Penelope Page 4

  Restless, she got up and went to look out of the window. The scenery was gloomy. The sun was hiding again, and the black smog sat comfortably overhead. The rose garden, which her room faced, looked damp, chilly and miserable. The wind, she noted, was the only thing happy, running through the trees and bushes like an overexcited kitten. If she strained, she could vaguely make out the outline of a fountain in the distance. She focused on the structure atop the fountain and finally figured that it was a marble statue of a cherubic, curly-haired baby angel piddling into the lily pond below. She sighed mournfully and turned away.

  She fetched her mother’s portrait from the cupboard and set it up on the red sandalwood writing desk. She plonked herself down on the chair and rested her chin on her hands. Cocking her head from side to side, she scrutinised the portrait.

  The oil portrait was as big as her hand, perhaps a little larger. It depicted her mother at the age of twenty one. She peered at it for a few minutes and then spoke, “Good evening, Mother. You are looking well. How are things up in heaven? Good, good … Well, I am in a bit of a bind, and could I beg you to please petition God on my behalf. It seems my guardian angel has either fled or is on sabbatical, and the substitute has not yet arrived.”

  She paused, wondering if words took time travelling all the way from earth to heaven. She let a moment go by just in case, and then looking into brown eyes that were identical to her own she continued, “I think you look just like me, though Father disagrees. He always points out that your chin is sweet, while mine is stubborn. My nose is round right at the tip, while yours is pointy, and while I have sixteen freckles, you have none. He used to tell me that you were so good that God decided to call you up for himself. I am not so good as you well know, Mamma. Does that mean I shall go to hell? Or that I will be stuck on earth for eternity? The priest in the village church seems to think my place next to Mephistopheles is booked… But I digress. I wanted to tell you all about my day and about that bit of trouble I am in. The one that needs a guardian angel’s intervention, or perhaps if you can manage it, a few guardian angels fluttering down to help me out of this predicament.”

  She looked around abstractedly, wondering how she could best explain matters. Her eyes fell on the window once again and she said mistily, “Mamma, do you recall the cramped window ledge in my room that I used to sit on as a child? I stayed up late into the night letting the curtains hide me and my candle while I stared out at the dark green forest at the back. I was convinced that the fay folk would come out and play, and that one day I would catch them dancing in the vegetable patch. I sat still barely breathing for hours it seemed, and the only exciting thing I ever saw was a naughty fox on its way to the chicken coup.”

  She scowled at the memory, letting her chin fall back onto her hands.

  “I wish I could sit at one of my favourite spots again, especially the smooth rock by the stream … the babbling stream that runs by the house and disappears into the forest, where Mr Duck and Mrs Duck leisurely dance on the water followed by the frantically paddling little ducklings. ” She paused, and then continued still lost and dreamy. “And do you recall that time when I was ten and I had tied all my clothes in a bundle, wore my nicest frock, and in neat pigtails decided to set off on an adventure? What I find odd now that I look back is that instead of following the stream into the dark forest where I had been so passionately convinced that the fairy folk dwelled, I wanted to follow the sparkling white path that ran along the forest away from the village. The path that led to an unknown land … I wanted to set forth and reach heaven to find you, Mamma … or perhaps find a home.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek and she dashed it away angrily.

  “That horrible harridan … Alright, alright, Mother, don’t get your wings in a twist.” She continued in a more respectful tone, “My stepmother, Gertrude, as you well know, has always abhorred the sight of me. As a child I was filled with constant dread, a dread that only a child can feel, because of her. I tried my best to stay away from her, and I tried to please … You know I did. Sitting up in heaven you probably have a good view of all that goes on down here. Well, the usurper has now demanded, I will let you know in case you missed this bit of information, demanded that I never return. That wily witch, good for nothing… Oh, let my tongue run, Mamma. Don’t prick your wand in my conscience. She deserves it. She told me to never come back to my father’s house. Notice how I never call it a home. It is always Father’s house. Well, she never made it a home, and now my prior abode has also been snatched away from me. I didn’t even get a chance to bid everyone a proper goodbye.” She wailed at the last bit.

  Sniffing, she wiped her runny nose. Anguish did not wait for handkerchiefs to be found and used.

  “She told me that I must never return to Father’s house. She said that Father has squandered away all his wealth. He can no longer afford to clothe or keep me. I knew he was terrible with his accounts, but … but I didn’t realise that things had become so dreadful. She said that since I had no fortune, accomplishments, looks or marriage prospects in the offing, that I should grab this opportunity that the dowager has given me and attach myself to a man … any man who will have me, even if it means becoming his mistress, or I should find some suitable work. Mother, I am no longer that weak, helpless child. I refused to be bullied. And I told her as much… and then she changed her tactics. She reminded me of my younger stepsisters; Janet, still in her frocks and Celine, only a year younger than me and not yet out. She asked me how I could be so heartless and continue to be a burden on my father who had to care for five young girls. I admit I dithered a little, but she could see that I was still undecided, and that was when she pulled out her trump card.”

  Penelope straightened her back and clenched the chair in a deathly grip.

