by M C Beaton
While Mr. Baxter was praying for her redemption, Penelope Mortimer was down on her hands and knees in her new cottage garden, pulling out weeds. It was a beautiful evening. The air was warm, the birds chirped sleepily in the branches of the trees above her head.
She had been almost unable to believe her good fortune when she had arrived back in Lower Bexham to find the cottage hers, and her few remaining bits and pieces had already been carried there. She felt she had no longer anything to fear from the Parkworth family but a most unpleasant scene. Of course, she could always have taken the money from the sale of her family home and moved to some village far away from the Parkworths’. But that would have entailed finding some female companion. It was all very well for a pretty young girl to live alone in the village of her birth, where everyone knew her, but to do so in a strange place would certainly have excited censure.
Penelope leaned forward to wrench at a particularly tough dandelion root, and Lord Andrew’s ring, which she had transferred to a chain about her neck, bobbed against her breasts. She hoped he would not mind her keeping it. She hoped he would understand. She also hoped he would never realize how much his kisses and caresses had meant, and how longing for him dragged at her heart from morning till night. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away with one earthy hand, leaving streaks of mud on her face.
She rose shakily to her feet and walked to the garden gate and looked along the winding road which led into the village. One or two candles were already gleaming behind the thick glass of the cottage windows. Families would be settling down by the fire before going to bed. Penelope felt a rush of loneliness. There had been so much to do since her father’s death that she had not felt lonely before. But now she did, a great aching void of loneliness. She even began to wonder whether she had been a fool to turn down two eligible men. Marriage would have meant a home and children.
She heard Lord Andrew’s carriage before she saw it. She heard the rattle of carriage wheels, the creaking of the joists, and the imperative clopping of horses’ hooves. She was about to turn and flee, for she was sure it was the duchess, when the racing curricle came into view at the end of the road. With her good long sight, she recognized the driver and stayed where she was, her hand on the gate.
Lord Andrew reined in his team, tethered them to the garden fence, and strode forward and stood looking down at her.
“Your face is dirty,” he said.
“Did you come all the way from London to tell me that?”
“No. We must leave immediately. My mother is on her way here. That idiot Harford expects the marriage to go ahead.”
“Mercy! But what can Her Grace do? She cannot turn me out. The papers have been signed and witnessed. She cannot force me to marry the Duke of Harford either.”
“Let us go inside and I will explain,” said Lord Andrew. “But we must be quick.”
Penelope led the way inside to her living room, picked up a taper, lit it from a candle, and pushed it through the bars of the fireplace, sitting back on her heels and waiting until the tinder had burst into flames, before rising to her feet and facing him.
“Now, my lord…”
“Now, Miss Mortimer,” he said wearily, “the situation is this. My mother, with my father’s backing, is coming here with two bullyboys to carry you off. If you do not wed Harford, then they are quite prepared to take their revenge by having you consigned to the madhouse.”
“Ridiculous,” laughed Penelope. “This is the nineteenth century!”
“And in this new century people are confined every day to madhouses against their will.”
“But they are your parents! No one could believe such villainy possible,” said Penelope, not knowing that a certain Mr. Baxter would be prepared to believe that this sort of behavior was commonplace in elevated circles.
“They do mean it. For the moment. Pack your bags. You are coming with me.”
“Where?”
“I shall tell you on the road. For goodness’ sake, wash your face.”
Penelope stood her ground. “Isn’t that so like you? You come to me with a tale of Gothic revenge and then complain about my dirty face. This is my home, and I am not dashing off anywhere. You may stay and take a glass of wine. Then we shall walk together to the vicarage and get Mr. Troubridge to find you a bed for the night.”
“Miss Mortimer, believe me, you are in great danger.”
“I am willing to believe Her Grace is capable of indulging petty spite… but kidnapping! Do not be ridiculous. I know your mother better than you do yourself.”
“I know my mother now,” he said sarcastically. “Believe me, we have but recently become acquainted, but I do know she is capable of this.”
“Sit down, my lord, and let us discuss this like two rational beings. I shall fetch you some wine.”
Before he could protest, she had left the room. He paced angrily up and down. His mother could not be far behind. If Miss Mortimer continued as stubborn as this, he might be tempted to use force himself.
He looked around the little living room, at a few good bits of furniture, which obviously belonged in a grander setting. The ceiling was low and raftered, and he was in danger of banging his head on the beams.
Penelope came in with a decanter and two glasses on a tray.
“What is it?” asked Lord Andrew. “Elderberry wine.”
“No, thank you, Miss Mortimer. Now, listen to me—” He broke off. There was a steady rumble of a carriage approaching at a great pace.
