Penelope

  Penelope

  By

  Anya Wylde

  Copyright 2010 Anya Wylde

  Smashwords Edition

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  Acknowledgement

  Thank you, John, for everything

  And

  Thank you, PG Wodehouse, for coining the word ‘canoozers’. It’s bloody brilliant!

  Prologue

  It was April in England. Therefore, it stood to reason that it was raining.

  The English, it also stood to reason, were delighted because the weather was horrible and they had a reason to complain. But today the Londoners, specifically, were even more ecstatic because it was not only raining but also storming. Thunder, lightning and raging wind swept through the streets of London carrying with it pounds of garbage, scrawny cats, chimney sweeps, and the unfortunate young lady in ballooning pink skirts who had decided to sneak out of her respectable home to canoodle with a not so respectable man.

  In the better parts of the town the plump aristocrats sat on plump cushions deploring the state of the economy, politics and literature. The exception to this was the Blackthorne Mansion, a veritable fortress where the current Duke of Blackthorne, Charles Cornelius Radclyff, resided. It was said that the history of the Radclyff family could be traced back hundreds of thousands of years. That is if one kept an open mind, a trusting mind, or better yet no mind at all.

  Sir Henry Woodville, the oldest living creature in the Blackthorne Mansion, could not be sure how far back the history could be traced, but if one tried, he was positive that the ancestors of the Radclyff family were the original creators of Plato’s Atlantis, and after bit of drink, he confessed they could possibly have been Adam and Eve. (It is whispered in expensive drawing rooms that Sir Henry Woodville could be a teensy weensy bit senile).

  So the Blackthorne Mansion stood bold and proud fighting the onslaught of stinging rain while within its grey walls the dowager and her daughter, Lady Anne Radclyff, sat huddled by the fire, wincing ever so delicately every time the thunder roared. They did not discourse on appropriate topics but awaited the arrival of our heroine, Miss Penelope Winifred Rose Spebbington Fairweather, and this is where we begin our tale.

  Chapter 1

  The dowager cast a worried glance at the door while Lady Radclyff stared at the grandfather clock willing its giant needles to move.

  “She is late, Mamma.”

  “She will be here soon enough.”

  “Do you think she is dead?”

  “Annie, she is not that late!”

  “Yes, but she is coming all the way from that … that Finny village. It has been raining all day and she refused our offer of a carriage. The post-chaise could have lodged itself in a pothole and overturned. I suppose she is lying in some gully, blood pooling underneath her awkwardly twisted body and not a soul in sight.”

  “It’s Finnshire not Finny, and she has her maid with her.”

  “Well, then the maid is dead too. The weight of the carriage finished her off well before her mistress. Poor Miss Fairweather twitched and trembled for eons fighting for that last breath.”

  “I will seriously contemplate your very vivid scenario if Miss Fairweather does not arrive in the next five hours. Until then can we converse like gently bred women? If your brother heard you speaking like this, he would have you sent to the country for the next three seasons.”

  “I am bored. I can’t go to the shops, go riding or feel excited about the season. Do you know that I attended a hundred and five balls last year alone, and that does not count the dinners and tea parties?”

  “Miss Fairweather would have loved to attend a hundred and five balls last year. You have had the pleasure of three seasons, while the poor dear has never been to anything but the village dance.”

  “What do you think she is like? Have you ever met her?”

  “I have not met her, but her mother and I attended the same ladies academy. Her mother Grace was bright, full of life and laughter, and if her daughter is anything like her… ”

  “Was?”

  “She died giving birth to Miss Penelope Fairweather. Mr Thomas Fairweather, Penelope’s father, married the vicar’s daughter, Gertrude, within a year of Grace’s funeral. Gertrude went on to have five more children. I initiated a correspondence with Gertrude to ensure that Grace’s daughter was being well looked after—”

  “You couldn’t have the stepmother drowning the child,” Lady Radclyff interrupted.