  “Mother, Gertrude informed me that she knew of Lord Weevil’s proposal. The same ancient Lord Weevil who looks like a ginormous, sleazy rat with buck teeth and a single eye that constantly leers at anything in skirts. He has accosted me on several occasions and I have always rebuffed his propositions. It appears that he approached Gertrude after learning of my impending season in London and spurred on by circumstances asked her for my hand. Perhaps he knew that Father would refuse. Well, she did not refuse but asked him for time in the hope, I think, that the dowager may help matters and find a better catch for me. If I marry someone well situated, then she can hang her daughters’ responsibilities around my neck. She told me that if I dared to return unwed or unemployed, she will take matters into her own hand and make sure that I marry that awful, awful Lord Weevil.”

  She stopped here to take deep calming breaths.

  “So you see, Mamma, I am desperate. I have to marry or else find employment. I cannot return. That Lord Weevil makes my skin crawl. When I left for London this morning, he stopped the carriage just outside the village and ordered me to climb down. He was convinced that with Gertrude’s permission, I was now his betrothed. I popped my head out and politely asked him to let me depart. He refused and got ready to pull the door of the carriage open. Oh, Mamma, I truly didn’t mean to, but you see, I had no choice. I had to sock him in the good eye.”

  She paused respectfully, thinking perhaps that her mother, perched atop a fluffy cloud, was having a mini apoplectic fit at this last bit of news.

  “Well, I am sorry now that I socked him. It wasn’t very hard, just hard enough to have him collapse on the ground and give us time to get away.”

  She caressed her mother’s portrait, “Now that I am in London, I wish I was back in Finnshire. I know I am being contrary, but apart from Gertrude’s presence, I was happy. I know I wanted to set out on that white path to adventure, yet I will miss kind old Mrs Buttersmith, my childhood accomplices— Susey and Clair, the crackling old woman who lives in the forest, Mr Duck and Mrs Duck and all the little ducklings. But mostly I will miss Father and my stepsisters. That white path does not lead to anywhere pleasant, Mamma. I feel peculiar in this strange home. At l
east Father’s house contains my own familiar room, which is exactly that, if not mine, then familiar.”

  She blubbered a bit, this time heaving herself off the chair to locate the handkerchief and have a good blow.

  “Gertrude hates me because she says Father always loved you, Mamma, and you occupy a special place in his heart. She believes that place is hers by right. She knows he married her simply to provide a mother for me, but then why did he have to go produce five other little ones right after? She thinks Father is partial to me and neglects my stepsisters. My face constantly reminds her of your presence; a ghost, she says, who should stay cold and dead in the grave. Her eyes when she bid me goodbye were almost manic in expression, her face etched with hatred and a passion so deep it frightened me.”

  She sobbed convulsively and after a good long weep felt better.

  “Your wand is pricking my conscience again. I shouldn’t have fallen into an abyss of self-pity like this. And yes, yes, I hear you. I cannot go down to dine with the duke sporting gooseberry eyes. There, I have washed my face with cold water. That should do the trick.”

  She dried her face with a muslin cloth which was whiter than her whitest dress.

  “Now let me look at the positive side of things. I have always wanted to travel, to discover the world outside Finnshire and to escape ghastly Gertrude. Well, here I am with an opportunity straight out of a fairy tale, deposited right into a duke’s home, with a prospect of new dresses, dancing, edible dinners and maybe just maybe my … my first kiss. I could in a few months have a husband, and if only an ogre would have me, then so what? The little ogres that I would produce would at least be lovable, and I might finally have my own home. I have months to consider what to do if I fail to trap a man. Besides, Mamma, you would have sent the guardian back down to me with strict instructions to stick by my side like butter to toast.”

  She kissed the portrait and wrapping it in tissue placed it back in the cupboard. Smoothing her skirts, she sat on the bed and prepared to wait for the arrival of Lady Radclyff, who was to take her down to dinner.

  She had three months to win the dowager’s affections, three months to find a man, and if all else failed, then three months to find an alternate solution. She tried whistling something merry to cheer herself up, but as the minutes ticked by, her tune trailed off into a mournful dirge.

  Chapter 5

  “Are you ready, Miss Fairweather?”

  “Coming, Lady Radclyff,” Penelope called out. She grabbed her shawl and raced to the door. She tripped and steadied herself. The blasted dress was too long and had too many underskirts.

  Lady Radclyff was waiting in the corridor, her light blue eyes sparkling in impatience. She wore an elegant sea-green gown that floated about her like a dream. A little bit of flour dusted her flushed cheeks, and wisps of inky black hair had escaped the intricate knot at her nape. She flashed a quick smile in welcome, and Penelope felt decidedly frumpy in her old fashioned garb.

  “I hope you were able to occupy yourself these last two hours, Miss Fairweather. A little debacle in the kitchens detained me and I couldn’t come to you sooner. I know how difficult it is to adjust to new surroundings, especially on the first day. I apologise for being a negligent host, but I promise to make it up to you.”

  “Oh no, Lady Radclyff, you have no need to apologise. It took me a while to get dressed. Thereafter, I had a long chat with my mother. I was fine, honestly.”

  “You had a chat with your mother? Oh, you mean you wrote to your stepmother.”

