by Cheryl Holt
"What do you mean—good-bye?" His face furrowed into lines as he tried to understand.
"I mean that I'm going away and I won't be returning."
"But where are you going? You belong here with us."
/ thought I did. "No, actually I have my own home. With my own mother and father. They've been missing me." Funny how such a bald lie could slip out. Perhaps some of Lucas's deceitful methods had rubbed off on her.
From what Lucas had told her, and what she'd read in her father's note, she didn't know what type of reception her family would offer. But it hardly mattered; she didn't intend to stay with them long anyway. She required just a few days of shelter, where she could rest her weary, broken heart and settle her confused mind. Then, once she was feeling more herself again, she would decide what to do next.
"I don't like this at all," he declared. "You're to be my new mother. Isn't that what you promised?"
Had she really made such a vow?
She thought back and realized no, she hadn't, but that's how he'd perceived their friendship. Lord, what a reckless scoundrel Lucas was, bringing her into the boy's life for an abrupt encounter. "No, Harry. Your mother is in heaven, remember? I could never take her place."
"Who's going to watch over me if you go?"
“Well, your two uncles. Cook. There will be plenty of people ready to take my place," she said, hating that it was true.
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They'd adjusted to her presence so rapidly; they would easily readapt to her absence. But how it hurt to think it was so!
"What about Uncle Lucas?'' he asked.' 'He needs you. What will become of him if you're not here?"
"Lucas will be fine," she responded, although she couldn't help wondering what would become of him. She had no idea and refused to ponder his future. Whatever came his way was certainly disaster of his own invention. "He and I have talked it all out," she lied again, "and we decided this is for the best. My mother would simply be too lonely if I sailed off to America with you."
"I don't believe this is a good idea at all," he said firmly, playing the part of the little duke so well. His manner was so like their father's, and she winced when he said regally, "I should like to talk with your mother. I'll set her straight quickly enough."
What would her mother think of this boy? This love child of Harold's and Caroline's who looked and acted so much like the duke? Harry was the spitting image of Penny's legitimate brother and the duchess's only son, William. How would her poor mother take this walking, breathing specimen of her spouse's continual infidelity?
"Oh, Harry ..." she murmured, smiling. "You are such a grand lad. I will miss you so." She gave him a long, tight hug. "I want you to promise me something."
"What?"
"I want you to promise me that you'll take care of Paulie. He doesn't have a family. Did you know that?"
"I did," Harry responded, sounding so grown-up.
"I hope that you will let him be part of your family."
"He can be my big brother," Harry said. "I already told him."
"I'm glad, Harry. I'm so glad for you...." Then, because she couldn't say any more past the lump of emotion clogging her throat, she stood. "I need to be going."
"Not so soon, Penny," he said. "I'm hungry. Can you fix
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me something to eat? It's dinnertime; I can tell from the smells in the kitchen. And I want to show you a rock I found out by the stream."
Penny shook her head in dismay. He was too young to grasp the concept of forever, and she couldn't decipher any method of adequately defining it. Time would do that for him, she supposed. Once the days and weeks began to pass and she didn't return, he'd start to realize what she'd meant. "Would you come downstairs with me?"
He nodded, and she held out her hand, and he slipped his small one into it. They reached the bottom as a wagon rolled into the yard and stopped outside the front door. Through the window Penny could see Cook climbing down. A weathered older man sat on the wagon's bench, the reins balanced across his knee. Cook spoke to him, then came around to the back of the house. Once Penny heard her in the kitchen, she sent Harry scurrying off in his search for food.
Paulie regarded the same scene, his twelve-year-old maturity giving him better insight into what was transpiring. "You're leaving?" he asked once they were alone.
"Yes, Paulie, I am," she answered softly.
"Permanently?"
"Yes."
"But where will you go?"
"Back to my father's house." A look of terrible consternation crossed his face. She saw worry and fear, and she was moved to realize that she could be held in such high esteem by one so young.
"Oh, Miss Penny," he said seriously, "I can't think that's a good plan."
"Why would you say that?" she said, wanting to ease his concern. "He's my father. I'll be fine."
"I've met your father, miss, and I have to admit that I don't like him very much. He doesn't deserve to have the care of someone as wonderful as you."
"Oh, Paulie, what a sweet thing to say...." She ruffled her
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fingers through his hair, pleased that he allowed it. "You'll see... everything will work out for the best. My father's house is where I belong," she insisted without conviction, because she knew it wasn't so. Perhaps she'd never belonged there. Even as a child she'd yearned for so much more than the empty, emotionless life she'd endured.
"Does the captain know you're going?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And he doesn't mind?"
"It's not for him to say."
He glanced out the window at the wagon, where the driver waited patiently. "Would you like me to come with you to town? I could help you...."
"No, thank you. I need something else from you."
"Anything, Miss Penny!" he vowed earnestly. "You may ask me anything."
"I'd like you to stay here and watch over Harry for me. He doesn't realize what's happening. I tried explaining it, but he doesn't understand, and I imagine he will be quite upset once he discovers I'm not coming back."
