by M. C. Beaton
“Mr. Baxter,” she said firmly, “when we find Penelope Mortimer, we shall see that justice is done. In the meantime, we must help these girls in Highgate. You have all that jewelry. It must be sold, and a trust must be set up.”
“Oh, excellent woman,” cried Mr. Baxter.
“So just get out there again and tell ’em I’ll be running your charity,” said the duchess.
Mr. Baxter strode out onto the terrace and held up his hands. The duchess stood by the side of the window and watched Maria Blenkinsop’s face and saw it slowly assume a pinched and withered look.
The Duchess of Parkworth had never felt quite so happy in all her life.
Lord Andrew awoke about the middle of the afternoon. For one brief moment he did not know where he was, but then memory came flooding back—Penelope, the wedding, the row. He closed his eyes again. He wished now he had not been so angry with her. But somehow, he knew it now, he was bitterly ashamed of himself for having rushed her into that grubby wedding. What sort of man was he that he could not even wait for a special license? He should not have taken his self-disgust out on her.
He opened his eyes again and twisted over on his back and looked about the room. All sorts of facts tumbled into his brain. Her imperial was gone, her toilet things were gone, and there was a letter for him on the desk. He could just make out his name under that little pile of torn paper.
He got up and went over to the desk. He was about to brush aside the scraps of paper when he saw they were the remains of their marriage certificate. He slowly crackled open the letter. It was very simple and to the point. Penelope had prevailed on the preacher to cancel the marriage. He would, she had written, find out it was all for the best. She had borrowed five pounds and would return it to him as soon as she could. He would soon find the sort of woman he wanted, compliant and obedient. Their characters were not compatible. He was free.
Free! He stood looking blindly at the letter. He did not feel free. He felt weighted down with chains of misery and guilt.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the letter in his hand. He sat there for quite a long time. The sun went down, the landlord announced dinner and then supper, and still he sat there, unmoving.
At last he decided it was all really very simple. He wanted Penelope Mortimer—for life.
He jumped to his feet, ran out of the bedroom, clattered down the inn stairs, and sprinted across the courtyard. Now, where was that church!
Penelope awoke to another splendid day. She almost wished it were raining. Rain would match her mood. She climbed out of bed and shivered. If the cottage was this cold in some of the best weather England had had in years, what on earth was it going to be like in the winter?
She washed and dressed and tried to eat breakfast, but the bread stuck in her throat and the tea tasted dusty and old. She decided hard work was the only cure for her miseries. She collected a spade and went out to the back garden. It was fairly large, consisting of some fruit bushes, badly in need of pruning, and an expanse of weedy lawn. “All this space going to waste,” marveled Penelope. She may as well start digging a bed for vegetables.
The sun was hot and the work was hard. She finally stood upright to ease her back and looked ruefully at the beginnings of calluses on her hands. She should have worn gloves. What man would ever want to hold hands with her now?
Penelope reminded herself severely that she had forsworn all men.
Lord Andrew Childe, having found the front door open, had simply walked through the house and out into the garden at the back.
Penelope was wearing an old, much-washed blue cotton gown of old-fashioned cut, which meant the waist was where waists were supposed to be and not up under her armpits. He thought she had never looked more beautiful or more dear.
“Good day, madam wife,” he said.
Penelope turned round. “You should not have come,” she said quietly. “It would not answer. You must see that. We are not at all suited.”
“If we are not suited,” he said huskily, “then why do I feel so ill and wretched?”
“You will find it is not love,” said Penelope, striving to keep her voice steady. “We should quarrel the whole time.”
“And make up. I would rather quarrel with you, my sweet, then live placidly with anyone else in the whole wide world.”
“Now look what you have done,” wailed Penelope. “Y-you h-have m-made me cry.”
He walked forward and put his arms about her and held her close.
Penelope pulled away, took a handkerchief out of her pocket, and blew her nose. “Someone will see us.”
He looked around the garden, which was bordered by an impenetrable thorn hedge, and smiled. He put his hands on her waist. “No one will see us,” he said, “and even if they did, what does it matter? We are man and wife.”
“Not now. I told you I canceled the wedding.”
“And I uncanceled it,” he said, holding up a marriage certificate. “The unfortunate Mr. Ponsonby didn’t know whether he was coming or going.”
“But you hated being married. I saw it on your face as we left the church.”
“I was disgusted with myself. I was greedy for you and rushed you into a sordid, hurried marriage. But I do not only want you in my bed, I want you at my side, I want you to argue with me and irritate me and love me.”
“Oh, Andrew, I think that’s about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. But you must not take all the blame. I wanted you very badly as well.”
“But we are not animals,” he said, stroking her hair. “We can wait for a proper marriage.”
“Oh, yes, I do want to be married to you,” cried Penelope. “I am so miserable without you.”
She turned her lips confidingly up to his. He kissed her very gently and with great tenderness and respect. He was so proud of the cool restraint of his emotions that he kissed her again. But this time her lips clung to his so sweetly that he felt that awful roaring black passion engulfing him again. Then Penelope began to strain against him and moan in the back of her throat. “Let me take my coat off,” he panted. “Just my coat. It is so hot. There! Kiss me again.”