  “No, I was talking to my mother’s portrait. The one who is dead … lying cold in the grave dead,” she explained.

  Lady Radclyff paused midstep, and then continued walking with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

  “How was your meeting with the duke?” Penelope asked, finding the smile a little unnerving.

  Lady Radclyff tucked her hand under Penelope’s arm. “I asked him and he refused.”

  Penelope gasped, and Lady Radclyff grinned.

  “Hear me out. I then begged and he refused. I finally cried, and before a single tear drop could travel the length of my cheek, he agreed. He has even promised to ask you to stay himself.”

  Penelope eyed Lady Radclyff in respect.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No, don’t thank me. My brother was a little harsh—”

  “My Lady,” a voice interrupted.

  They both looked up to find a maid blocking their path.

  “Mrs Reed wants you urgently, something about the dinner.”

  Lady Radclyff stamped her foot scaring Penelope a little bit.

  “Not again! I was just in the kitchens but a moment ago. Oh, this new chef we have! He has trouble producing the meals on time. I have managed to allay any disasters up until now, but I don’t know how long I can continue thinking up creative solutions. I am sorry, Miss Fairweather. We have another fifteen minutes before dinner is served, and I need to confer with Mrs Reed. Becky, please escort Miss Fairweather to the dining room. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind,” Penelope quickly replied. She would have liked Lady Radclyff’s support while facing the duke and Sir Henry Woodville … Perhaps the dowager was already downstairs? Pasting a polite smile on her face, she followed the maid … Becky, Lady Radclyff had called her.

  ***

  Penelope lifted her left foot and regarded it critically. She then hiked up her skirts slightly and once again inspected her left foot. It was no use. Her left foot remained hidden beneath her skirts.

  She stared dolefully down the never-ending, winding oak staircase that was lit by dozens of twinkling candelabras. The maid who was supposed to escort her to the dining room had disappeared. She would have to attempt the stairs unaided. It was better to risk her neck than be late for the dinner.

  Taking a deep breath, she descended the first step and wobbled. Her hand shot out and she grabbed onto the railing.

  It was a few moments before she regained her composure. There was no other way out. She would have to hike up her skirts even further. She peeked down the staircase to ascertain that she was alone before attempting any unladylike behaviour and found the duke staring up at her. She was not surprised. That sort of thing often happened to her.

  He, in turn, eyed her in annoyance.

  She thought that he looked quite the thing— grim and devilishly handsome. She forced herself to breathe and arranged her face into something resembling disdain. She could sneer just as well as he could, she thought angrily.

  Tilting her chin up and holding a haughty expression she took another step down. Her foot failed to land on the second step and instead it hovered over the third step desperately seeking solid ground. She teetered on the edge, her arms flaying wildly like an owlet testing its baby wings for the first time. Her mouth popped open, her eyes grew big, and her facial muscles contracted unflatteringly. Finally she lost complete momentum and fell, rolling down the stairs until someone caught her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment.

  “Are you all right?” the duke asked urgently.

  “Did you see my bloomers,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me? Did you hit your head?”

  “My bloomers … did you see them?” she asked, snapping her eyes open.

  “Err … no.”

  “Thank goodness. At least these blasted skirts were good for something. Though, I would not have tripped if it hadn’t been for them in the first place.”

  “You seem to be unharmed. You have your tongue back. Are you fine?”

  Penelope looked at the duke kneeling in front of her, concern clear in his sharp gaze. Disconcerted, she pushed his arms away and quickly rose, and just as quickly tripped again and fell right back into his arms.

  “Stop squirming. I will let you go in a moment. Lift your right foot. I think the skirt is stuck under … yes, now hold on to my shoulder and place your foot back on the ground. That’s it. Now, I am going to let you go
. You are sure you won’t fall again?”

  “No… no, I am all right. I … thank you,” Penelope stammered.

  The duke waited until she had managed a few steps on her own before he let go of her arm.

  “Why did you wear something so ridiculous? I can see you have no taste or any sense of practicality. You could have killed yourself, all for the sake of fashion.”

  “Your sister recommended I wear this, your grace,” she replied bristling.

  She had softened at his concern for her, but his tone was back to being scathing. She deduced that his concern was not for her safety. Dealing with the dead bodies of guests who broke their necks tumbling down his staircase in too long skirts would have disturbed his schedule. Cleaning up the gore and blood from the expensive cream carpets would have further disrupted his dinner hour.

  “Then your other dresses must be truly frightening,” the duke muttered.

  They reached the bottom step safely with Penelope racking her brain for an intelligent retort.

  “Perkins, get me two glasses of brandy. Make it generous please,” the duke ordered the butler.

  Penelope stood shuffling her feet still thinking about a decent rejoinder.

  “Miss Fairweather? Allow me to escort you to the dining room.”

  Penelope gave up. She couldn’t even remember what she was trying to retort to. She carefully placed the tips of her fingers on his arm, taking care to touch him as little as possible.

  His mouth twitched as if he understood.

  They entered the dining room and the duke settled her in a chair at a table long enough to seat sixteen.

  “Here, drink it in one go,” the duke ordered, handing her a glass of brandy.

  She looked at him questioningly.