by Linda Banche
“And now we come to Miss Priscilla Ward and her mother, the new Lady Henderson. Uncle Tobias married the widowed mother a few months ago. He made a point of asking Step-mama to invite our Mr. Gordon. Lady Henderson hopes to bring him up to scratch.”
Penelope’s heart stuttered. So, Charles did seek a wife. Well, why shouldn’t he? His cruel actions had blasted whatever hopes she had harbored toward him.
But the ghost of lost love, so tenacious, still yearned to know everything about him When they met in London, he’d been a low-paid clerk in a shipping company, the elder son of minor country gentry.
Still, he was a gentleman, and she first saw him at a party much like this one. He had come in with several other men, who eventually drifted away.
Charles always turned feminine heads—he’d certainly turned hers—and at first the young misses flocked to him. But, one by one, their mothers fetched them away. One disappointed girl told Penelope that he worked and his family was poor. Definitely not eligible.
He stood by himself against the wall, all alone in a roomful of people.
Her heart went out to him. She knew one of the gentlemen he had come in with, and he gave her an introduction.
Charles opened up a whole new world to her. As much as she enjoyed the social whirl, everyone was more or less the same. Not Charles. Although only one-and-twenty, he had already journeyed to faraway places as assistant to the man who traded the goods his company dealt in. His wonderful travel stories enthralled her, as did he.
Her parents, afraid he was after her dowry, were not best pleased, but he soon won them over. His expertise at his job would enable him to rise high, and eventually earn a great deal more money.
After that first party, they often met in Hyde Park where she liked to feed the ducks on the Serpentine. His company, his stories of faraway places—which she would like to see, too—everything about him beckoned her. He asked her to marry him and she accepted. Then, for no reason she could fathom, he rejected her, and she never saw him again. The bottom fell out of her life.
But that was long ago. “Is Charles an eligible parti now?”
Jane raised her eyebrows as if she knew the question wasn’t a chance one. “Made a tidy sum in commerce. And then a distant, elderly male relative died, leaving his father a baronetcy with a large fortune attached.”
A burst of masculine voices erupted from the corridor, and then the gentlemen streamed through the doorway. The ladies, especially the young ones, perked up and smiled brightly as the gentlemen dispersed around the room.
Charles strode directly to Miss Ward and her mother.
The fluttering in Penelope’s stomach increased. Her vision became a tunnel, with Charles the only person in view.
Yesterday, everyone had dressed casually, since visitors were still arriving. But now until the end of the house party, formal apparel was the rule for the evening meal.
Sumptuous fabrics and attire in the latest mode littered the room, but no one eclipsed Charles. Wearing only black and white—black velvet tailcoat and soft black shoes, with white silk waistcoat, breeches and stockings—he stood out more than if dressed in scarlet regimentals. His cravat was a masterpiece of simple elegance, his shirt front and cuffs crisply ruffled.
She swallowed. Amazing how silk and ruffles made a man look more masculine.
Well-tailored as his clothes were, they wouldn’t have the same effect on a man less favored.
Or any other man, for that that matter.
Miss Ward’s beaming mother rose to join a group of ladies by the window, leaving Charles with her daughter.
He laughed at something Miss Ward said and then looked up—straight at Penelope.
She jerked her face toward the wall as if the polished wainscoting fascinated her, but she could still see him.
He tipped up his head. Then his eyes rounded and his jaw slackened.
Gracious, what was she sitting beneath? How could she look up?
For several long seconds, he remained frozen in place, an ice sculpture with up tilted head.
Miss Ward adjusted a fold of her skirt and glanced toward the entry. A smile of such sweetness overspread her features that Penelope blinked.
At the doorway stood a young, black-haired gentleman. As if Miss Ward had uttered a silent call, he gave a tentative smile in return and took a few hesitant steps toward her.