“My mother is arrived,” he said grimly.
“She will make the most dreadful scene,” said Penelope, turning a little pale. “But then that will be the end of it.”
“Stay where you are!” he commanded as she made for the door.
“Fiddle. It is best I meet her and get this distressing business over with as soon as possible.”
“As you wish.” Lord Andrew pulled a pistol out of his greatcoat and began to prime it.
Penelope laughed, amusement driving out fear. “You are being ridiculous. Your own mother! One would think you were preparing to meet Attila the Hun.”
She walked to the door and held it open.
The duchess was sitting in the heavy traveling carriage. Two outriders in jockey caps and striped waistcoats and breeches sat on horseback on either side of the carriage. There was a thickset coachman up on the box.
A footman and groom came up the path at a run and seized Penelope by the arms and began to drag her towards the carriage.
“Get her quickly,” shouted the duchess through the open carriage window, “and gag her if she starts screaming.”
“Leave me,” said Penelope, wriggling in her captors’ grasp.
“Yes, leave her,” came Lord Andrew’s level voice from the doorway.
The footman and groom twisted about and found themselves looking down the barrel of Lord Andrew’s pistol.
“Only taking orders, me lord,” said the groom. They dropped Penelope’s arms, and she ran back to Lord Andrew’s side.
The carriage door crashed open, and the duchess jumped down onto the road.
“Unnatural boy!” she screamed. “How dare you interfere. I command you to go away and leave this matter to me.”
“No, Mama,” said Lord Andrew. “It is you who must leave. You have lost your wits. This is madness. This is folly.”
“You are no son of mine,” cried the duchess. “Go on. Shoot me. Kill your sainted mother and strike her down.” She wrenched open the bosom of her gown. A black whaleboned corset of quite staggering dimensions was exposed to view.
“Cover yourself up,” said Lord Andrew sharply. “You look ridiculous.”
“Ah, do you hear his words?” shrieked the duchess. “I curse you. You are no son of mine. From this day hence, I renounce you.”
“Good,” said Lord Andrew coldly. “For you are become a most tiresome parent.”
“Help me,” said the duchess, beginning to sway, her round figure ma
king her look like a spinning top on the point of running down.
Lord Andrew drew Penelope inside and shut and locked the door. “NOW will you pack your things?” he said.
Penelope threw him a scared look and darted up the ladder, which led to her little bedroom under the eaves. Lord Andrew crossed to the window and looked out. Without her audience, for the Duchess of Parkworth did not consider servants people, she had closed her gown and was being helped into the carriage. Lord Andrew stayed by the window until she had driven off.
He was sure Penelope now had nothing to fear. A part of him knew his mother had shot her bolt. But there was a little doubt left, and that little doubt was enough to spur him on to get Penelope into hiding.
Chapter Nine
“Where are you taking me?” asked Penelope in a small voice as Lord Andrew drove her through the village of Lower Bexham.
“I don’t know,” he said crossly. “Supper first, I think, and somewhere to rack up for the night.”
“You are going to compromise me again,” said Penelope.
“Not I. We shall have separate rooms at the first well-established posting house we come to.”
“Where, no doubt, Her Grace is waiting.”
“If you had your wits about you, you would notice we are not on the London road.”
“There is nothing up with my long sight,” said Penelope. It was hard to imagine, thought Penelope, that only so recently she had been yearning for him. Now they were engaged in their usual rancorous exchange like a married couple who should never have married in the first place. The shock of the duchess’s visit had made her feel weak and shaky. She longed for comfort and caresses, and that longing sharpened her tongue.
“And how goes Miss Worthy?” she asked.
“Very well. All is forgotten and forgiven.”
“Of course it is,” said Penelope. “You are rich and have a title. That must cover a multitude of sins.”
“I am not deformed and I am not old.”
“But not young,” said Penelope sweetly. “Nigh middle age, I should guess.”
“If you have nothing pleasant to say, then hold your tongue, miss.”
“You started it.”
“Started what, for goodness’ sake?”
“Sniping and complaining and saying my face was dirty.”
“Is, my dear Miss Mortimer. Is.”
“Ooh!” Penelope scrubbed at her face with a handkerchief. Then she took out a phial of rose water, moistened her handkerchief, tried again, and looked down gloomily at the resultant mess on the once-white cambric.
She decided to make a heroic effort to be pleasant and natural, as if it were quite normal for duchesses to appear on the doorstep on kidnapping expeditions. “The weather is very fine, is it not?” she ventured.
Her companion said something like “Grumph,” and Penelope relapsed into silence.