"He's very young," Paulie said sagely.
"Yes, he is, and he will need you. It would make me feel ever so much better if you are here to keep an eye on him."
"I've always taken care of the littlest boys," Paulie explained, "the ones who have no one else to watch over them. I'm very good at it."
"I'll bet you are," she said kindly, pondering whether his experience was one of the reasons he seemed so mature, but she didn't inquire about his life on the streets, or about the other children who shared it with him. There were some matters about which she didn't want to become enlightened, and in her current condition, excess information would bring more unwanted upheaval.
She simply breathed a sigh of relief that he'd now have a secure home and no longer be forced to pass his youth as a hungry, outcast child raising other orphans.
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"I will care for Harry, Miss Penny. Always. I swear it." He paused, then asked, "Are you certain you're doing the right thing?"
"I'm certain," she answered, though she wasn't sure of anything. She knew only that she had to go before she completely lost the strength to leave, and she swallowed down a flood of unruly sentiment. "There's one other subject I need you to bear in mind: Captain Pendleton has decided to let you sail with him when he leaves for Virginia. He promised me. So if he attempts to go back on his word, you must be brave and speak up for yourself by reminding him of his vow. Can you do it?"
"Yes, I can. I'll see to it." His eyes shone with joy at the prospect of traveling off with his hero.
"And I hope you'll bother the captain so that he will teach you to read and write. When you've learned, I want you to send me a letter someday, to let me know what's become of you. I shall always wonder...."
"I'll do that, Miss Penny," he said quietly. "Just for you, I'll do exactly that."
She left with barely a good-bye to any of t
hem. The two serving women appeared upset and confused, the boys mystified by the goings-on of the adults. While she would have liked to give them hugs, kisses, thank-yous, and assurances with respect to the future, the well of fortitude she needed to see her through the morning had run dry, and she hardly had sufficient energy to climb into the wagon.
As it was, her knees failed her at the last, and Colette had to grab hold and lift her, sharing her strength as she had so many times.
"I've got you, mon amie," she said compassionately.
“Merci,'' Penny answered as Colette settled her on the hard bench next to the driver.
Colette tossed their two bags in the back and climbed up as well, and Penny couldn't help being relieved that Colette was not the type to ask questions or point fingers or crow with
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pleasure at being proved right. She'd silently accepted that Lucas had done something horrific, that Penny hadn't the stamina to articulate his terrible deed, and Colette was content simply to remain at Penny's side, the constant stalwart companion she had always been through the years.
The driver flicked the reins, and the two horses pulled away with a lurch. Penny looked over her shoulder once at the pretty house and green garden, at the quartet of servants and boys waving solemnly from the stoop. She didn't wave back, for she hadn't the mettle to raise her arm.
It started to rain, and Colette retrieved Penny's sable cloak from the back and hooked it under her chin. The driver turned the cart onto the road, headed for London.
******************
Edward Simpson paced across the floor of the drawing room in the duke's home, eyeing the furnishings and knickknacks, assessing worth, and attempting to place pound values on each item. While his own fortune was substantial, his town house didn't look anything like this one, like a museum dedicated to wealth and privilege. He wasn't certain why his own residence didn't appear nearly so resplendent. His three previous wives had always been given free rein to enhance and entertain.
It was a question of style, he supposed, thinking that the Duchess of Roswell had it in spades while his spouses had not. Hopefully Lady Penelope had inherited some of her mother's abilities with decoration and decor. He wouldn't mind opening his door to guests if he knew they'd end up enviously surveying the surroundings much as he was currently doing in the Westmorelands's parlor.
"Penny, Penny ..." he mused aloud as he drained his glass and poured another. He had many plans for how the girl was going to improve his life, but the manner in which she might eventually refurbish his abode was very low on his list of priorities. Other, more pressing matters would require her initial attention.
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His third wife had been dead now for over four years, and he was acutely anticipating the opportunity to enjoy once again a nightly dalliance without seeking out a whore at one of the brothels. He detested those places, even the nicer ones with the prettier girls, and he wanted to luxuriate in regular sexual congress in the privacy of his own bedroom with an attractive female of his own choosing.
Certainly Penny came with some baggage and some problems, and Westmoreland believed he'd had the upper hand in pushing the engagement. When the duke had first broached the idea, Edward had even pretended disinterest, playing as though Penny would be a great burden, when in truth she was exactly the type of female for whom he'd been searching.
He favored carnal partners who were fetching and young— especially young—but a man in his position couldn't go about seducing adolescent maids without serious repercussions, so he'd always rectified the situation by marrying girls who were fresh out of the schoolroom, unspoiled, and completely naive as to their marital obligations. While Penny was a few years older than he liked, he could barely stand the wait for the ultimate adventure he'd relish with her as his bed mate. She was pleasing to the eye, and she was also overly full of sass and uncontrollable attitude. But he knew how to temper that sort of behavior through appropriate training, so marrying her wouldn't cause him any undue distress.
