by M C Beaton
A week later, she set out for London, a week during which she had asked and asked for her spectacles only to be told that the duchess “had them safe” but that they were too unbecoming. She presented Penelope with a tiny gold quizzing glass and told her to make the best of that.
At first Penelope tried to accept the loss of her spectacles philosophically. She knew that ladies did not wear them in public and that officers’ wives were actually forbidden to wear them. The poor Duchess of Wellington dreaded going out in her carriage, for she was very shortsighted and could not recognize anyone, but even she had to abide by the social laws and leave her spectacles at home. But on the road to London, Penelope began to think of ways to get them back, hoping the duchess had kept them by her. To this end, she passed most of the journey making friends with the duchess’s lady’s maid, Perkins, and finally discovering that Perkins herself had the spectacles in safekeeping.
By the time the carriage rolled along Park Street, Penelope had those spectacles back in her own reticule after many promises to Perkins that she would never let the duchess know she had them.
Their arrival was late at night, and so Penelope did not see any of the other occupants of the house. She drank a glass of hot wine and water given to her by Perkins, popped her glasses on her nose, fished a novel out of her luggage, and began to read, putting all this nonsense about the Season firmly out of her mind. On the journey to London, Penelope had become even firmer in her resolve to endure it all as best she could and then return to freedom.
She awoke early despite the fact she had been reading a good part of the night. The bedroom that had been assigned to her was much grander than any room Penelope had slept in before. The bed was luxuriously soft and had a canopy of white lace. There was white lace everywhere—bed hangings, curtains, laundry bag, and even the doilies on the toilet table.
Feeling rather gritty and dirty, Penelope rang the bell and shyly asked the chambermaid who answered it if she might have a bath. But no, that was not possible, was the reply. Water was pumped to the London houses three days a week, and today was not a water day.
Penelope stripped off and did the best she could with the cans of water on the toilet table.
She put on a pretty white muslin with a blue spot and then ventured downstairs. The great house was hushed and quiet. Penelope knew from reading the social news in the papers that the great of London often did not rise until two in the afternoon. But she was very hungry.
A footman was crossing the hall as she came down the stairs, and to her request, he replied that it would be served in the morning room as Lord Andrew liked an early breakfast.
The morning room, he said, was on the first floor on the left. Penelope retreated up the stairs and pushed open the door.
A pleasant smell of coffee and hot toast greeted her. There was a tall man already seated at a table by the window. Penelope could not see him very clearly, but she gained an impression he was black-haired and handsome.
He rose to his feet at her entrance, bowed, and pulled out a chair for her. “You must be Miss Mortimer,” he said in a pleasant voice. “I am Childe.”
Penelope blinked and then stifled a giggle. It was rather like meeting one of those savages portrayed in the romances she liked to read where a savage would say to the bewildered heroine stranded on some foreign shore, “Me man.” Then she remembered Lord Andrew Childe was the duchess’s younger son.
“What is amusing you?” asked Lord Andrew.
“It was a nervous giggle,” said Penelope primly. “This is a ducal mansion. I am not used to such grandeur. It unnerves me.”
“Indeed!” Lord Andrew thought little Miss Mortimer looked very composed. She was not his mama’s usual choice of protégée, for there was no denying that Miss Mortimer was remarkably pretty. But there was a vacant, unseeing look in those beautiful eyes of hers which marked a lack of intelligence, thought Lord Andrew. Therefore, after he had helped her to toast and coffee, he was not at all surprised when Penelope asked him, “Do you read novels, Lord Andrew?”
“No,” he said with the kind of indulgent smile he reserved for the weaker-brained. “I consider them a great waste of time.”
“Life would be very boring without imagination and romance,” said Penelope. “Reality can be fatiguing.”
“Nonsense. Retreating into novels shows a sad lack of courage. What do you find in the real world so distressing, Miss Mortimer?”
Penelope held up one little hand, rough and reddened from her gardening and cooking, and ticked off the items on her fingers. “My father died last year. One. He left a monstrous pile of debt. Two. I thought I had solved my future and my financial problems when the Duchess of Parkworth arrived and told me I must have a Season. Three,” she ended with a final flick of the third finger.
“I see. I am sorry to hear of your father’s death and of your troubles. I agree with the first two items, but surely a Season is to be enjoyed!”
“But I didn’t want a Season,” said Penelope reasonably. “I wanted to be left alone.”
“Then you have only to tell my mother that,” he said stiffly.
“Oh, but I did!” said Penelope. “And she commanded me to come with her, and as your family owns our village, I could not very well refuse.”
“Of course you could have refused. This is not the Middle Ages. Did you expect my mama to take some sort of revenge had you not complied with her wishes?”
“Something like that.”