  “Anne, Miss Fairweather is not an unwanted kitten. Where was I? Oh yes, Gertrude writes to me often. Her letters are full of her children’s antics. I feel as if I know them,” the dowager said dreamily. “I have imagined them growing up. They used to wail all night and then they were falling off apple trees ….”

  “You are rambling again, Mamma. I don’t care about Miss Fairweather’s siblings. I want to know about her.”

  “Why? You have never shown this much interest in any of my other guests before.”

  Lady Radclyff sucked on a lemon drop, her mouth pursing in thought.

  “The other guests were all the same. They say the same things, they are brought up the same way, and they all wear the same clothes. It is as if a single London lady and a London gentleman have been put into different moulds by God and recreated again and again. I can predict what the replies to my questions will be. No one is original. While Miss Fairweather sounds original.”

  “Original?”

  “I have never met a country bumpkin before.”

  “Annie!”

  “Well, it is true isn't it? How in the world are you going to introduce her to polite society?”

  “Grace, her mother, was very well mannered. A little enthusiastic but still a lady. And I expect Gertrude has brought up her stepdaughter correctly.”

  “How many siblings does she have?”

  “Five younger sisters.”

  “Six girls and not enough money to pay for a season for even one child. I think your friend would have had more to worry about than teaching the girls how to curtsy and hold a fan.”

  The dowager sipped her tea and didn't reply.

  “So I am right.”

  “No, I am sure Miss Fairweather knows the basics.”

  “I can hear a but …?”

  “Gertrude sounds as if she dotes on Miss Fairweather, yet when I asked if I could sponsor Penelope’s season in London, her reply was a little damp. She cautioned me against the idea …”

  “Is the girl dim?”

  “No, Annie, the girl is not dim.” The dowager paused and then added, “At least I hope not.”

  Lady Radclyff smiled in triumph. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

  “You will be disappointed. The girl will be frightened and will probably utter not a word on her first day here. Besides, I am not sure if Gertrude is not biased. She is the stepmother, and I think she was reluctant to send Grace’s child to me. I had the feeling she would rather I took responsibility for one of her own. I can’t fault her for it, but I am worried that Penelope has been denied her place.”

  “Miss Penelope Fairweather,” said Lady Radclyff, testing the name aloud. “She will have red hair and black sparkling eyes, a witch with a beauty that shall enthral the ton.”

  “She will be mousy with brown hair and brown eyes, a veritable wallflower,” the dowager replied.

  “In any case, she is dead now.” />
  “It is not even two hours since her intended arrival.”

  “I hope she is not dead. She is my only hope of survival during the season.”

  The dowager rolled her eyes and picked up her knitting. They sat in silence, eyes straying every now and then to the ticking grandfather clock. As the minutes went by the dowager became worried and Lady Radclyff more impatient.

  “Shall I ring for some more tea?” Lady Radclyff finally asked.

  “As you wish,” the dowager replied, tossing aside her knitting.

  Lady Radclyff reached for the bell, but before she could ring it the butler entered.

  “Miss Fairweather,” he announced.

  “Send her in,” Lady Radclyff said, dropping the bell back in its place.

  A hesitant finger nudged the door open, and then the rest of Miss Fairweather entered the room. The dowager and Lady Radclyff inspected the newcomer with interest.

  Miss Fairweather was not pretty, nor could she ever be a wallflower. She was rustic, a woodland creature with an aura of something fay. She had brought the mist, rain and storm with her into the drawing room of the Blackthorne Mansion.

  She had brown hair and brown eyes, but that was the only thing that matched the dowager’s prediction. Her dark wild hair defied the multitude of pins stuck here and there. Her bonnet was askew and sat precariously on her head, threatening to topple at any moment. Her nose was delicate, the very tip round and pink. Her chin was stubborn and her mouth sensitive. Rebellious freckles dusted her flushed cheeks. Her alert, bright eyes darted curiously about the room, the hand gripping her skirt the only indication of her nervousness.

