Penelope Page 5

  “You are going to go into shock. The tumble down the stairs could have killed you. It is a delayed reaction. The brandy will help sooth your nerves.”

  “Plummy,” she muttered and drank the contents.

  Spluttering and coughing, she banged the empty glass down on the table. After she had stopped hacking, she braced herself for the delayed shock from the tumble to hit her. It didn’t. She felt perfectly fine. In fact, the brandy had given her a delicious warm feeling, and now that she thought about it, she had never had brandy. It was always wine. She regretted drinking it so fast. She should have tasted it properly.

  “Can I have another?” she asked.

  “Another what?”

  “Brandy or whiskey … rum?” She might as well try all three while the duke was being generous.

  “Are you sure?” the duke asked.

  “Yes, please,” she replied primly.

  He nodded and poured some into her glass.

  She grasped the glass and took a dainty sip. It was awful, but she had to drink it now with the duke staring at her. She took another sip and then another. The taste seemed to grow on her, and before she knew it, she loved it.

  “It’s delicious, thank you.”

  “You are welcome. It’s cherry brandy. Go slow, you are drinking it too … Ah, I see you have finished it.”

  “Can I—?”

  “No,” he snapped, cutting her off her mid-sentence.

  “I just wanted a little bit more,” she muttered to herself.

  She covertly watched the duke as he took out his pocket watch and noted the time. The butler, as if on cue, handed the duke something on a tray. He picked up a full, dark, dangling moustache and strode over to the mirror. He had just patted it into place when Sir Henry Woodville was announced in.

  “Who is this young lady?” A tremulous voice asked.

  “This is Miss Fairweather, Grandfather.”

  “Ah yes, our guest for the season.”

  Penelope watched the frail old man being carried into the room by two burly footmen.

  Sir Henry had shocking white hair, jet black beady eyes and a bulbous nose upon which sat a big black mole. The lower half of his face was hidden behind the most exquisitely groomed moustache in all of England. It was an aristocratic, powerful, dignified, and above all else a bushy moustache. It was long, it was white, and the very tips of it curled upwards giving it an almost menacing feel. A decent moustache can intimidate a man, while a great moustache can frighten an army. And Sir Henry’s moustache was great. Lovingly attached to the lower half of the moustache was a fluffy beard. His thin lips had understandably disappeared behind all the hair.

  Penelope stood up and curtsied, offering a wobbly smile.

  “How do you like London?” the old man wheezed at her across the table.

  “I have only arrived today and haven’t seen enough to form an opinion yet.”

  “You will hate it. In my day London was green, the men brave and the women bouncy…” He stopped as a coughing fit overtook over him.

  Perkins quickly slopped wine into a glass and placed it in front of Sir Henry while the duke half stood up in his seat.

  Penelope gripped her skirts in horror. Sir Henry’s coughing fit seemed to go on forever. She was convinced she had just heard the old man utter his last tragic words

  Sir Henry Woodville soon spluttered to a halt. His eyes were closed and Penelope leaned forward to check if he was still breathing. The duke, too, seemed to have decided this was it when Sir Henry snapped open his eyes and said, “I like your dress.”

  She jumped in shock. The duke sat back down and calmly went back to sipping his brandy.

  “Err… thank you,” she finally managed, hand on her thundering heart.

  “Women no longer have any sense of style. They wear clothes that push their bosoms up to their necks. They might as well be naked. My wife wore more underskirts in bed than they do at a ball. Grecian inspiration they call it. Hmmph, it is more like going to a ball in your chemise. Deplorable. My dear, do not let these London modistes change your style. You have the appropriate amount of underskirts.”

  Penelope grabbed her wine glass and drank the contents in one swig. Her face was bright red, and she dared not look at the duke. Was it usual for aristocrats to bring up bosoms and lady’s underskirts at the dinner table, she wondered? She desperately wished for Lady Radclyff and the dowager to arrive and save her from dying in utter mortification.

  Her wish was granted and they entered at that very moment. As soon as they were seated, Perkins, the butler, entered with a fresh jug of wine.