“Now, there we have a good example of the pernicious effect of novels,” said Lord Andrew. “You have been imagining all sorts of Gothic nonsense.”
“I have?” Penelope tried to bring his face into focus, but it remained a vaguely handsome blur. She had been warned that screwing up your eyes gave you premature wrinkles, and although she was not vain, she had no desire to look old before her time. So to Lord Andrew, her expression appeared vacant and rather stupid.
“Do not trouble yourself further,” he said. “I shall speak to my mother today. You will find yourself returned to the country as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you,” said this irritating beauty meekly. “But you will find it will not serve.”
Chapter Two
Knowing his mother would sleep late, Lord Andrew walked round to the Worthys’ home in Cavendish Square. Miss Ann Worthy had often assured him she was up with the lark.
But although it was nearly ten in the morning, he was told that the whole family was still in bed. Unable to believe his love could be other than truthful, he commanded the butler to take up a message requesting Miss Worthy to come riding with him that afternoon at two.
Ann Worthy was not amused at being awoken at dawn, as she put it. She was further annoyed by Lord Andrew’s invitation. She and her parents were to go that afternoon to visit relatives in Primrose Hill. The relatives included four unmarried misses in their teens. Ann was looking forward to putting their noses out of joint with the announcement of her engagement.
Besides, what was the point of going driving at two in the afternoon? Five was the fashionable hour. There was no one in London at two, thought Miss Worthy, carelessly dismissing the other ninety-eight percent of the town’s population from her mind.
She was to see Lord Andrew at the opera that evening. It would do him no harm to learn early that she was not prepared to be at his beck and call. With a novel feeling of power, Miss Worthy sent back a note with the intelligence that she was not free that afternoon. She did not trouble to give any explanation.
Lord Andrew found himself becoming highly irritated. He did not believe Miss Worthy was in bed, for surely since she was not given to extravagances of speech and would not make claims to be an early riser were it not true, he felt she might at least have had the courtesy to receive him.
He did not know that a great deal of his irritation sprang from an unrealized desire to see her again as soon as possible to allay that nagging doubt at the back of his mind.
That he had any
doubts about his engagement, he would not admit to himself. Miss Worthy was of good family, she was a lady, and he had made a careful choice. He had done the right thing—as usual—but unusually, doing the right thing had not brought its usual mild glow of satisfaction.
He went for a solitary ride in the park, where he remembered the plight of Miss Mortimer. He smiled indulgently as he recalled the silly little thing’s fears about his mother taking revenge.
He rode home and strode up to the morning room. His mother was reading a newspaper, squinting horribly at the print.
“You need spectacles, Mama,” he said.
“Nonsense! The light is bad here. Those trees quite take away the sun.”
Lord Andrew glanced about the bright room, at the sunlight sparkling on the silver of the coffeepot, but decided argument would be useless.
“Put down that paper, Mama,” he said. “I wish to talk about Miss Mortimer.”
“Penelope,” said the duchess with a fond smile. “Such a dear little thing, and so exquisitely pretty. I declare she will turn all heads.”
“But it appears that Miss Mortimer does not wish a Season. She assures me she would be perfectly happy to return to the country. Although she is lacking in intelligence, she does appear to have a certain decided opinion of what she does want. I pointed out to her that she had only to tell you, and you would be happy to let her go.”
The duchess’s face took on a rather sulky look. “Fiddle. Girls of that age do not know their own minds. And what, pray, is a more pleasant way of occupying a girl’s mind than parties and balls?”
“I assure you, that is not the case with Miss Mortimer.”
“I know what is best for her,” said the duchess. “She must be guided by me. Just wait until Maria Blenkinsop sees my charge! She is bringing out a plain little antidote who she has the gall to say will take the town by storm. When she sees my Penelope, she will change her tune.”
“You leave me no alternative,” said Lord Andrew. “It appears I must make arrangements myself to send Miss Mortimer back to the country.”
The duchess’s pale gray eyes hardened. “You may have forgot, my dear boy, that we own that village in which she resides. She has to sell her father, the squire’s, house, and plans to buy that little cottage at the end of Glebe Street near the parsonage ground. She has hopes of securing a lease. But I am sure there are others who would be equally interested in that cottage. Quite a sound building, and in good repair.”
Her son looked at her in horror. “Are you saying you would punish Miss Mortimer were she to return?”
“No, I did not say that,” lied his mother. “What is all this to you, Andrew? You are engaged to exactly the sort of female I would expect you to propose to….”
“Meaning?”
“Never mind. But this is not your house, and Miss Mortimer has nothing to do with you. Why do you not go about your own business and stop meddling in mine? I am sure your fiancée will be desirous of a visit from you.”
“Miss Worthy is engaged elsewhere this afternoon.”