He'd been thirty years old when he'd taken his first bride. She'd been sixteen. At age forty he'd selected wife number two, still in her teens also. At age fifty he'd managed to snag a seventeen-year-old. All three occasions he'd chosen an untried virgin. Their families, and the girls themselves, had been only too eager to join their names to his, wanting the affluence and title that came with the union.
Conveniently they'd all obliged by dying off about the time their looks were starting to go, allowing him to bring another nubile body to his bed, so he'd had plenty of practice at breaking undeveloped brides to their duties.
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Now, at age sixty-three, he'd have Penelope Westmoreland, by far the richest, most beautiful of the lot, but she had numerous bad habits, mainly talking back and making snide comments and rude insinuations. He intended to cure her of those tendencies straightaway. There were many things she could do with her mouth besides talking, and he planned to see to it that she thoroughly learned her lessons.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. A moment later the duchess, Patricia Westmoreland, entered the room in a swirl of blue silk, her matching slippers skimming across the floor, the expensive fabric of her skirt crackling as she passed. She had been a typical English beauty in her day, blond and blue-eyed, carefully raised and tutored in order to join herself effectively to Harold Westmoreland. Their fathers had arranged the match when the pair were children.
She'd stoically endured a great deal of nonsense as Harold's wife, and it was well known that Harold had never cared for her, had wed her out of duty and for the assets the alliance brought, but his penchant for illicit sexual gratification and his ongoing peccadilloes had tried even her unlimited patience. Although Harold went to immense lengths to keep his affairs quiet, everyone followed them and delighted in informing her of all the juicy details. The marital discord had now fallen to such a state that the duke and duchess never passed time together and hadn't for years.
The effects of the strained marriage were definitely taking their toll, although she did her best to disguise the changes with facial paints, hair rinses, and other feminine concoctions. Still, her fading blond hair was dull, her face well lined, and she was thin as a rail, as though food never crossed her lips. Edward could smell alcohol on her breath, and it was bandied about that she spent her days secluded in her rooms, where she could imbibe freely.
While he often did the same, he couldn't tolerate such comportment in a woman, particularly one in such a lofty position, and he wondered why Harold didn't get control of the situation.
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"Well, Your Grace?" he asked as she entered. "What did he say?"
"I wasn't able to speak with the duke. Jensen informs me that my husband is out of the house."
“Jensen?''
"Our butler," she said, flashing him a restrained smile.
The blasted woman had to ask the butler if her husband was home! If she couldn't keep track of her wayward spouse, how could Edward expect that she'd know where her daughter had gone?
"Your Grace," he started, trying to remain polite, but his impatience was beginning to rumble to the surface. He'd been striving to ascertain Penelope's location for the past two weeks, but he had to hand it to this family. They were frightfully good at keeping a man from discovering what he truly wanted to know. "May I remind you that the wedding is in three days."
"No, you may not, Edward," she responded shortly. "I'm perfectly aware of the date of my daughter's wedding."
"Well, I certainly feel that someone should point out how rapidly time is progressing."
The comment was rude, but he was glad he'd made it. Something was afoot, and he was trying to figure out what. There were scores of rumors floating about regarding her disappearance. The most widely circulated held that the bride-to-be was unwilling to go through with the ceremony, and due to her refusal, Harold had beaten her so badly that they'd had to hide her away unti
l the bruises faded.
While the scenario was indeed possible, Edward didn't believe it. He intensely feared that Harold had received a better offer. If he thought to force Edward into backing out of their agreement, he was in for a surprise. Edward had every intention of marrying Lady Penelope in three days. If Westmoreland thought to hide her until the date had passed, they'd simply set another, then another, then another, until the girl was produced and the event completed.
The papers were signed, the deeds drafted. Initial prepara-
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tions for the wedding breakfast were proceeding, and nothing would change his mind. All was in readiness—except for the bride, but he didn't care whether or not she was balking. In fact, the idea of her being reticent made the deal all the more exciting. How marvelous his wedding night would be if she didn't want to go through with it. The more reluctant, the better.
Speaking of the devil himself, they heard the front door opening, and from the fawning attitude of the doorman it was obvious the exalted man had arrived. Without saying a word to the duchess, Edward rushed into the hall before Harold could make his getaway. Patricia was hot on his heels. Harold had pulled a vanishing act on the two of them numerous times now, and once he escaped to the inner regions of his private rooms, an explosive device would be required to move his efficient personal staff out of the way in order to gain an audience.
"I say, Harold!" Edward began before the duke had the opportunity to remove his cloak.
“Not now, Edward,'' Harold said, eyeing the man with disinterest. Although the duke's stare was impolite and impertinent, Edward fared better than the duchess; Harold didn't even spare her a glance.
"Right now, Harold!" Edward said emphatically, causing the duke to pause.
"As you wish," the duke responded testily, "but I'm extremely busy today, so state your piece and be done with it."
"I've come to call on Lady Penelope."
"And I've told you she's not here."
