“I am so glad you have someone here with you. I have been worried. This is too heavy for you to face alone.” Beau did not think he was mistaken at the man’s tender concern. Was there some deeper feeling than friendship between these two?
“So.” She looked at both of them. “You have met, I see?”
“Yes,” said Beau. “I have given him my thanks for teaching you how to fight.”
She laughed. “I do not know if a curate has any use for fighting skills, but Lord Wellingham knows Jujutsu, Tom. Perhaps he could teach you.”
“Jujutsu?” The curate seemed bewildered.
Beau answered, “It is an ancient Japanese fighting technique. My tutor at Oxford spent some time in the Orient. He taught me. Since I work for the Foreign Office, let me just say that it has come in handy on more than one occasion.”
He felt the curate examining his lavender ensemble and grinned. His fiancée pulled the bell rope. When Mrs. Weston entered, she ordered tea and scones.
“Would you like me to go up and sit with your father again?” he asked Penelope. He didn’t want to leave her with the curate but felt it was the right thing to offer.
“Thank you, Beau. I would like that. But have your tea first. Wilson is with him.”
They all sat down, and the silence strung out between them.
“My dear,” he said finally. “If the curate follows your interest in natural history, I feel sure he would be interested in hearing about Miss Sukey’s beetle collection.”
“Oh, yes!” She seemed relieved at the conversational gambit and proceeded to tell her friend about her aunt’s knowledgeable companion, the beetles, and Henry Five.
As he watched her converse, Beau wondered again how deep her connection to Collingsworth went. Was he perhaps another candidate for her hand? One who would allow her to stay near her beloved home? One with whom she had far more in common? Who wouldn’t place uncomfortable demands on her for discretion?
He should feel relieved to discover there might be such a person. But the sting of jealousy remained. Could this slight little miss really have found a place in his heart? The possibility seemed absurd when the beauties of London had sought and failed to touch his emotions.
But as the possibility dawned, he became aware that he was watching her lovely hands. Why had he never noticed the graceful way she talked with them? The way her eyes lit with enthusiasm when she was discussing something that appealed to her? Even in the drab gown, she was attractive to him—not because she was a Diamond of the First Water, but because her whole being was filled with a grace and animation that spoke of a good heart and, despite her circumstances, a happy one. Penelope Swinton was genuine. Not only that, she was completely unaware of her own appeal. How different she was from the ladies of the ton!
But would she ever be happy in London? Would her uniqueness be driven out of her by the demands of his position? Hadn’t he tried to do just that? No wonder she had cut up rough at his scolding.
Perhaps she had been right to cry off their engagement. Perhaps he was not the one to make her happy. Was Collingsworth the one who could do that? He was surprised at how the idea threw him out of countenance. Was he to be cut out by a badly dressed country cleric?
That was small of him. What did it matter who he was or what he was like if Pen loved him?
Tea arrived, and Beau made a hasty business of drinking a cup and then left the two friends alone. He must get some distance from this situation.
He found Sir Gerald awake and gasping for air.
“How long has he been like this?” he asked the valet.
“It just started, my lord. I think he is trying to say something.”
“I am here, Sir Gerald,” he told the baronet. “I will send Wilson for Penelope immediately. Try to stay calm, if you can.”
Chapter Fifteen
The moment Wilson entered the morning room, Penelope knew something was badly amiss.
“What is it?” she asked, panic rising in her breast.
“It’s the master. His lordship wants you to come immediately, miss.”
She leaped up, her heart in her throat. “Come with me,” she begged Tom.
He followed her upstairs without a word. Clambering up beside her, Wordsworth whined softly.
Even from outside Papa’s room, she could hear his labored breathing. Penelope flew inside and knelt down beside his bed.
“Oh, Papa!” She stroked his cheek, looking into his eyes.
She read relief there and knew he had been waiting for her. He fumbled a hand among his bedclothes, and she reached down to clasp it. When he closed his eyes, Penelope rested her head on his chest. His heartbeat was thready and faint. She could almost feel him struggling against sleep.
“I will ride to fetch my father,” Tom said. “He ought to be here.”
Penelope almost protested. The vicar had called but once since they had been home from London. She felt very let down by the man, having decided he was little more than a social friend to them, caring not for their anxieties.
“The doctor is surely more necessary,” stated Beau.
Tom looked at her, his brow raised.
“Yes. The doctor, please,” she said.
Her fiancé said nothing but cupped the nape of her neck with a comforting hand as she continued to rest her head on her father’s chest. Beau’s touch was welcome. She was so dreadfully afraid.
“He is still breathing,” she whispered.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
“Just stay with me. Talk to me—about anything. How is Arabella?”
“Very upset that she could not come with me.”
“I am so glad you came,” Penelope said, her tears starting.
Could this be the end? Raising her head, she pulled Papa’s hand to her lips and kissed it, then pressed it to her cheek.
“Have you heard from your Northumberland brother?” she asked, voice shaking.