  She wore a shapeless, mud splattered dress, which made both the women wince, but it was not the dress or the young lady’s appearance that made Lady Radclyff squeal or the dowager scream in terror.

  It was the goat that did it.

  Miss Penelope Fairweather had bounded into the room followed by a goat; a medium sized white goat with black hooves and a bright peachy nose. It stared around the room through long lashes, its hooves digging into the plush blue carpet.

  Miss Fairweather curtsied, aiming her elegant dip not at the dowager or Lady Radclyff but at the butler.

  “Thank you, Perkins, that will be all,” the dowager hastily interrupted just as Miss Fairweather opened her mouth to ask the butler his name.

  Perkins scuttled out in relief, carefully manoeuvring himself away from the goat.

  The dowager composed herself. “Miss Fairweather, I am delighted to have you here. We were getting worried, the rain and the storm ... You brought a goat,” she finished abruptly.

  Miss Penelope Fairweather stood dripping water, a tiny puddle forming at her feet. Her eyes took in the luxury of the blue drawing room, the burning fire beckoning her. Her leather slippers squelched loudly as she hurried forward and bobbed a curtsy aimed in the general direction of the two women.

  “Yes, this is my pet Lady Bathsheba. Lady Bathsheba, this is … err … the dowager and …?”

  “Lady Radclyff,” Lady Radclyff supplied helpfully.

  “… Lady Radclyff and we are to stay with them for a while.” She turned to the dowager, “I had heard that some ladies in London keep tigers and elephants, so I did not think my onliest loneliest goat would cause any trouble.”

  The dowager’s right eyebrow shot up at the ‘onliest loneliest’ bit.

  Lady Radclyff grinned. She had never been introduced to a goat before.

  Penelope continued speaking unaware of the sensation she was causing, “Mary was to take her to the kitchens, but the poor thing was distraught over making the wrong sort of impression downstairs. I mean, a lady’s maid arriving with a goat is not impressive. Among servants you have to appear assertive from the very beginning or you end up with the worst of tasks. Mary told me that. She wants to be liked and perhaps find a stablehand to marry. She loves babies … You have to marry to have babies, but Lilly our neighbour was shipped off to Dublin because she had a baby without a husband … which was odd … so err … Mary said that a maid with a goat is not desirable. I agreed to keep the goat until she impresses them downstairs and …” Penelope faltered at the disapproving look in the dowager’s eye.

  The dowager sank back in her seat. She eyed the nervous girl with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Miss Fairweather’s thoughtfulness towards her maid was commendable, yet her disregard for the impression she herself would make upon arriving with the goat was another matter. Unmarried women having babies … The dowager shuddered. She wanted to clamp a hand over her avidly listening daughter’s ears.

  She wanted to scold Penelope but she couldn't, not when the girl had just arrived. She needed to go slow. This one fault could be overlooked. A kind heart was not such a bad thing, and appropriate topics of conversations could be taught.

  She glanced at her daughter, who looked like she had been given a giant present wrapped in tinsel with bows hanging off the sides, and no wonder— Miss Fairweather had brought a goat and curtsied to the butler.

  Things could have been worse. The girl could have been lying dead in a pool of blood.

  “You are soaking, my dear. Would you like to change? We can’t have you catching a cold on your very first day here,” the dowager asked.

  “Thank you, but I don’t think Mary would appreciate being put to work after our long trip from Finnshire. Besides, I can see you have not yet had your tea. I don’t want to delay you any further. I will sit by the fire and will be dry in no time.”

  “Yes, but … you are dripping,” Lady Radclyff exclaimed.

  “I am sorry, are you worried about the furnishing? I didn’t think ....”

  “Don’t be silly. A bit of water will not harm the cushions,” the dowager said, sending her daughter a quelling look.

