by Nina Mason
Without further argument or delay, the butler showed Rollo to the banquet hall at the center of the house, to which he was admitted unannounced. Over the din of clinking silverware and gay conversation, nobody heard him come in. So, he stood in the shadows, voyeuristically observing the scene before him.
There were seven people around the long walnut table. At the head sat Mr. Pembroke, with his wife on his right. Penelope sat to her father’s left with Frank on her left, confirming Rollo’s suspicions that that back-stabbing scoundrel was indeed pressing his suit with her.
Feelings of rage and betrayal churned in his gut as he took in the other guests. At the foot of the table sat an elderly lady he recognized as Penelope’s maiden aunt, who always fancied herself ill. On the near side of the table, with their backs to him, was an older couple he couldn’t identify.
Rollo returned his gaze to Penelope, feasting on her beauty while willing her to look at him. Her expression, when she saw him, would tell him all he needed to know. Vexingly, she took a sip of wine without raising her eyes.
Mr. Pembroke, who’d clearly overindulged, leaned forward and said to Frank, “If I were you, I’d marry her tomorrow, in case she changes her mind.”
His words raised Rollo’s quills. Marry her? Judas God. Had things between Penelope and Frank progressed that far?
Frank’s reply gave him the answer he dreaded: “For my part, I would heed your advice, but it is your daughter’s day as well as mine, sir, and far be it from me to begin our life together by disappointing her hopes for a Christmas wedding.” Directing himself to Penelope, Frank added, “Besides, you won’t change your mind, will you, my pet? Not when you have given me your promise … and signed a legally binding contract to secure it.”
“Yes, yes, but what if …”
Before Mr. Pembroke could finish the thought, his wife, fiddling nervously with the jewel around her neck, said, “Do not encourage him to hurry things, my dear, for three weeks is little enough time to make the preparations.”
“What did she say?” asked the aunt at the end of the table, one withered hand cupped to her ear.
Ignoring her, the gentleman with his back to Rollo said, “Well, there it is. I suppose we must be patient since the bridegroom is ready to be.”
Lifting his half-empty wine glass, Mr. Pembroke cleared his throat. “Well, I might not be able to persuade, but I can certainly offer a toast. Here’s to the happy couple! May they know great joy in their union?”
To all of this Rollo listened with rising horror. Not only was Frank courting his Sweet Pea, they were already betrothed! Worse still, they were planning to marry as early as Christmas Day!
Oh, Sweet Pea. How could you forsake me?—and with Frank of all people.
“Dear Papa,” Penelope interjected, “you’ve toasted us three times already tonight. Is that not sufficient?”
“Hold your tongue and lift your glass,” her mother said sharply. “I’ll not have you spoil the party with your protests, daughter. For I have heard enough of them from you down the years to last me a lifetime.”
Penelope was silenced by her mother’s reproach and, as the glasses clinked together, a vaguely familiar footman came in with a tray loaded with apple tarts, plum pudding, and assorted jellies. Upon discovering Rollo lurking in the shadows, he dropped the tray with a clatter loud enough to wake the dead, crying, “Upon my soul! If it ain’t the ghost of Rollo Gillingham, right here in the banquet hall!”
When Rollo stepped into the candlelight, one after another of those around the table uttered words of surprise.
Penelope, pale with shock, rose slowly to her feet. “Rollo, is it really you?”
“Yes, Sweet Pea. It’s really me, still very much alive, as you see.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Pembroke, swilling more wine, “I’ll say this for you, Gillingham. You certainly know how to make an entrance. And how lucky for us all you’ve come back just in time to attend our daughter’s wedding. I’m sure she’d be delighted if you came, assuming you have a mind to do so.”
Penelope took her seat and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “Oh, Rollo,” she said through her sobs. “If you’d only come a few months ago, everything would be different.”
As he started toward her, Frank jumped to his feet and came quickly around the table. Grasping Rollo’s hand, he gave it a vigorous shake as he said, “It’s good to see you’re still alive, Gillingham. And yes, yes indeed. You must come to our wedding. Of course you must. By all means.”
