“It will be pleasant to renew our acquaintance,” Penelope said, aware that the silence had stretched on too long. “Did Mr. Wolcott mention where he has been?”
“I believe he has been traveling abroad.”
“Then perhaps his journeys will have inspired some great works. I look forward to hearing his poetry,” Penelope said.
“Is his poetry all that you missed? You were intimate friends, at one time.”
“That was years ago, and I am certain that Mr. Wolcott has forgotten all about that,” Penelope said. He must have, or else why would he have left her so abruptly, without once sending word? She had been reduced to scanning the new arrivals at the bookstore and circulating library, looking for his poetry, for some sign that he was still alive. But there had been nothing, and for a long time she had wondered if he had met with an untimely death, perhaps a victim of illness or accident.
“You do not need to pretend with me. I know you still have feelings for him,” Harriet said. “That is why I wanted to warn you.”
“I thank you for your consideration, but I assure you there is no need for worry,” Penelope said. “We will meet as old friends, nothing more.”
Harriet eyed her suspiciously, but seemed content to let the matter rest. For now. “So, tell me, what do you think of your brother’s coming marriage?”
“I was surprised to read the announcement in the Gazette,” Penelope said, gratefully accepting the change of subject. “But I believe they are well suited for each other. James called upon me yesterday, reminding me of his brotherly regard. And letting me know how much Miss Carstairs desired my friendship.”
“A friend such as her you do not need.”
Penelope laughed. “It is not my friendship that she wants, but rather the pleasure of being able to display a duchess to her friends and acquaintances that she wishes for. Still there is no need to worry. I can deal with her pretensions.”
“And Mr. Wolcott? Can you deal with his expectations as well?”
“Of course,” Penelope said. And yet even as she said the words, she wondered if they were true.
Twelve
Reginald welcomed him warmly upon his return to Greenfields, and insisted that he tour the kennels at once, to take note of the improvements that had been made. It was not until after dinner, when the brandy glasses were out, that Reginald turned the conversation to more personal matters.
“And your wife Penelope, she is well?”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “And she seemed quite content when I left her in Edinburgh.”
“She did not wish to accompany you? To see your childhood home, or to meet your neighbors?”
He would have brought her if she had shown the slightest desire to accompany him. But she had not. She was happy to be back in her beloved city. She did not need him.
“Penelope is busy getting the town house ready,” Marcus said. “No doubt there will be time for such visits later.”
Reginald nodded, his brown eyes softening with understanding, which perversely made Marcus feel even worse.
“There is no need for pity,” Marcus said. “I am quite well satisfied with how matters have arranged themselves.”
“Of course.”
“Penelope is a good woman. In time I am certain you will call her friend, as I do,” Marcus said, driven by some perverse need to explain.
He did not want Reginald judging him. Did not want him to speculate on whatever was so lacking in Marcus’s character that he could not capture the romantic interest of a woman. For surely the fault was his, having reached the age of thirty without ever finding a woman who looked at him with passion in her eyes. At least Penelope liked him, he was certain of that much. He had her friendship and respect, and they were compatible in bed. It was more than many couples had. It would be enough to build a marriage on.
“I look forward to getting to know her,” Reginald said.
“You must come with us to the Abbey for the winter holidays,” Marcus said. Though that was months away, and surely he would find some reason to see Penelope before that time.
“And now tell me, what do you think of the Southern hounds I acquired. Shall we mix them in with the others or try training them separately?” Marcus asked.
Reginald accepted the change of subject gracefully, and there was nothing more said on the subject of Penelope for the rest of the evening.
Marcus was glad to be back at Greenfields, and he made a point of telling himself so, at least once a day. What matter that his childhood home now seemed small in comparison with the magnificence of Torringford Abbey? Or that the pursuits which had once encompassed the whole of his interests now seemed oddly flat? The problem lay not in Greenfields, but rather in himself. He had been gone for nearly three months. It was only to be expected that it would take time to acclimate himself.
Not that Greenfields had suffered in his absence. On the contrary, it seemed his absence had hardly been noted. The crops had been planted, the roads repaired after the spring floods, and Bill Ferguson, the new kennel master, had done a fine job in training the new crop of puppies. For a man who had been used to considering himself indispensable, it was a humbling experience.
Not that they hadn’t been pleased to see him. Especially Reginald, who had confided his growing attachment to a Miss Felicia Gillespie, who was visiting her cousins, the Dunnes, for the summer.
In the days that followed his return, Marcus gradually resumed his old routines. His neighbors extended warm greetings upon his return, and politely inquired as to when Penelope would be joining him. They seemed to take it for granted that she would wish to be with him, and there were nods of sympathetic understanding when he explained that Penelope was settled in their new town house in Edinburgh. Most of his friends seemed to regard his return to Greenfields as a visit, nothing more, assuming that he would naturally choose to call one of the duke’s many residences his new home. He did not bother to contradict their assumptions. He did not need to explain his comings and goings to anyone. Except, perhaps, to his wife, should Penelope ever express an interest.