  Perkins had arrived at the Blackthorne Mansion along with Sir Henry Woodville seventeen years ago just after the demise of Duke of Blackthorne VI. Berkins, the butler at the time, was so overwrought upon hearing of his beloved master’s death that he retired. Perkins had considered it mighty decent of the fellow to leave the post and make it conveniently available for him.

  At the time Perkins, who replaced Berkins, was considered the best of butlers in town. He was often accosted by rival aristocratic family members with promises of candle stubs, bottles, dripping, extra fat, bones and tobacco to leave his post and come and work for them. He, out of deep seated loyalty and pride, refused. The servants downstairs now wished that someone should have thought of a sufficient amount to lure the blasted man out. Perkins, with his white hair, stooped figure, and a face wrinkled like a dried up Baghdad date, was so old that he should rightfully be dead. But he wasn’t, and while his brain functioned relatively well, his body had almost given up, for it complained with every step he took. His eyesight was a little better than stone blind, and on more than one occasion he had managed to pour a jug of wine into the bosoms of various attractive women who dared to wear their gowns too low.

  It is remarkable that it was only attractive women who were thus doused, and oddly no one in the family noticed this coincidence.

  This same Perkins with his grainy eyesight, aching joints, and shaky hands inched his way forward on the laborious journey around the table to fill the glasses with wine.

  A maid entered carrying platters of food. Another servant followed, and then another until the long table was laden with fruits, meats, cheeses, nuts and freshly baked bread. Someone placed a bowl of soup in front of her and Perkins had still not reached her wine glass.

  Penelope shot Perkins an evil look. She wished the blasted man would hurry up and fill her glass. He was currently hovering over the dowager’s head. Her eyes slithered to the duke. The duke was whispering something to a pretty serving maid. His glass was full, she noted irritably. She wrenched her eyes back to her plate.

  A moment later, the same pretty maid appeared by her side and filled her glass with water. Penelope frowned and then glared at the duke in annoyance. Did he think she had drunk enough wine for the night? She was not a child. Angrily she waited until Perkins finally arrived next to her. With a mournful look at her relatively high neckline, he slopped the wine into her glass. She defiantly picked it up and took a generous sip.

  The duke raised an eyebrow in amusement and went back to sipping his own brandy.

  “The chef seems to have produced the dinner on time,” Penelope said to Lady Radclyff, who was sitting next to her.

  “Yes, well he is temperamental. He is French and the housekeeper English. If you ever want to witness a battle, venture down to our kitchens someday.”

  Penelope nodded in understanding and took a generous gulp from her glass. “This wine is different from what I am used to. It’s delicious and somehow the taste is … deeper, and the colour darker?”

  “Deeper? Darker? Sounds like you have only ever had watered wine,” Lady Radclyff said, laughing. Her smile froze as she noted Penelope’s expression. “You have had only watered wine! My goodness, I didn’t realise … but you have had only one glass. You should be alright. Just drink sparingly. What I mean is if you are not used to it, then it may go to your head.”

  Penelo
pe stared at Lady Radclyff in alarm. She had drunk more than a glass, a few in fact, and the brandy. How many glasses was that? She had not even eaten anything. Did that make things better or worse? Her head was feeling a little strange, but maybe it was due to hunger. She frowned trying to think, and the more she strained her brain, the more muddled she seemed to be getting.

  The candles seemed to have become brighter, and Penelope squinted at Sir Henry as he sat staring at his pocket watch. He lifted his hand and let it fall onto the table with a thud once. Lady Radclyff nudged Penelope and she noticed everyone picking up their spoons and starting on the soup. She stared at the numerous spoons and forks and randomly chose one. She carefully dipped the spoon into the bowl and lifted it towards her mouth. Her brain was decidedly scrambled by now. That simple procedure was proving to be a difficult task. She finally managed to bring the spoon to her mouth and swallow the contents. She grinned in delight and looked around the table proudly.

  Lady Radclyff was eyeing her in concern while the duke was looking disapproving.

  Penelope stuck her tongue out at the duke and blew a raspberry.

  The spoons halted in mid-air and everyone turned to look at her in astonishment.