“Splendid!” said the duchess. “You shall take Miss Mortimer on a drive. She cannot appear anywhere tonish until I have ordered her wardrobe.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
Lord Andrew had never crossed swords with his mother before. He had dealt with the matter of the footman-turned-captain without telling her about it. He had never before realized that her passion for her lame ducks was so very strong. He was horrified to see tears start to the duchess’s eyes. Her whole massive body shook with sobs, and her small face above it pouted like a pug’s.
“You never cared for me,” hiccuped the duchess. “Never. You always were an unnatural and unfeeling boy. Oh! When I am on my deathbed, then you will wish you had tried to please me. Angels come and take me! My son spurns me. Ah, what is left?”
“I’ll take the brat out,” shouted Lord Andrew. “Where is she?”
“In the drawing room,” said the duchess from behind the cover of her handkerchief.
Lord Andrew stormed out.
The morning room had two doors, one leading from the landing and another from the backstairs. The duke entered by the one from the backstairs, holding a cup of chocolate in one hand and a pile of letters in the other.
“What was all that screaming about?” he asked.
“Nothing, my dear,” said the duchess placidly. “I was just having a little talk to Andrew.”
Penelope looked up in surprise as the door of the drawing room crashed open. She had only a bare second in which to whip off her spectacles before Lord Andrew, still in his riding dress, marched into the room.
“You are coming driving with me,” he said abruptly. “Get your bonnet.”
“There is no need to shout,” said Miss Penelope Mortimer primly. “I did warn you she would not be moved on the matter.”
“What are you talking about?” roared Lord Andrew.
“I’ll get my bonnet,” said Penelope, scrambling from the room.
Lord Andrew looked down at his riding dress. He wondered whether to change and then reflected he could not be bothered going to the effort to please such as Miss Mortimer.
That was the first crack in his perfection, for Lord Andrew had hitherto always worn the correct dress for the occasion.
Penelope selected a gypsy straw bonnet embellished on the crown with marguerites, and tied it firmly under her chin by its gold silk ribbons. She put on her one, good pelisse, her last present from her father. It was of gold-embroidered silk and lined with fur. She had a longing to see what Lord Andrew really looked like, and so when she returned to the drawing room, she opened the door very quietly, raised her quizzing glass which was hanging round her neck, and studied him as he stood by the window looking out over the park.
Lord Andrew sprang into focus. He had thick, glossy black hair cut in the Windswept. He had a high-profiled, handsome face and a firm, uncompromising mouth. His black riding coat was tailored by the hand of a master. His white cravat was intricately pleated and folded. He was wearing breeches and top boots.
She dropped the glass quickly before he turned around, and was idiotically glad he had changed back into a comfortable blur instead of the disturbingly arrogant and handsome man she had seen through the quizzing glass.
“I am driving an open carriage,” he said. “It is being brought round from the mews. It is quite correct for you to go out with me without a chaperone.”
“I am glad you are at liberty, sir,” said Penelope. “I would have thought your time would have been occupied in squiring Miss Worthy.”
“Has my mother told you already of my engagement?”
“I did not know you were engaged,” said Penelope. “Her Grace remarked on the journey to London that you were courting a Miss Ann Worthy and would no doubt propose to her. May I offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you.” He walked across the room and held open the door. They went down the stairs together and out into Park Street.
He helped her into a smart phaeton, seated himself beside her, and nodded to the groom to stand away from the horses’ heads.
Soon they were bowling through the park. It was a sunny, brisk day, and the young leaves were just coming out on the trees. Penelope could see things at a distance quite well, and so she settled back to enjoy the prospect. It was only when she realized they were going round the ring for the second time that she ventured to say shyly, “I do not know London at all well. Would it inconvenience you too much to take me somewhere else?”
“Where would you like to go?”
“I would like to see the wild beasts at the Tower.”
He was about to refuse, for he could not think of a more vulgar or tedious way of passing the afternoon, but his tutor had always instructed him to be gallant to the ladies. She was his mother’s guest, and her wishes must come first.
“Then we shall go to the Tower,” he said in a colorless voice.
He began to be amused
as they drove along Oxford Street by Penelope’s exclamations of delight at the goods in the shop windows. As the shop windows were just about the right distance from the carriage for her to make out things with her faulty vision, Penelope hung on to the side of the phaeton and watched everything and everyone.
“I wonder if the duchess will let me actually shop for a few things,” she said wistfully. “I am a good needle-woman, and it is so much more economical, you know, to make one’s own things. I have become used to being busy.”
“You must ask her, for I cannot be the judge of what goes on in my mother’s mind,” he said stiffly.
“So she did say she would be displeased if I left—to the point of making life awkward for me?” said Penelope.