As the days passed, he found his thoughts turning more and more often toward Edinburgh, and toward his absent wife. He was surprised to find that he missed her company, missed the warmth of her smile, and the shy pleasure with which she welcomed him to their bed. He found himself storing up incidents to relate to her, only to realize that she was a hundred miles away.
They exchanged letters, of course. Formal, polite missives that held only a faint echo of the intimacy they had enjoyed at the Abbey, until he began to wonder if he had imagined that interlude. Had he really found in Penelope a companion? Or had their apparent closeness been simply due to their relative isolation and lack of distraction? Did she even think of him, now that she had returned to the world she shared with her friends? Her letters were full of her doings, lectures she had attended, plays she had seen, even an account of a ball to benefit the Peninsular Veterans Aid Society. Plainly she did not regret his absence.
At least one of his efforts had borne fruit. His frank discussion with James Hastings seemed to have impressed upon that gentleman the error of his ways. Penelope had written of James’s visit to her, and his desire for reconciliation. Although Penelope did not say so directly, he sensed she was still cautious over her brother’s apparent change of heart. But publicly, at least, civility had been restored, and for that she was grateful. Of course she did not thank him, for she had no way of knowing of Marcus’s role in this. Still that was as it should be. He had intervened not because he wanted her gratitude, but rather because it was right that he should do so. He was her husband, after all.
He threw himself back into his work with even more devotion, trying to convince himself that he still belonged here at Greenfields. And he wrote her equally stilted letters in return, not wishing to burden her with the ambivalence of his own feelings. Instead he described the arrival of the new South Country puppies, and how the one she had named Princess had tu
rned out to be sweetly obedient, but far too fainthearted to be made a gun dog. He wrote of Reginald’s courtship of Miss Gillespie, the unseasonable weather, and of other such matters, as he might to a casual acquaintance. And he wondered how long it would be before he found some pretext to return to Edinburgh.
The door to his study opened, and Reginald’s face appeared. “Marcus, are you ready? Ferguson has been expecting you this past quarter hour, and it’s not good for the dogs’ discipline to keep them waiting idly.”
Marcus glanced over at the wall clock and saw to his shock that it was nearly half past ten. He had been lost in his own musings, oblivious to the time.
“I can finish this later,” Marcus said, laying the pen in its holder and recapping the inkwell. Lifting the parchment sheet in one hand, he blew on the ink softly to dry it, before placing the letter carefully in the center drawer of his desk. Then he rose.
“Another missive to the absent wife?” Reginald asked.
“A letter to McGregor, actually,” Marcus said. He had written to Penelope earlier that morning. “Among our late cousin’s interests are a mill in Lancaster and shares in a coal mine in Wales, both of which have been losing money. McGregor recommends selling off both enterprises, but I need more information before I make any decision.”
“McGregor keeps you busy,” Reginald observed. “Let us hope this tedium is soon finished with, and you can turn your attention where it belongs.”
Marcus shrugged on his coat, and followed as Reginald led the way toward the side door. “Actually there are a number of decisions still to be made regarding the inheritance, and the final details of the marriage settlement to be worked out. I may need to travel to Edinburgh for a few days within the next fortnight.”
Reginald stopped so abruptly that Marcus nearly walked into him. “Go to Edinburgh? Are you mad? The hunting season begins in two weeks. It’s no time to go to the city, no matter that you’ve spent the past weeks mooning about the place like a lovesick fool. If you miss the girl so much, send for her to join you here.”
“Perhaps one day when you yourself are married, you may presume to give me advice on how to conduct my marriage. Until then, you may keep your ill-advised opinions to yourself,” Marcus said.
Reginald turned white. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I wished only to help.”
The misery on Reginald’s face made Marcus realize that he had spoken far more harshly than he had intended. He had no right to lash out at his brother in this manner.
“It is I who must beg your pardon. Forgive my rag manners, I am not myself these days,” Marcus said, running his right hand through his hair, as he often did when thinking. “I am tired of answering the endless speculations of our neighbors, wondering when Penelope is to join me. Surely it ought to be apparent to everyone that ours is a marriage of convenience.”
“And is that what you want?” Reginald asked.
“It is what we agreed upon,” Marcus said. “And trust me, brother, I am not pining. I am well content with this state of affairs.”
“Then we will speak no more of this,” Reginald said, tactfully not pointing out that Marcus’s behavior gave lie to his assertion of contentment. Instead he changed the subject. “Come now, the dogs are waiting. I think you will be pleased with their progress, especially those from Rose’s litter.”
“Let us hope they do as well in the field as they have in the yard,” Marcus said. “And I have my doubts about this tin whistle Ferguson has introduced. We never needed it before.”
“Just wait until the dogs are in a crowded field and you will see the value of the whistle,” Reginald replied. He began enthusing about the new training program, as Marcus had known he would.
For a moment it was as if the past months had never happened. He could pretend that he was still plain Marcus Heywood, a country gentleman, who had no greater concerns than a friendly disagreement with his brother over the best way to train the new hounds. But even as they fell into their familiar wrangling, his thoughts were never far from Penelope, and the impossible dilemma that was his marriage.
