“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 least 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 Anne, 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 Anne,” 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 Anne 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 Anne, 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 Anne 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 Anne tucked her hand under Penelope’s arm. “I asked him and he refused.”
Penelope gasped, and Lady Anne 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 Anne 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 Anne 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 Anne’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 Anne 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.
“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 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, 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 Anne 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 the 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 s
tep 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 Anne, 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 Anne 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.”
Love Regency Style Page 319