“Yes. Manfred sends us his best wishes. He intends to make a trip south after the planting is done. He is looking forward to meeting you. Have I told you that he has corgis, as well?”
“No. You have not, but that makes me like him already.” She was silent for a moment. Was Papa still breathing? She could not hear anything. Pressing her ear to his chest once more, she listened more closely. Though she heard nothing, she kept her position.
How could she face this? How could she accept it? He had been alive but seconds ago! Time had gone ahead and stolen him from her. Her mind and heart could not take it in.
“Ohh,” she moaned. Her tears watered his chest. How could it happen so quickly? She was not prepared! In so many, many ways, she was still Papa’s little girl.
After several minutes passed with no sign of life, Beau said gently, “Come here, love.”
Rising, she allowed him to take her into his arms where he held her head against his shoulder. He made soothing circles on her back with his other hand.
“You will miss him very much, I know,” he said.
Penelope began to sob, her breath coming in great gulps. “I . . . I cannot believe he is gone.”
She stayed in Beau’s arms, crying out her sorrow until finally Mr. Jenkins entered the room.
-P-
Penelope did not know what she would have done without Beau. She could not seem to focus on anything. She sat in the morning room for long periods of time staring into space, seeing nothing but her memories: Papa teaching her to ride her first pony; Papa sitting with her on his lap in his library while she read aloud to him from The Child’s Book of Nature; Papa giving her Wordsworth, named for her favorite poet that he himself had taught her to love; Papa and Mama kissing in the still room when they did not know she was watching.
What was she to do without a family to love? Where did she belong in this strange, new existence? She was not prepared. Despite his weeks-long illness, it all seemed far too sudden.
“I have sent off an express to your aunt and the duchess la
st night,” Beau told her as he sat beside her, a tray on his lap, trying to convince her to take some jellied broth. “They should be here in three days, I believe. You need to decide, but perhaps that would be a good time to hold the service for your papa. Come, eat. You do not want to be ill, love.”
“I must write to Papa’s cousin,”’ she said, starting to get up. “He is the heir.”
“There is time enough to be in touch with him. I have put off sending the notice to The Times. I wanted you to have some time to come to grips with things first.”
“You are very kind, Beau.” She sat, wringing her sodden handkerchief. “Normally, I am very independent, but this has dealt me such a blow, I do not know how I could have managed without you. I suppose I must talk to the vicar about the service.”
“Who would you like to give the eulogy? That is the only thing you need to decide.”
She thought for a moment. “Tom,” she said finally. “He has known Papa since he was a boy, and he is a clergyman. In fact, I should like for Tom to do the entire service. He is much the better man than his father.”
“I agree,” said Beau to her surprise.
“You have met Mr. Collingsworth?”
“He came this morning before you were down. Now that your father is gone, he does not think it proper for me to spend so much time here, though I sleep at the inn. He is sending his wife over this afternoon.”
She nodded. “I know it is not the done thing to dislike your vicar, but I have always thought him rather full of himself. And he did not come to visit Papa but once when he was ill. How a father and son can be so different from one another I do not understand.”
“And his wife? What is she like?”
“Very officious.” Pen sat up straighter, frowning in distaste.
“Come, Pen, let us go out into the garden. You need some fresh air and sunshine.”
“You are right,” she said. He had hardly left her side since her father’s death the day before. He had left for the inn after she had gone to bed and was there when she came down this morning. She felt guilty taking up so much of his time. “But I am certain you have important correspondence to take care of. . . .”
“Nothing that will not wait. Come, let us go out. You can tell me what to expect from Mrs. Collingsworth.”
The only thing she was really aware of during the next couple of days was the warm presence of Beau and the memories he drew from her about her parents.
“I know it is not fashionable to talk about it, but they loved each other so much,” she told him as they strolled through her mother’s rose garden.
“I understand that she married him against the marquess’s wishes.”
“Only after waiting several years. She had many offers each Season, but she turned them all down. It was not until my grandfather realized she would not marry anyone but my father that he finally consented. She was seven and twenty by then. Mama said he grew to respect my father before he died.”
“I liked him very much. I am glad I had the chance to spend a bit of time with him. He saw right through my dandy pose, you know.”
Penelope smiled briefly. “It is your disguise, is it not?”
“You are very perspicacious, Pen. It gives me great hope that you will navigate the ton without any problem.”
Doubts crowded her. She did not want to think about the ton.
“Do you have your penknife?” she asked. “I should like one of Mama’s roses with me this morning. It will give me courage. The Windsor Coral, I think.”
“Not only shall I cut you a rose, but I shall strip off the thorns,” said Beau.
-P-
Tom agreed happily to take the funeral service. “I will do this for you, Penny. It is the least I can do to bring you comfort.”
He had arrived again at Beeches two days after her father had died and two days before the service was scheduled.
“It means so much to me, Tom. We have been so close all of our lives. You know— knew my father almost as well as I do— did.”
Beau, who had been listening to more reminisces of her parents, stood, saying, “I am certain you have a lot to talk about. I will take a turn about the vegetable garden. I have a sudden craving to have asparagus for luncheon.”