Lord Andrew was wrestling with his conscience. Back in London lay stern Duty, that mistress who had controlled him for so long. He could turn about and take Miss Mortimer back to her cottage. He himself could put up at the vicarage and stay for a day or two to make sure there were no further attempts to take her away. There was no need to head off into the unknown with her.
But an air of irresponsibility and holiday was creeping over him. The greenish twilight turned the landscape into a gentle dream country where the trees stood out like black lace against the fading light. He did not need to rely on his parents for a single penny, he mused. He did not need to marry a woman with a dowry. How very simple it would be to marry Penelope Mortimer! There would, in all probability, be a nasty breach-of-promise case, but when all was over and Miss Worthy financially compensated for her loss, then he and Penelope would be together. His senses quickened at the thought.
Since he had lost his virginity at the clumsy hands of that housemaid, he had never really lost his head over any woman. Courtesans and prostitutes repelled him, and so he had taken his infrequent pleasures with a few of the ladies of cracked reputation, widows or divorcées who knew how to carry on a light affair and take their leave gracefully.
His whole body craved that of Penelope Mortimer. He glanced down at her. She looked so young and fresh and innocent that she made him feel hot and sweaty and lustful. Such a virginal creature as Penelope could never be racked with the same dark passions as a man.
Penelope looked vaguely over the dreaming landscape and wondered if her body was going to fall to bits. Every little cell seemed to be straining towards her companion. She had a sudden picture of what he had looked like naked, and blushed all over. Fiery, prickly heat made her clothes itch, and there was a nasty cramping feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was no cure for what ailed her. Or rather, no cure she could possibly have. The only relief for this sickness would be if it were possible to throw off all her clothes, claw his from his body, and lie with him naked. A moan nearly escaped her lips.
They were approaching a fairly sizable town. Lord Andrew drove into the courtyard of a posting house. This time, the respectably demure and bonneted Penelope and the exquisitely tailored Lord Andrew were treated to a warm welcome. Lord Andrew asked for a room for his ward, one for himself, and a private parlor for supper.
The posting house was modern, and the rooms were light and airy. There was no need for fires in the bedrooms. There was always a need for fires in Penelope’s little cottage, which was built over an underground stream and therefore damp and cold even in the best of weather. Penelope brushed her hair till it shone and twisted it into a loose knot on the top of her head. She put on one of her own favorite gowns, a simple blue silk, hoping that the piece of new silk she had let in on the front to replace a piece that she had burned with the iron would not show.
They both drank a great deal at supper and talked little. Both were trying to damp down the fires of passion with quantities of wine.
Supper consisted of fish in oyster sauce, a piece of boiled beef, neck of pork roasted with apple sauce, hashed turkey, mutton steaks with salad, roasted wild duck, fried rabbits, plum pudding and tartlets, with olives, nuts, apples, raisins, and almonds to accompany the port.
“You seem to take all this fare for granted,” said Penelope. “There is on this one table enough to last me for over a week at least.”
“That is understandable. You are poor.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Penelope. “But by next year, I shall have vegetables from the garden and will be able to set some snares in the parsonage land at the back.”
“What do the villagers think of such as you living alone?”
“They have known me all my life and do not think it odd. Were I to live somewhere else, I would be obliged to have a companion, and that would be a great deal of unnecessary expense.”
“I can send you some game from time to time,” said Lord Andrew.
“Your wife will object to that, I should think.”
“Any wife of mine, Miss Mortimer, will do exactly what I say.”
“It is very hard to enforce laws and rules unless you plan to beat her.”
“It is woman’s duty to look pretty and obey her husband,” he mocked.
“Then it is as well I am not to be married,” sighed Penelope, “for I should prove rebellious. But it is only in very elevated circles that women have the luxury of being idle and decorative. I am glad I am quite finished with high society.”
“If my mother has anything to do with the matter, then I fear she will have ruined your reputation.”
“It does not matter. A female’s reputation only matters in the Marriage Market.”
Her independence irked him. He did not like to think of her going out of his life, free to do as she wished, free of him.
“What do you wear on that chain round your neck?” he asked abruptly.
Penelope blushed and tugged out his ring, which had been hanging inside her gown between her breasts. “I was merely keeping it safe,” she said awkwardly.
“No, keep
it,” he said quickly, seeing she was about to detach it from the chain. “I told you it was yours. I would like you to have it.”
He was looking at her intently, and Penelope’s eyes fell beneath his own. She rose to her feet. “I am tired, my lord, and would retire. Where are we bound tomorrow?”
“We will discuss that in the morning.” He rose as well. They walked in silence to Penelope’s bedchamber. He held open the door for her and then stood looking down at her.
“Goodnight,” he said softly.