But the next kiss had him shaking with desire. “Faith, the sun is scorching. Pray let me remove my waistcoat. It is so tight. And this cravat is devilishly starched.” Garments flew about the grass. They sank down onto the ground clutching each other.
“But we will wait,” he said, making a heroic effort to control himself. “Won’t we, Penelope?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Penelope languorously. And then she bit the lobe of his ear.
If passion could be compared to the waves of the sea, then a whole Atlantic poured into that garden and swept them away. There was one brief moment when Penelope’s eyes dilated, when she remembered the whispers of the village girls, but the instinctive knowledge that the pain of lack of fulfillment would be sharper than any pain he could administer drove her on.
Lord Andrew slowly came to his senses. The hot sun was caressing his naked back. The naked body under his lay lax and peaceful.
“Oh, Penelope,” he said ruefully, “I did not mean it to be like this. I have had such a rigid control over my feelings for so long, I cannot understand why I cannot control them now.”
“Perhaps this is love,” said Penelope.
“Of course it is love. I love and respect you. It is not only your delectable body I want…. What are you doing?”
“I am only making myself comfortable,” said Penelope, moving her limbs. “You are heavy.”
“Then I shall rise,” he said, without moving.
“Yes, we must be sensible and make plans,” said Penelope. “But before we become sensible, you might at least kiss me again.”
It was late afternoon by the time Penelope locked up her cottage and allowed her husband to help her into his curricle. The dazed look in her eyes had nothing to do with longsightedness, and her lips were swollen. Lord Andrew picked up the reins, leaned over to kiss her, and let out a yel
p of pain.
“What is it?” asked Penelope.
“Sunburn,” he said ruefully. “My poor back is blistered.”
Penelope began to giggle, and she was still giggling as they drove off into the gathering dusk.
They took two weeks to reach London. They lingered at various pretty inns on the way. But as they approached the outskirts of London, Lord Andrew became possessed of a desire to have his parents’ blessing. Penelope privately thought it most odd of him, but refrained from saying so. Evidently Lord Andrew had not yet come to the realization that he was better off without the duke and duchess anywhere in his life. He and Penelope had learned of Miss Worthy’s forthcoming marriage on the road. Lord Andrew was relieved, but Penelope knew that the news must have driven the duchess into another passion.
She tried to remonstrate, suggesting they should at least put up at a London hotel, when Lord Andrew announced his intention of driving straight to Park Street.
“No, my love,” he said with a certain mulishness he had inherited from his parents. “My clothes and valet are still there. I am puzzled by my parents, but not frightened of them.”
“Well,” said Penelope candidly, “they frighten me to death. After all, they did try to kidnap me.”
“They don’t like being crossed,” he said, which Penelope thought was a singularly mild way of putting it, but she held her peace. She was so happy that most things did not seem to matter very much.
The duke was crossing the hall, wrapped in his banyan, as his son and new bride made their entrance. “Oh, it’s you, Andrew,” he said mildly. Then he flapped his newspaper in Penelope’s direction. “Not the thing to bring her to the family home, dear boy. Little seminary in Bath is just the place to unload her.”
“May I present my wife, Father.”
“So that damned Methodist forced you into it,” said the duke with a shrug. “How lily-livered you young people are. Now, if I had allowed every damned Methody to force me into marriage every time I’d had my bit of fun, I would have had a harem like the Grand Turk. If you want your mother, she’s in the library with the black beetle.”
“I insist you treat my wife with every courtesy,” said Lord Andrew.
“Haven’t I just?” said the duke, opening his eyes wide. “I’m breathing the same air as she, and that’s about as much courtesy as she deserves.”
He shuffled off, leaving Lord Andrew fuming.
“There you are,” said Penelope cheerfully. “Now I have shared the same distinguished air as that which your father breathes, we can leave.”
“No we can’t. Come along.” He pulled her towards the library.
The duchess and Mr. Baxter were studying a chart pinned on the wall. It carried the names of various charities with the sums due to be allotted to each written underneath.
“Oh, Andrew,” said the duchess, catching sight of him. “How tedious! You would have to go and bring that creature here, and I have too much to do to arrange a wedding.”
“Sinners!” cried Mr. Baxter.
“We are married,” said Lord Andrew crossly.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said the duchess. “For you caused such an unnecessary scandal, you know. Mr. Baxter learned from Mr. Jepps of your carryings-on at some hedge tavern, and it hurt his sensitive conscience. But if you are married, then there’s an end of it.”
“The sinners have been brought to repentance,” cried Mr. Baxter. “Let us pray.”
Lord Andrew and Penelope looked in amazement as the duchess and Mr. Baxter fell on their knees.
He drew her out of the room. “I do not know what is going on here, Penelope,” said Lord Andrew, “but your idea of lodgings in a hotel sounds perfectly sensible now. Ah, here is Pomfret. Pomfret, why is Her Grace in such a fit of religious fervor?”