Extracting his hand from the bounder’s grasp, Rollo endeavored to meet Penelope’s gaze, but was dismayed to find her weeping into a napkin. He moved toward her, not entirely sure what he might communicate to her in front of all these people.
Before he could say anything, Mrs. Pembroke said, “Penelope, be a dear and fetch me my shawl from upstairs. I feel a terrible draft.”
“Yes, Mama.” Dabbing her eyes, Penelope rose from her chair and exited the room, leaving Rollo alone to face the lions.
When she was well out of earshot, her mother said to him snidely, “When I heard someone had purchased Hollywell Abbey, I had a feeling it was you, returning to make more trouble for my daughter.”
“I’ve not come back to cause trouble, Mrs. Pembroke,” he said in earnest. “I’ve returned to keep my promise to her.”
“I read about your uncle’s death in the London papers,” Frank interjected. “Is that why you’ve returned at this time? Because you’ve finally come into your inheritance?”
“It is,” Rollo said through his fury, “and no doubt the reason you told her I was dead. Do you deny that you did it?”
“I have no wish to deny it,” Frank returned smugly. “For all is fair in love and war, is it not?”
“Remember that when I win her back,” Rollo told him as he turned to exit the room.
In the hallway, he met Penelope coming back with her mother’s wrap. He stopped, wanting an explanation … or assurances … or some shred of hope to hold onto. He searched her eyes, afraid of what he’d find there and of what he wouldn’t. Did she still love him? Did she still want him?
Of course she did. She must. For theirs was the kind of love that never faltered. Without planning to, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. She didn’t fight him, which he interpreted as a positive sign. “Come away with me to Scotland,” he said, holding her close. “Tonight. Come away and marry me. I have money now and …”
Too overwrought to continue, he let his voice trail off.
She sobbed into the lapel of his coat. “Oh, Rollo, if only you’d come sooner.”
Footsteps moving toward them kept him from saying the things he wanted to say. He let her go just as Frank came into view.
Frank gave him a smile that was at once friendly and threatening. “I hope you’re not contriving to steal my betrothed.”
“A man cannot steal that which was first stolen from him,” Rollo returned with undisguised spite. “He is merely recovering his property.”
“True enough,” Frank agreed, “though the thief, I am sure, will go to great lengths to protect his plunder.”
Penelope’s eyes flashed and her face reddened as she looked from one of them to the other. “Plunder? Property? Is that all I am to you both? A trophy to be fought over by rivals?”
“No, Sweet Pea,” Rollo assured her most sincerely. “You are and always will be everything to me.”
Rollo moved toward the entrance hall, where Saunders stood waiting with his coat, hat, and muffler. As he put them on, he said goodnight as cordially as he could manage. When he opened the door, the wind blew in the cold and a few flakes of snow. As he went out, Penelope grabbed a lantern and followed, saying to Frank, “I’ll just see him to his horse.”
Rollo knew he should object. It was freezing out and she wore only a thin shawl over her crepe evening gown—but, at this moment, his desire to be alone with her overshadowed his concern for her health.
As they wa
lked to the gelding, her hand guarding the flame from the wind, she said in a cloud of vapor, “I’m so happy you’re back, Rollo. I’d feared … we’d all feared …” As her voice trailed off, she burst into tears. “Oh, Rollo. What can you think of me?”
“Ten years is a long time to wait,” was all he could manage to say.
Much as he wanted to speak of his feelings—and discover what hers might be—he could not keep her out of doors too long. Besides, his throat only grew thicker with each crunching step they took toward the hitching post. “You will ruin your slippers … or perhaps catch a cold.”
“I don’t care.”
He looked at her, but it was too dark to read her expression. “Don’t you?”
“Not about my slippers,” she answered.
He took her reply as encouragement. “Will you meet me tomorrow, so we can talk?”
“Of course,” she said. “There is much we need to say to each other. But let us delay until Frank is gone.”