  “Well, then you needn’t worry about me. I have been caught in the rain plenty of times and have never caught a cold. The old hag ... I mean, the healer in our village often says that the thunder peals to scare away those weak of heart. Lightning strikes to send people scuttling home, but only the brave stay to feel the happy rain on their skin.”

  “Not the brave but fools rather who don’t mind catching their deaths,” Lady Radclyff muttered under her breath.

  The dowager helplessly wrung her hands. She wondered if the girl was touched in the head. Happy rain, a goat as a pet, and wanting her tea in soggy skirts. And it had not been five minutes since her arrival. She stroked her temple. A headache, she was sure, was not long in coming.

  She nodded to Miss Fairweather to take her seat, her mind racing to come up with a solution on how to present the unpresentable to the ton.

  Chapter 2

  It is monstrously unfair that whenever a girl needs her wits about her, she goes and does something completely idiotic. Penelope was that sort of girl.

  She did not want to have her tea in soggy skirts. She did not want to ruin the silk cushions between which she was currently sat. And she certainly did not want the two aristocratic women looking at her like she was an imbecile. Yet here she was having tea in the duke’s drawing room utterly drenched and deuced uncomfortable.

  She blamed the Blackthorne Mansion. The Blackthorne Mansion was luxurious, vibrant and beautiful, like a freshly plucked peacock’s plume. Her previous abode, that is her father’s house, could be best compared to a pickled mushroom.

  It was intimidating, and Miss Penelope Winifred Rose Spebbington Fairweather was intimidated.

  And when Penelope was intimidated, she not only behaved like an idiot, but she also liked to please those who intimidated her. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time it didn’t. Instead of being pleased, the recipients of her selfless goodwill either became frightened of her enthusiasm or uncomfortable.

  The dowager and Lady Radclyff were suffering from the latter emotion. They were a tad uncomfortable. The pained smile that Penelope was sporting did not help matters, nor did the presence of an extremely inquisitive goat.

  P
enelope’s dripping skirts, her shivering hands and the sandwich stealing goat were by mutual unspoken consent ignored. Instead, the three women latched onto the safe topic of the weather.

  They discussed how much it had rained in the last month, how much it was expected to rain in the coming month, how cold it was and then how warm it was, how unusual the weather was for this time of the year, and then it was back to rain again.

  The topic of weather exhausted, the women became silent. At this point of time a morning caller normally departed. Penelope could not depart, since this was now her temporary home. Therefore, she twiddled her thumbs and stared up at the ornate circular roof where a vivid painting of an old man tweaking the nose of the devil caught her eye. The dowager pretended to knit, and Lady Radclyff searched for topics in her buttery scone.

  Soon it felt as if the silence had taken on the form of an invisible elephant who sat snorting right in the middle of the three women.

  The elephant was banished by Lady Radclyff when she asked, “Is Finnshire a fishing village?”

  “Fishing village? Oh, because of the Finn. No, we are far away from the sea. We do have a pond in our backyard. We have fish … The ducks eat them,” Penelope replied sadly.

  The elephant threatened to loom again, and the dowager quickly asked, “I hope the journey from Finnshire wasn’t too stressful, my dear?”

  Penelope brightened, “I had a bit of an adventure.”

  Lady Radclyff perked up at this and leaning forward in her seat said, “Do tell.”

  Penelope carefully placed the plate onto the table and sat up straight. She adopted what her sisters called her storyteller pose. She folded her hands on her lap, and tilting her chin slightly up she said, “I took leave of Gertrude, Papa, my five sisters, the cook, the scullery maid Martha, the goats and cows on the farm, Periwinkle the pig, Mrs Biddy, my friends in the village—”

  “They will miss you, I am sure,” the dowager sympathised.

  “Oh no, they have a wager going. Janet, my youngest stepsister, wagers that I will be back within a week. Della, the cook, is confident that I will last at least a month, and Mrs Biddy, my neighbour, wagered two whole pounds that I will back by tomorrow afternoon. No one truly believes that I will last the season, let alone return wed.”