“This Mr. Baxter was apprised by Mr. Jepps of your lordships’… er…”
“This is my wife, Pomfret.”
“Ah, delighted to serve your ladyship with the same devotion as I serve the master. Well, Mr. Baxter is society’s latest craze. The more he tells them they are infidels and worms, the more they love him. They claim they have not been so beautifully insulted since Mr. Brummell fled to France. Her Grace scored a victory over Mrs. Blenkinsop by electing to run several charities for Mr. Baxter. She has several hundred protégées in various workhouses and orphanages.”
“Pomfret, my wife and I do not wish to reside here. We will walk in the park and take the air while you find a suitable hotel.”
“Certainly, my lord,” said Pomfret with heartfelt gratitude.
“And engage a lady’s maid for my wife.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And arrange a marriage. I want to get married again.”
“My lord, I am honored you should entrust me with such responsibility.”
Penelope was relieved when the door of the ducal home in Park Street closed behind her. Apart from saying mildly that he had a good mind to go to Mr. Jepp’s lodgings, see if he was home, and punch his head, Lord Andrew did not appear in the least disturbed by the interviews with his unnatural parents.
They walked sedately in the park, arm in arm, still too much in love to notice the odd looks they were attracting from various members of society.
“How lucky I am,” sighed Penelope. “Poor Miss Worthy. Imagine settling for a deaf duke when she could have had you.”
“Miss Worthy is not a romantic,” said Lord Andrew. “Nothing exciting will ever happen to her. She will continue to lead a dull and uneventful life with her dull duke.”
Unknown to them, in another part of the park, Miss Worthy was walking along with her maid two paces behind her. Miss Worthy was not feeling very well. She had just spent an agonizing hour with her fiancé, and her throat was sore from shouting. Harford had announced his intention of settling permanently in the country, and the horrified Miss Worthy had protested vehemently, but the more she shouted, the deafer the duke seemed to become. Miss Worthy did not like the country. It was too full of disorganized trees, and grass, and animals who did not respect the conventions.
A traveling carriage drew up alongside her, and a gentleman poked his head out of the window and called to the driver to stop.
“Mr. Jepps!” screamed Miss Worthy.
“I must talk to you privately,” he said, holding open the carriage door.
“Very well,” said Miss Worthy curiously. She told her maid to wait and climbed into the carriage beside Mr. Jepps. To her surprise, he lifted the trap with his cane and told his coachman to “Spring ’em.”
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Jepps?” cried Miss Worthy. “Where are you taking me?”
“Gretna,” said Mr. Jepps. “You are going to marry me and no one else, Miss Worthy.”
She argued and pleaded at length to be put down. Mr. Jepps occasionally interrupted her to kiss her. Her protests gradually grew weaker, and as they rattled out of London, her head was sunk on his breast. It was so much easier to do what Mr. Jepps wanted. And what a scandal she would cause! First engaged to The Perfect Gentleman, then jilting him for a duke, and then rushing off to Gretna with Mr. Jepps. A satisfied smile curled Miss Worthy’s thin mouth. All these men after her! It was proof of what she had always known about herself. She was irresistible!
Lord Andrew was content. Pomfret had engaged a suite of rooms in a luxurious hotel. Penelope had been shocked to find out that he had asked Pomfret to fetch all the clothes the duchess had given her from Park Street. But Lord Andrew had pointed out it would save her a great deal of time at the dressmakers and that he himself would pay his mother for the cost of them. He had followed that by saying that Penelope might wear her spectacles when they were alone as there was really nothing she could do now that would make him love her less. It was rather a backhanded way of putting it, but Penelope gratefully put on her glasses and had all the joy of being able to see her handsome husband clearly.
They had finished dinner and were lazily looking forward to be
d when Lord Andrew said seriously, “It’s odd, but I would have liked my parents’ blessing. I fear I am old-fashioned. Still, they will come about in time, I am sure.”
Penelope thought of his parents with a shudder. She was sure they would not.
“Especially when we make them into grandparents,” he added dreamily.
“Neither your mother or your father is being allowed anywhere near a child of mine, Andrew.”
“My child, too.”
“Your crazy mother is not going to come within a mile of my children,” said Penelope, her eyes flashing.
“My sweet, you will obey me. I am your husband.”
“That does not give you the right to make stupid mistakes. Your parents would be a bad influence. My children might grow up as warped as you.”
“You have no say in the matter. You are my wife.”
“And you are a hidebound, Gothic, pompous fool. How dare you order me around?”
The couple glared at each other.
Penelope’s face softened. “Oh, Andrew. Can you see your mother dandling a babe on her knee? She would most likely tire of it and drop it on its head.”
He gave a reluctant laugh. “Are you always to have the best of it, Penelope? Are you ever going to say, ‘Yes, Andrew’?”
“All you have to do is ask something reasonable.”
“Penelope, my wife, will you come to bed with me and let me kiss you all night?”
Penelope dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lord. Most certainly.”
He swept her up in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom.
A Look At:
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M.C. Beaton and Marion Chesney
About the Author