  Penelope was pleased. She would show the duke, she thought happily. She could eat her soup and drink as much wine as she liked. She grabbed her glass and drank the contents, licking her lips.

  Sir Henry, oblivious of the situation, said, “Miss Fairweather, what brings you to London?”

  Penelope frowned trying to make sense of the words. “I am here to catch a man, a husband, I mean, during the season …. It is odd, is it not, that we call it the London season. It is like saying it is the hunting season … which I suppose it is, except we hunt men instead of rabbits.” She giggled and repeated, “Rabbits, bunny eared men, hee-hee.”

  “Do you have an inkling of what sort of husband you would like?” Sir Henry asked, a little lost over the bit about rabbits.

  “No, anyone will do as long as he is a man. But, Sir Henry, I will not find a man in this dress. I hate it because it is pink and pink reminds me of pigs. I don’t know why it reminds me of pink pigs,” she said mournfully.

  “Any man?” Sir Henry plodded on desperate to keep the conversation coherent.

  “Yes, any man. If he is rich, then even better,” she hiccupped.

  “I don’t believe you are titled or that you are an heiress, then how will you land a wealthy husband, my dear? Perhaps you should keep your mind open to all prospects. It is a kindly advice from an old man.”

  “I suppose… I suppose I will use some of the feminine tricks ladies use to snare a man. I have to marry and as soon as possible. But I take your point, Sir Henry. I will take anyone who will have me.”

  The dowager’s fork clattered onto her plate. She nervously glanced at her son. The duke looked thunderous.

  “Are you a bit sozzled, my dear? You have had time to only have a glass or two of wine since we sat down. A very delicate constitution, I suppose,” Sir Henry remarked, finally grasping the situation.

  Penelope smiled widely, and after a minute of grinning foolishly, she said, “A toast!”

  Clambering up on her chair, she unsteadily raised her glass, “A toast to … to moustaches,” she giggled. “To moustaches … If you have in mind to take a bride, Sir Henry, then my cook, Della, back at my father’s house has a shplendid moustache. You would love her moustache, and she even has a few strands of hair on her chin. They curl.”

  Lady Radclyff leapt up and tried to pull her down whispering urgently.

  “Shhh, Lady Rashclyff … I have a shecret,” Penelope whispered back loudly. “You are shweet and I like you. The dowager ish beauutifuuul, who I also like, and she has unfortuna … unfortu-nate-ly spawned a handsome and rude and mean and other bad stuff …err …,” She straightened and pointed at the duke, “You, I don’t like you, and sadly I am seeing three of you.”

  “Please hush, Miss Fairweather,” Lady Radclyff begged.

  “Aye, aye, picaroon!” Penelope screeched.

  Lady Radclyff winced, slapping her hands around her ears.

  Penelope laughed and twirled on her chair, “Oh, Lady Bathsheba, I left you with Mary, but you missed me and you came.”

  Everyone turned to stare at the door where the goat now stood looking bored. Mary rushed in looking apologetic and tried to take the animal away.

  “Nooo, Mary, you cannot take her away … Lady Bathsheba,” Penelope wailed and fell off her chair.

  The duke didn’t even attempt to catch her. Lady Radclyff halted the fall but not completely.

  Penelope lay sprawled on the ground completely passed out.

  A deathly silence fell in the room.

  Sir Henry finally looked at the duke and asked, “I knew we were having trouble with the chef, but to send our dinner uncooked and alive and kicking is truly disgraceful.”

  The duke stared at his grandfather in confusion.

  “The mutton, it wasn’t cooked.”

  “Charles, carry Penelope to her room,” the dowager quickly intervened. “You will do as I say,” she added, noting the duke’s expression.

  The duke nodded and unceremoniously grabbed Penelope around her waist, flung her over his shoulder and strode out.

  Sir Henry, for once, allowed his daughter and grandchildren to leave the dinner table early. He watched them depart, twirling his fluffy white moustache thoughtfully.

  Chapter 6

  Lady Radclyff started laughing.

  The dowager glared at her, gesturing towards Penelope who was asleep on the bed.