“No doubt Cook will favor your request, as she always does,” Penelope said with a smile.
When he had gone through the French doors, she took a list from the occasional table at her elbow. “Here is the date of my father’s birth, the years he attended Eton and Cambridge, and the year of his marriage. I thought you could do a short life sketch.”
“Thank you. Most of the service will be taken from The Book of Common Prayer, you realize.”
“I know. But I am counting on you to give a brief sermon on a life well lived. You know what a kind and wonderful man my father was. He was especially kind to the workers on the estate. He built a school for the children and paid the doctor, Mr. Jenkins, a retainer fee to tend to all the families on the estate.” Penelope gave a little sigh. “I hope his cousin will be so kind. Papa even saw to their aesthetic needs. He gave cuttings of Mama’s flowers to all the tenants so they could start rose gardens on their plots.”
“He was extraordinary,” Tom said. “And I appreciate your giving me this opportunity.”
Suddenly, Pen noticed that his look was too ardent to be comfortable. Bowing her head, she began pleating her black silk gown. It was an evening dress, but the only black she possessed after giving away her mourning clothes for Mama. She had filled in the neckline with an old white lace fichu.
“Are you really going to marry the viscount and go away from here?”
“You know this estate is entailed away from me, Tom,” she said, her voice small.
“And you know very well I want to marry you myself. Did you not say that you broke your engagement to the viscount?”
“I did. But he did not accept my gesture. He considers us still engaged. But I do not wish to discuss this now, Tom. All I can think of is Papa.”
“And I so want to comfort you.” Putting his forefinger under her chin, he raised her head. Before she knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and kissed her lips. As a first kiss, it was disappointing.
She opened her eyes wide, spotting Beau in the doorway, his face a careful blank. Turning on his heel, he went back outdoors. Penelope was acutely aware of the misery his action added to her heart.
“Tom! You must not! I did not give you leave!”
“You know you would much rather marry me and stay in Northamptonshire. You were dreadfully unhappy in London. Downing is a lovely little village.”
“I just told you, I am not ready to discuss this!”
“But we must.” He took her hand. “You will soon have nowhere to go.”
She removed her hand from his and put it to her forehead. “I cannot think!”
“When my mother comes this afternoon, she intends to help you to start to pack up your belongings.”
“But my father’s cousin does not even know. . . .”
“It was my father’s duty to write to him. Nathaniel Swinton lives in Lincolnshire at the moment. No doubt, he will arrive for the funeral.”
Penelope stood, wringing her hands. “How am I to make such an enormous decision at this juncture?” she demanded. Her eyes darted around the familiar room. Her insides were churning, and she felt as though she were drowning far from the known shore. Heartsore, she left the room in tears.
But Tom was right. How could she leave all that was familiar to go to London at a time when she was grieving so severely? How could she marry a man she did not know well at this point in her existence and embark on the difficult transition to life among the ton?
It would be much easier to marry Tom and stay here. It was what she should have done before haring off to London in the first place. But her heart was lagging behind her mind. She wished . . . She did not know what she wished. She only knew that she would not have had Beau see her kissing Tom fo
r the world.
Her erstwhile fiancé did not join them for luncheon. Evans said that Beau had informed him that he was going riding since the day was clear. As she ate her asparagus, she missed him most particularly.
Beau had every reason to be upset at what he had seen. He believed her engaged to him. In his eyes, she had played him false. It was not like her to do such a thing.
Did she, in fact, love Tom? When she thought of her childhood friend, she thought of happy summer days chasing through the meadows, sparkling, cold Christmas Eves caroling in the village, playing hide-and-seek throughout the manor.
But since her Papa’s death, she had seen a different side to Beau. Had he really called her ‘love?’” He had been gentle and kind, not the daredevil dandy she had known in London. Not that she did not like the daredevil dandy . . . Actually, she no longer knew what she liked.
All she felt now was consuming sadness. She could not make such a huge decision, but life was not waiting for her. It was going to go on, regardless of her inability to make up her mind.
Chapter Sixteen
Beau rode Thor into a lather across the broad meadow, through the orchard, and onto the road into the next village. There, he tied his horse outside the pub and went inside, immediately downing a pint of ale.
Was his Pen in love with Collingsworth? He had thought him rather a good chap until he came upon that kiss. Now all he could think of was the life the two of them had shared together here in this place that Pen had always known as home. For that reason, though the curate was probably a virtual pauper, he had more to offer than a viscount who lived his life among a society his fiancée detested.
He gripped the mug in his hands and asked for another pint. She might not like London much, though she had hardly spent any time there, but he thought she would enjoy his estate in Somerset. The vistas under that broad and beautiful sky were compelling. His home was a reclaimed medieval abbey, large and rambling, with secret passages and the large art collection his father had amassed. The brooks fairly teemed with natural history. He would be pleased to fit her out with her own laboratory that would be the envy of even Miss Sukey.
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 12