Hope lit a flame in his heart. “Frank is going somewhere?”
“To London, until Christmas Eve. He has urgent business there that cannot be delayed.”
Rollo could guess what the business was, but held his tongue. It was dishonorable to air another gentleman’s dirty laundry, even if the gentleman deserved to be disgraced.
They had reached his horse. Before climbing into the saddle, he stood there a moment desperately wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her with all the passion he’d dreamed of expressing when they were at last reunited.
Throwing a glance toward the house, he saw Frank’s silhouette at the window. Knowing he watched them only made Rollo want to kiss her more. He refrained, however, fearing her reaction. He was on the verge of an emotional breakdown and didn’t think he could bear her overt rejection.
He took her icy hand between his warmer ones and squeezed gently. “You’re freezing, Sweet Pea. Please go back inside before you catch your death.”
Mounting his horse, he started back through the dark, frigid night toward the inn with a heart as cold and numb as a frostbitten finger.
Chapter Four
Upon returning to the house, Penelope was summoned to the withdrawing room to face a tribunal. Her mother, looking at her askance from the brocade settee near the imposing oak chimneypiece, was the first to speak. “I do hope you know Mr. Gillingham’s return changes nothing, my dear. For you have made us all a promise we expect you to honor.”
The ache in Penelope’s heart became a stabbing pain. “But—”
Her mother raised a silencing hand. “I will brook no arguments, young lady. Your father and I have indulged your romantic fancies long enough. You shall marry Mr. Blackmore as planned or never see your loving parents again.”
Loving? Forcing her to choose between love and their approval wasn’t love, it was blackmail. Penelope looked to her father, hoping he might come to her defense. To her crushing disappointment, he just sat there, passively supporting his wife.
Did she really expect him to act differently? Before she reached puberty, he’d doted on his daughter. Now, he mostly ignored her. And why should he not? Daughters, after all, were merely chattel, to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Frank sprang to his feet, hurried toward her, and took both her hands in his. “Oh, Penelope, dearest. Surely you wouldn’t break your pledge to me so close to our nuptials. For doing so would not only gravely injure me, but would bring scandal down around all of our heads as well.”
Penelope withdrew her hands from his and stepped away. Fingering the cameo Rollo had given her, she looked around at the room’s unchanging furnishings. The gold settee, the shield-back chairs, the pianoforte upon which she’d learned to play, and the ormolu clock on the mantle shelf were all where they’d always been.
It was as if the room was frozen in time—just as she had been since the age of eighteen. She’d waited ten years for Rollo’s return. Ten years without a single word to reassure her he meant to keep his promise. Yes, she loved him. More than she could say. But she must be practical. What if he left her? What if he died? She would have no one to turn to, no one to look after her, and no means of support. What would become of her then?
She thought of Susan Morrison with a pang of fear. Even if Penelope did not sink as low as Susan, she might very well end up like the widow Springfield, whose late husband’s estate had been entailed away from the female line. With the pittance he left her to live on, the dear lady could not even afford to buy sugar or tea, let alone new clothes. Once the mistress of a grand house, the poor woman ended her days completely dependent upon the charity of her neighbors.
No, she must be practical. She must not burn her bridges. Her parents were right. Her notions about marriage were romantic and fanciful. The heart was irrational and mercurial. Love and passion could fade in an instant. The proof of that lay in how many married people had affairs. Only a fool would allow such a fickle organ to rule her head. And she was not a fool.
No, better to use her head. For had not love and imprudence led scores of fine ladies to their dooms?
Yes, it had.
Moreover, she must not forget how long Rollo kept her waiting. Did he really deserve her trust and loyalty? No, he did not. And trust and loyalty were the two most basic ingredients in the recipe for a good marriage. They were the flour and eggs in the cake, while love was merely the icing on top.
Resisting Rollo wouldn’t be easy. Especially when he was even more dashing than he’d been at eighteen. Seeing him tonight had confirmed how sincerely attached to him she still was. When he’d asked her to run away with him to Scotland, she’d been sorely tempted to accept.