  “Mother,” Lady Radclyff giggled. “She arrived this afternoon and has managed to annoy Charles, scare Sir Henry, horrify you and entertain me. And I cannot believe she is a drunk. This is splendid. Oh, I wish the season would begin. Imagine us letting her loose in a ballroom. She will destroy the place faster than a real live Bengal tiger.”

  The dowager frowned disapprovingly at her daughter.

  Lady Radclyff sobered, not because of her mother’s scathing glare, but as a new tentacle of thought wriggled its way into her pleasant daydreams.

  “Will she have to go back to Finnshire? Charles will never agree to keep her now, and Grandfather, why, if he sees her at dinner again, he might throw a fit or in despair drown in the turtle soup,” she slumped in disappointment.

  The dowager glanced at Penelope, a deceptively harmless looking bundle smiling away in her dreams. Next she looked at her daughter, who had adopted the pose of a tragic queen about to see her lover slain on the battle field. She sighed and said, “I don’t understand her. She is incredibly naive, yet I see intelligence lurking behind those big brown eyes. Initially, I thought she was shy and her insecurity made her babble, but then she launched into that tale describing her brave encounter with the highwayman. It rattled me. Is she a confident woman, a neglected young girl or—”

  “She is mad, Mamma. Loony, barmy, batty … completely and utterly daft. Just before dinner she told me that she had been talking to her dead mother. Besides, I caught her whispering to that goat and not loving little coo’s, mind you, but having an adult conversation … with a goat.”

  The dowager, instead of being alarmed, looked at Penelope pityingly. “Perhaps the letters Gertrude wrote to me swearing her love for the child were complete falsehood. It is possible that Miss Fairweather has been shamefully neglected and to such an extent that she has had to turn to inanimate objects and animals to keep her spirits up. And the girl has spirit and courage; a whole lot of it. I should have kept a better watch on the girl. I have been remiss in my promise to her mother. It is not too late. I will do what I can. We have to keep her.”

  “Pfft,” Lady Radclyff snorted. “Easy for you to say, Mamma. How will we convince the big, arrogant jungle beast that is my brother? And Grandfather would rather shave of his fluffy moustache than agree to keep an escapee from Bedlam.”

  “My dear, how have you failed to notice that in all the
se years everything has gone according to my plans? Not my son’s or my father’s. Oh, they believe they are the ones in in charge, but a lesson to you, Anne, is that a man, however much he lives under the illusion, is never in control. A woman holds the whip that slaps the horse’s rump, my dear. And here is another lesson for you to chew on. Men are like barrels of wine in Sir Hammersmith’s basement. Strong, sturdy and inviting on the outside, whereas on the inside completely empty.”

  They had no more time to dwell on the buffoonery of men for the glowering head of the duke appeared at the bedroom door.

  The duke paused at the door, caught by the sight of sleeping Penelope. Her small face was peeking out from under the thick quilt and her long lashes cast shadows on her soft flushed cheeks.

  He forced his eyes away from her and addressed his sister, “Anne, she was pickled at the dinner table. On her first day in London. How can you expect me to overlook that? I can forgive her for pinching my ear, even for wearing that … that pink abomination and almost breaking her neck, but getting foxed and insulting me under my own roof is unforgivable. I am sorry, Anne, even if I do relent, Grandfather will not.”

  The dowager spoke before Lay Radclyff could reply, “Charles, she had a hard day. The girl left home for the first time in her life. She was almost robbed by a highwayman on the way here, and then you dismissed her so rudely. You are a duke and she is a mere country girl. Think how your hostile behaviour must have frightened her. We should give her another chance. We hardly know her.”

  “You must convince Grandfather, Charles,” Lady Radclyff added. “She didn’t realise the wine was not watered. The poor, poor dear was terrified in spite of her show of confidence. I saw her hands tremble … and Mamma made a promise to Miss Fairweather’s mother. Think of Mamma’s honour, Charles. You have to let her stay.”

  “Her kind does not belong here and mother knows better. She should have never issued the invitation in the first place,” the duke snapped.

  “Her kind?” the dowager said frowning. “You have always treated everyone equally. I never thought you considered yourself superior to others simply due to your title?”