That lady’s lips curved downward into an angry frown. She presented her back to the young man and bestowed her smile, one more vivid than before, but now brittle, on Charles. She spoke, and Charles, still staring at whatever-it-was above Penelope, jerked and turned his own artificial smile on her.
So many smiles, and none of them happy.
The young man slowed to a halt, and his shoulders sagged. Then his face closed up and he spun on his heel to stalk over to a group of men by the window.
Penelope leaned back. Plaster curlicues filled the ceiling. What had Charles seen?
***
For the rest of the night, Charles kept Penelope in the corner of his eye.
As she conversed with Jane, his friend Edward’s sister, her sunny smile warmed him. Her dress, the burnished orange of autumn leaves, highlighted her shining, new-penny hair. Wisps of those gorgeous tresses had escaped from her topknot and curled around her ears, with one loose ringlet caressing her shoulder.
How he loved her hair, so soft against his fingers when he’d kissed her. So many times he’d played with that silky lock…
Above her, the mistletoe winked at him.
Damned mistletoe.
“Mr. Gordon, have you seen the rose garden yet?” Miss Ward batted her eyelashes. Her speech had brightened, her demeanor, too. She’d never been this animated before.
She chattered at speed about the weather and more about the rose garden. Once in a while, she glanced at some men standing by the window.
A dark young man there glowered.
Some little time later, Penelope returned to her aunt. Then the old tartar left, Penelope trailing behind her like a rowboat after a battleship.
Now was his chance to find out exactly what was on the ceiling. “Miss Ward, I would like a cup of tea. Would you care for one?”
The lady demurred, and he bowed and left. She didn’t look too distressed at his departure. Unusual, that.
Smiling at the guests he encountered, he made his way to the tea table. “Good evening, Jane. May I trouble you for a cup of tea?” Not that he wanted tea. He hated tea, but he had to see that mistletoe.
As she bent to her task, he looked up.
The only thing on the ceiling was white plaster, flaking a little.
Where had the mistletoe gone?
Chapter 3
Penelope tucked the woolen blanket around her aunt’s feet.
Aunt Lydia lay on her bedchamber’s chaise longue in a patch of midmorning sunlight. “Thank you, my dear. I feel so tired today.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, a theatrical pose of fatigue that she often used. “All that running around I did preparing for this trip has finally caught up with me.” She sighed.
“Yes, Aunt.” Penelope dipped her head before she rolled her eyes. I did all the running around. All you did was order me about. She gave the blanket a final tug, one that was too firm and left a wrinkle, which she then had to smooth out.
“I hope I can rest.” Aunt Lydia sighed once more. “Now leave me in peace, child. You make such a racket, you disturb my sleep.” She gave a languid wave, but her eyes sharpened. “Return in two hours. I do not intend to miss luncheon.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Penelope shut the door behind her with a tiny click. Then she ran to her bedchamber and grabbed her bonnet, pelisse and gloves. Tugging on the pelisse, she fled downstairs before her aunt could call her back.
***
Charles stopped on the landing above the front door.
By the window flanking the portal, Penelope buttoned up her dark blue pelisse, one that he vaguely remembered, and then p
ulled on her gloves. A bonnet trimmed in matching blue that also looked familiar dangled by its ribbons from her arm. Bright sunlight enveloped her in a golden halo.
She could radiate light herself.
A tug that he couldn’t resist made him take a step toward her…
And the large sprig of mistletoe that hung directly over her.
Damnation.
This bunch could be the twin of the one he had seen—thought he had seen—in the drawing room last night and the night before.
The front door opened on a blast of frigid air that washed up to the landing. Edward, bundled in greatcoat and hat, swept in with the wind. “Good day to you, Penelope.”
Penelope shivered as she donned her bonnet and then tied a bow in its ribbon. “Good day to you, too. How cold is it outside?”
“Dreadful, but ’tis the season.” Their voices faded to a low murmur.
The mistletoe, shiny green leaves and ivory berries twinkling in the sunlight, almost dared Charles to ignore its presence.