Part of her—the irrational, emotional, romantic part—rather wished she had. And it was that part, in the end, that kept her from renewing her promise to Frank right away. “I need to sleep on it,” she told him and both their parents before bedraggedly climbing the stairs to her bedchamber.
There, as expected, she found Anna waiting to help her prepare for bed. Taking her seat at the dressing table, Penelope watched in the mirror as the maid pulled the pins from her hair.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” Anna asked, seemingly oblivious to what had transpired downstairs.
The tears Penelope had bitten back since dinner began to roll down her cheeks. “Oh, Anna. What am I to do? Mr. Gillingham has returned at last and Mama and Papa are insisting I keep my promise to Mr. Blackmore.”
An expression of shock registered on the maid’s youthful features. “You cannot be serious—and, if you are, the best I can say is the man has poor timing.”
“Yes. Very poor indeed.” Taking a fresh handkerchief from the stack on her dressing table, Penelope dabbed at her eyes. “Can you believe he showed up in the middle of my engagement party?”
“Merciful heavens,” Anna exclaimed. “That must have caused quite the commotion.”
“It certainly caused a commotion in my heart—a commotion, I fear, that shall plague me for the rest of my days!”
“There, there.” Anna patted her shoulder. “Don’t distress yourself so. I am quite convinced it will all work out for the best in the end.”
Penelope heaved a sigh. “Best for whom?”
Having removed all the pins, the maid began to brush out Penelope’s hair in long, even strokes. “Your parents only want what is best for you.”
In the looking glass, Penelope eyed the servant warily. “You sound as if you are on their side.”
Anna stopped brushing. “I’m not on anybody’s side.”
“Well you should be on mine,” Penelope said crossly, “for are we not bosom friends?”
Anna, the daughter of a local farmer, had been Penelope’s abigail since she was old enough to require the services of a lady’s maid. Though the girl would never be her equal, she had grown over the years into Penelope’s closest friend and confidant. She told the maid all her secrets and trusted her to keep them.
“We are friends, y
es, but your parents are still my employers,” Anna said. “Besides, I’m not sure I disagree with them. While Mr. Blackmore might not make your heart go pitter-patter, he is handsome and wealthy and has an agreeable temper, which is more than can be said for most men.”
“True, and yet it can be said for Mr. Gillingham. He told me tonight he has come into some money. And you of all people should know how deeply devoted I am to him.”
Anna resumed brushing her hair. “To your own detriment, I daresay.”
Penelope released a heavy sigh. “I fear you may be right.”
“Do not forget how long he kept you waiting,” the maid reminded her, “or that you squandered the best years of your life on a man who never once reassured you of his constancy.”
“I have not forgotten,” Penelope said glumly. “And have almost made up my mind to keep my promise to Mr. Blackmore. But only almost. For I feel it would be unfair to judge Mr. Gillingham too harshly before I know the circumstances that prevented him from writing.”
“He’s been gone ten years, Miss Penelope. What excuse could he make for not having posted a single letter in all that time?”
“I don’t know … but fully intend to obtain the answer when I meet him tomorrow.” She narrowed her eyes at the maid in the looking glass. “And do not even think about trying to talk me out of going. For I am determined to keep at least that one small promise to the man I adore.”
* * * *
At dawn, Rollo set off toward Hollywell Abbey on the same gelding he’d borrowed last night. As he turned the horse up the carriage road leading to the house, resentment tightened his abdomen. His bitterness only increased when the mansion came into view.
The gardens were overrun by weeds, some of the windows were broken, and there were cracks in the Cotswold stone walls. It was as deteriorated as his family’s honor—and he meant to restore both before he returned to Derbyshire, preferably with Penelope as his wife.
At the chestnut tree, now tall enough to obscure the bowed windows behind it, he tethered the gelding and made his way up the snow-buried path to the porch. At the steps, he looked up at the icicles hanging from the ledge above. They might have been a castle’s portcullis, raised to admit an ally.