Penelope found that her new life was much like her old one. True, she no longer had to keep house for her brother, but now she had her own establishment to supervise. Her afternoons and evenings were filled with the diversions that she had enjoyed before, attending concerts, lectures, and of course, her favorite literary societies.
Although the frantic whirl of the Season was over, there were still a number of social gatherings, and hostesses who were pleased to include the Duchess of Torringford among their guests. Not that she allowed such attentions to go to her head. But still, it was pleasant to make new acquaintances, and to discover among them those of a similar turn of mind, whose company she enjoyed.
But somehow, despite her greatly expanded social circle, her days seemed to be emptier than they had in the past. She threw herself into frantic activity, but still there was something missing. She did not know what it was, but she felt its loss in the quiet moments, when there was nothing to do but reflect, or to pour over the letters that Marcus had sent her, and pen her own carefully worded missives in return.
She could not explain this melancholy. Perhaps it was simply that she was not accustomed to living on her own, having spent her entire life first as a daughter and then as a sister. Or perhaps there was some other reason for her melancholy.
She tried to cheer herself by enumerating all the advantages of her new position. And indeed there were many. Marcus had been more than generous in the marriage settlements, and provided her with an extremely generous allowance as well. Not only could she indulge herself in the latest novels fresh from the presses, but she could also make material contributions to those societies and causes that she favored. Seeing her name on the list of benefactors of the Royal Astronomical Society gave her a real sense of satisfaction, and made her realize once again how indebted she was to Marcus. Indeed his absence was the only cloud on the horizon of her new happiness, and she found herself counting the days until she could expect to see him.
“Our own theater productions are every bit as fine as what one could see in London. Indeed, I found myself so enthralled that I was surprised when the lights came up at the end of the second act,” Lady Whilton declared.
“The actors are very fine,” Penelope agreed diplomatically. Never having been to London herself, she could not speak knowledgeably on the difference between the London and Scottish theaters. But it had been kind of Lady Whilton to invite Penelope to join her party, and the production of Othello, while not mesmerizing, was a pleasant diversion.
In addition to Penelope, the guests consisted of Lady Whilton’s parents, Sir Archibald and Lady Harvey, along with Mr. Ian MacLeod. Lord Whilton was expected to join them for supper after the theater.
“I find the London theaters to be far superior,” Sir Archibald Harvey said. “Which is only to be expected, as the city draws the finest actors in the realm.”
“It is not the theaters that make London, it is the shopping,” Lady Harvey said. “Next Season you really must go to London, Your Grace. You must insist that your husband bring you, when he goes to sit at Parliament.”
Penelope blinked. She had not thought of this, but of course, as a duke Marcus would be expected to take his seat at the next session of Parliament. And if he was to be in London, perhaps he would not mind if she joined him there.
“I shall see,” Penelope said. “There are many months between now and then.”
“And, of course by then you may have reasons of your own for wishing to stay close to home. London will wait, but family will not,” Lady Harvey said with a knowing smile.
Penelope blushed. Did Lady Harvey somehow know what Penelope herself was only beginning to suspect? Was there some physical sign of her condition, something that Lady Harvey’s experience as a mother and a grandmother enabled her to read? Or was this a coincidence, based on the assumption that like any new bride Penelope would be expected to
do her duty, and to provide her husband with an heir?
The door to their box opened, saving her from having to make any kind of reply. Penelope began to exchange polite greetings with their visitors, allowing Lady Whilton to introduce her to several of her friends. The box became quite crowded, and she was deep in conversation with Mrs. Anne Lawton, when she looked up to see a gentleman making a deep bow to her.
“I know it has been some years, but may I hope that you still remember me?” the gentleman asked with a smile. He took her hand in his, and raised it to his lips for a kiss.
Penelope shivered. He had changed since she had last seen him, but she would have known him anywhere. “Of course I remember you,” she said.
She waited until he released her hand before turning to Lady Whilton. “Lady Whilton, may I present Mr. Stephen Wolcott, an old acquaintance? Edinburgh lost itself a poet of some note when he decided to leave our city.”
Mr. Wolcott bowed over Lady Whilton’s hand, though not as deeply as he had over Penelope’s. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Whilton,” he said. “Any friend of Lady Torringford’s must be counted a friend of mine.”
“And what brings you back to our fair city?” Lady Whilton asked.
“The charming company, of course,” Mr. Wolcott replied. “I have spent some years traveling the continent, only to realize that true beauty was to be found at home. And so I have returned, older and wiser, and able to appreciate all that I had left behind.”
His words were directed at Lady Whilton, but Penelope knew that he was speaking to her. For her part, she could not take her eyes off him. Her heart was beating faster and her palms began to sweat. It was ridiculous. She was a married woman now. She had not seen Stephen Wolcott for over five years. She had had days to prepare herself for this encounter, ever since she had first learned of his return. She had thought that she could greet him calmly, as befitted a former acquaintance.
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