He was at the same height as the curst plant. If he leaned far enough over the bannister, he could rip the blasted mistletoe off the ceiling…
Another gust of cold air splashed over him.
Penelope, smiling at the footman who held the door open for her, slipped outside. The door clicked shut behind her.
Edward, sporting his usual merry expression, climbed the stairs toward him. “Well, old man, what are you up to today?”
“Nothing much. I decided to take Atlas out for some exercise.”
Edward clapped Charles on the shoulder as he passed. “Good idea. Best to ride while you can. No telling when the snow will come.”
“Why did you hang mistletoe in the corridor? Rather an out of the way spot.”
Edward pivoted three steps above him. “Mistletoe? We decorate the house on Christmas Eve. There is no mistletoe yet.”
Charles swung around and pointed. “There, on the ceiling in the alcove—”
The mistletoe was gone.
He could have sworn the mistletoe had been there a moment ago. How could mistletoe disappear?
Edward’s eyebrows drew together. “All I see is empty ceiling.” Then the merriment returned to his eyes. “Had too much Christmas cheer already?”
“Uh, yes, maybe.” What was going on?
Edward shrugged and continued on. “Enjoy your ride.”
“Thank you.” Shaking his head, Charles descended to the now-empty foyer. He glanced up once before he exited.
No mistletoe.
***
Free!
Penelope inhaled deeply of chilly air tinged with wood smoke. A few pristine white clouds bubbled over the crisp blue of the winter sky, and the bright-edged sunlight bathed her in its cheery splendor.
Her heart light, she scuffed through dry leaves, their crackling an anthem to her freedom.
Despite the winter cold, she would visit the Manor’s rose garden, one of her favorite places.
The gardeners had laid out the plot in a series of concentric squares. A gravel path followed the garden’s shape, winding between the mulched beds in ever-smaller squares until ending at the base of a mound with a white-painted arbor atop. From the middle of each side of the outermost square, a straight footway ran through the garden to the central knoll.
Gravel crunching under her feet, she wandered down the longer path. In this dreary time of year, the rose canes were mainly bare, thorny sticks, the previous summer’s colorful blossoms nothing but a memory, and next spring’s flowers only a hope.
She touched a lone, frost-browned rose. The frozen petals disintegrated under her fingers.
Her high spirits crumbled along with the flower. Dead, like my life.
She bent to the remains of the rose and inhaled. A whiff of scent remained in the forlorn bloom, a promise that spring and its new beginnings would return.
She released the flower and straightened. Would that she could find her own personal spring. Living with her aunt was difficult at best, and seeing Charles unleased all the unhappy memories that she had thought long gone.
But she would not mourn what might have been. She would deal with her life as it was.
Somehow.
She climbed the three shallow steps leading up to the elaborate arbor that arched over a stone bench. After brushing several shriveled leaves off the bench, she took a seat on the cold stone. A dense mass of leafless canes obscured many of the arbor’s loops and scrolls, but still allowed her a view of the surrounding fields.
Thank goodness for some hours of peace. She’d hoped the house party would divert Aunt Lydia, and she could have more time to herself. That hope died a quick death. Her aunt had run her ragged ever since their arrival.
When her parents died in that carriage crash, the entailed parts of their Wiltshire estate—and only the entailed parts remained—went to a male relative who’d had his hands full repairing the damage her profligate father had done. Aunt Lydia had come to her rescue, offering a refuge and dealing with all the problems that she herself, as an underage female, couldn’t handle. Penelope had been glad to repay her by becoming her companion. Her unpaid companion, but that was better than the almshouse. Other relatives stepped up to take her in, but none were as well-to-pass as Aunt Lydia, and Penelope hadn’t wanted to impose.
But now her aunt’s demands chafed, especially since they had escalated of late. More and more often, Aunt Lydia commanded her to perform some silly chore just when a young man indicated interest. Penelope always suppressed the thought that her aunt deflected possible suitors on purpose. But if she did, she herself would remain a spinster, always in thrall to her relative, unless something changed. Her aunt’s help, so attractive four years ago, no longer held much allure.
