchief pointedly to her nose before she stalked away. Augusta could not ignore this direct cut and her face flamed.

  “I’ll go,” she said, glaring after Lady Courtland. “But not till Sunday, mind. My portrait is being exhibited on Saturday. You’ll come, of course.”

  “Of course,” said the Comte smoothly. “I sincerely hope the artist had done justice to your striking features.”

  From another corner of the ballroom Charles watched them and nervously bit his nails. He did not trust that combination of blackmailers one bit. His heart felt heavy and his head reeled from too much wine. He felt as if his world, never very secure, was falling apart. Every second, he dreaded the shout “spy!” As he tossed and turned at night, he saw the contempt that would be on the faces of his friends and the look of distaste and scorn on his brother’s.

  Yet he could not keep away from the gambling tables. He could not! He had already lost all the money he had won at Watier’s and was in desperate need of more to satisfy his craving for the gaming table. Roger gave him a generous allowance but it was a pittance when one was playing against men who were prepared to gamble thousands in a night.

  Then a little ray of hope crept into his mind. He had at least satisfied Augusta. Her niece was marrying his brother after all! He would call on Augusta before her portrait party and beg her to help him get rid of the Comte. Augusta was wily. She would think of something.

  Augusta was by no means pleased to hear that the Viscount was desirous of having a few words with her before her famous party. Her lady’s maid had just placed an enormous turban on Augusta’s sparse locks which made her look rather like a bloated sultan. Augusta dashed the haresfoot over her face, sprinkling powder on her pink and red striped dress as she did so. Miss Stride had not been consulted as to suitable wear for the party, and Augusta had given free rein to her penchant for violent colors.

  To complement the pink and red stripes of her gown, Augusta had chosen to wear an orange turban, decorated with a large synthetic ruby. She could never see the reason for wasting money on real jewels when fake ones looked just as pretty. She picked up an emerald green fan and stood patiently while her maid draped a purple gauze stole over her massive shoulders. She would see Charles. He had probably only come to cringe and flatter as usual.

  Charles blinked rapidly. What looked like a particularly violent sunset erupted into the room as Augusta entered in all her glory.

  The ill-assorted pair stared at each other in silence. Where there is a bully, there is always someone who seems to crave to be bullied; whose shrinking soul and very emanations seem to cry out to the bully for a harder hit. Such was Charles, Viscount Clairmont. And Augusta reacted to this quivering psyche as all bullies will react. Her eyes gleamed with a lazy enjoyment of power and the knowledge that there was one person at least who must suffer the worst of her manners without complaint.

  “What d’ye want?” she said.

  “What a splendid gown, Miss Harvey,” babbled Charles. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. You have such a fine eye for color. You …”

  “I asked you what you wanted,” snarled Augusta.

  “Oh, well, I mean, I hope you’re pleased that I’ve paid my part of the bargain. I mean, Penelope’s to be married and all that.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I mean, we’re square, aren’t we? After all, you won’t tell Roger anything now?”

  “Who says I won’t,” said Augusta with a slow grin splitting her powdered cheeks. “That was only your first task,” went on this heartless female Eurystheus. “I’ve still got use for you. Now, the Comte wants me to get secrets for him. But I can’t crawl around Horseguards and the Foreign Office the way you can, and why keep a dog and bark yourself, heh! So you’ll do my work for me.”

  “No!” screamed Charles. “I can’t bear it. Don’t make me! I swear I’ll take my life. Have you never heard of a conscience? At first it did not matter. Just one little bit of information, that was all. But now, I am a fully fledged traitor. Good God, woman! We are betraying Eng!and!”

  “Oh, tol rol!” sneered Augusta. “Such heroics.” She got to her feet and stood over Charles who was crouched on a low chair. She suddenly seemed immense and powerful. “You snivelling little coward,” she said, “prating on about patriotism while you foul up my drawing room and shit your small clothes with fear. Harkee, laddie, you will do what I want and when I want it or Roger shall hear about you. He can’t touch me because he would have to expose you and he’s too proud of his great name to do that. Take yourself off. You p
uking little baby.”

  She began to laugh, a loud, horrible, jeering sound which rang and rang in Charles’s ears as he crept from the room.

  He reeled across the hall, unaware that Penelope was standing on the staircase staring at his distraught face in amazement, and out of the door into the street.

  Penelope stood very still. What was wrong with Charles? And why was her aunt laughing in that terrible way?

  She went into the drawing room. Augusta had stopped laughing and was adjusting her turban in front of the looking glass. Penelope winced at the violent color combination and then said, “Tell me, dear Aunt, is there anything the matter with Charles? I saw him leaving just now and he looked so very white.”

  “No,” said Augusta. “He is in fine fettle and delighted with your engagement, my dear—as are we all.” She came towards the girl and put a plump arm around Penelope’s slender waist and gave her a playful squeeze. “I’ll be sorry to lose my little niece but, after all, Auntie will be staying with you for long, long visits. Won’t she?”

  “Oh—oh, yes, that is—well, Roger says we should be on our own—together that is—for … for some time so that we can get to know each other,” said Penelope, looking at the floor. The Earl had, in fact, warned Penelope that, despite her improved manners, he could only stand a very, very little of Augusta’s presence.

  Augusta took note of Penelope’s downcast eyes and the hesitancy with which she had spoken and became more than ever resolved to depart for France in the morning.

  One by one the guests began to arrive until the drawing room was quite crowded. Miss Stride was there, and the Earl. Other members of the ton had accepted Miss Harvey’s invitation out of curiosity and because the Earl was one of the highest members of society. Eyes kept turning to the draped easel at the end of the room. Only the artist had failed to put in an appearance.

  The door opened and everyone turned. But it was only Charles, his face still very white. The Earl looked at his brother anxiously and then gave a mental shrug. Charles spent such late nights drinking with his cronies that he often looked white and shaken the next day.