The rose canes rattled in the wind and she shivered. Edward had been right about the chill. Mayhap she would go back and find the sewing room. Her fingers itched to use that large embroidery frame. Many of her friends begged her to embroider items for them, and she hadn’t had any time of late.
She kicked at a fallen leaf. A few even suggested she sell her work. Going into trade was unthinkable for a lady, and she’d always dismissed the comments with a laugh.
But her situation had changed. If she could earn a few pounds, perhaps that would yield enough for her to live with Aunt Elizabeth.
Then there was Charles.
She slumped against the side of the arbor. Contrary to all reason, she missed him. Her pulse raced when she saw him, and when she thought of him, too. And she thought of him constantly. She and Aunt Lydia wouldn’t leave until after New Year’s. Pray she could survive this torture until then.
She hugged her arms around her against another shiver. Those few months of their courtship had been the happiest time of her life. How could anything so right have gone so wrong?
But wrong it had gone, and she wouldn’t grovel to get him back. She was the injured party.
***
Charles slapped his thigh with his riding crop as he descended the front steps. Penelope was nowhere in sight.
Just as well. He would confront her eventually, but he wouldn’t chase her.
If only that blasted mistletoe were as elusive.
He hated mistletoe. When Penelope agreed to marry him, they’d kissed beneath the mistletoe again and again, long slow kisses that left them both breathless. He picked an ivory berry from the mistletoe after each lingering kiss; he’d plucked them all before her father found them.
And then she spurned him, destroying his world. Now, he detested the stuff.
Really, he couldn’t have seen mistletoe. The sight of Penelope might have put mistletoe into his mind. Or mayhap some wag played a joke on him. If so, the jest wasn’t funny.
Soft nickering and the odor of hay and horse led him to the open stable door. Stalls and their occupants lined both sides of the building’s central aisle. Since he’d been one of the last arrivals, Atlas resided in a stall at the far end of the structure.
>
Atlas whinnied and stuck out his head at Charles’s approach.
“Good morning to you, too.” He rubbed the black stallion between the ears. “Happy to see me?”
The horse nudged Charles’s coat pocket.
“Or do you want the treat you know I have?”
The horse snorted.
Charles chuckled and pulled out a carrot.
Atlas lipped up and then crunched the delicacy with what was probably an equine smile on his face.
“Glad one of us is happy today.” He beckoned to a nearby groom to saddle the mount.
When the man finished his work, Charles gave him a coin and then swung up into the saddle. Keeping a firm hold on the eager stallion, he rode out. Beyond the stable yard, the fields beckoned. They thundered over the flat, frozen ground until they reached the River Tweed, both man and horse winded.
Charles pulled up on the reins and then patted Atlas’s neck. “Good boy. We will take the way back more slowly.”
He inhaled deeply of the cold air. The exercise had cleared his mind as the frosty air cleared his lungs. He had imagined the mistletoe. Of course, he had.
Sunlight glinted on the river’s silver-grey ripples as the gurgling water rushed to the sea. On the opposite side lay Scotland.
How artificial a boundary was. The bare, grey oaks fringing the river on the Scottish side were much the same as those on the English side. He twisted in the saddle to follow the course of a withered leaf the current swept downstream.
Almost out of view, the bridge that linked Cornhill with Coldstream in Scotland spanned the waterway. An open carriage trundled over the bridge to stop at the Toll House. The driver hopped off and then ran around to the other side. He emerged at the front of the vehicle with a lady on his arm. The pair entered the Toll House.
Probably an eloping couple. The Coldstream Bridge Toll House was popularly called the Marriage House. Couples from eastern England desiring freedom from English marriage law with its banns, licenses, waiting periods and age requirements, flocked to the nearer Coldstream rather than travel farther west to Gretna Green.
