by M C Beaton
The butler came in. “There is a person to see Your Grace.”
“Which Grace?” asked the duke.
“Both, Your Grace.”
“And who is this person?”
“A Mr. Baxter.”
“Send him packing.”
The butler bowed and retreated.
“I shall go to Ann Worthy, and I shall tell her what I think of her,” said the duchess. “She will be sorry she ever was born. To think how that Blenkinsop female must be crowing over me. It’s past bearing.”
The butler came in again. “Mr. Baxter will not go away. He says this can either be settled amicably or he will return with the Bow Street magistrate.”
“What are you talking about?” screeched the duchess. “Don’t stand there gawping.” She threw a plate of toast in the butler’s face and immediately felt much better.
“He says Lord Andrew seduced Miss Mortimer, and he has witnesses to prove it,” said the butler, picking bits of toast from his livery.
At that, Mr. Baxter himself walked into the room.
The duke took one horrified look at Mr. Baxter’s somber black clothes, fringe, low collar, square-toed shoes, and said, “Damme, if it ain’t a Methody. Throw him out.”
Mr. Baxter raised his arms above his head. “God grant me strength to bring light into the black souls of these decadent people,” he shouted.
“I said throw him out,” snapped the duke.
Two large footmen came running up the stairs, alerted by the shouts. They picked up Mr. Baxter and carried him out. He went as stiff as a board, so they hoisted him up on their shoulders and carried him down the stairs as if bearing off a corpse.
“I didn’t hear anything, did you?” said the duchess, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.
“No, my love,” said the duke, who knew his wife well.
“And I shall never mention Miss Mortimer’s name again. She does not exist.”
“Quite.”
“I must have Perkins to set out my best tenue, for as you know, that toad Blenkinsop gives a breakfast, and I intend to put her in her place.”
“I don’t know why they call these affairs, which begin at three in the afternoon and go on till all hours in the morning, breakfasts,” said the duke. “I don’t want to go.”
“Never thought you did,” said his wife. She half rose, and then sat down. “Tell me, was there a most odd man in here talking rubbish a moment ago?”
“I think we imagined him.”
At that, the duchess did stand up and placed a kiss on top of her husband’s head.
“You are quite right, Giles. You are always right,” she said.
At Maria Blenkinsop’s breakfast, the duchess resorted to the Duke of Harford’s tactics by going stone-deaf when anyone asked her about her son’s engagement. Miss Amy Tilney, who really wanted to be assured that Penelope was well, plucked up her courage and approached the duchess only to retreat trembling before a basilisk stare.
Tables had been set out in the gardens of Mrs. Blenkinsop’s Kensington villa. Kensington was only a mile outside London, far enough away to give the benefits of fresh air, but not far enough away from town to be vulgar.
Everyone was chattering and exclaiming over the beauty of the weather and saying they could never remember England enjoying such idyllic sunshine.
Despite her envy of Maria Blenkinsop, the duchess began to enjoy herself. Her new gown of watered silk had, she knew, struck an arrow of jealousy into Mrs. Blenkinsop’s breast. No longer plagued with questions about Lord Andrew, the duchess settled down to enjoy her food. On the terrace which ran along the outside of the house a little orchestra was playing. The famous diva, Madame Cuisemano, was shortly to entertain them.
Mrs. Blenkinsop waved the orchestra into silence. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “May I present Madame Cuisemano!”
There was a ripple of applause and then silence as Mr. Baxter walked onto the stage.
He was burning up with rage and fury. He had gone to Bow Street, where an alarmed magistrate, on hearing talk of perfidious dukes and duchesses, had told him he would be put in Bedlam if he did not leave. So Mr. Baxter had returned to Park Street, seen the duchess leaving, and had run all the way behind her carriage to Kensington. He had entered the villa by climbing over the back wall.
As he walked onto the terrace, he saw them all, sitting before him, the hated aristocracy. Their jewels winked and glittered in the sunlight, mounds of exotic dishes were laid out in front of them; he saw their haughty, hard, staring eyes and knew with all the passion of a martyr that he would gladly go to the gallows provided he could tell them exactly what he thought of them first.
“You have all sinned!” he cried, his eyes glittering. “You are useless, bejeweled worms. You stink of iniquity.”
Two burly servants crept towards him.
The Duchess of Parkworth heaved a sigh of relief.
The Countess of Winterton, a great social leader, suddenly jumped to her feet and cried, “Let us hear this divine preacher. You are a wonder, Maria. Such originality!”
There was a spattering of appreciative applause, and then they all settled down and listened with great enjoyment as Mr. Baxter ripped them all to pieces. But when he began to outline the sad plight of Penelope Mortimer, he had them sitting, breathless, on the edge of their seats. “I can see her now,” ended Mr. Baxter, “carrying her baby—”
“Jolly fast birth, what!” a young man cried, and was scolded into silence.
“Carrying her baby through the snow,” Mr. Baxter went on “while Lord Andrew goes on to seduce yet another fair maid. They must marry!”
“Poor Lord Andrew, poor Penelope,” whispered Amy Tilney to her fiancé, Ian Macdonald. “What are we to do?”
“Absolutely nothing,” said Ian Macdonald cheerfully. “Let this madman have his say. Andrew will have him in prison for libel soon enough.”
“They must marry,” repeated Mr. Baxter passionately. “Justice must be done. Now, let us pray.”
There was a shuffling and rustling and whispering as the delighted guests got down on their knees. When the prayer was finally over, Mr. Baxter solemnly blessed them all and urged them to see the folly of their ways. Then he stood in the sunlight and blinked as deafening applause sounded in his ears.
“For the poor,” said the Countess of Winterton languidly. She unclasped a gold necklace and tossed it at Mr. Baxter’s feet. Brooches, necklaces, bracelets, and all sorts of expensive baubles followed.
“I have never felt quite so exalted in my life,” sighed Mrs. Partridge to the duchess.
The duchess rose to her feet. She walked straight up to Mr. Baxter and hissed, “Follow me!”
“Do not worry, dear sir,” cooed Mrs. Blenkinsop. “My servants shall collect all the jewels for you.”
The duchess marched into a music room which led off the terrace and sat down. Mr. Baxter stood in front of her.
“Hear this,” said the duchess. “Penelope Mortimer is a heartless slut. She betrayed my trust. I am always helping the unfortunate. I took her out of poverty and took her into my home and gave her a Season, and this is how she repays me.”
“But right must be done. She must be married.”
The duchess ignored him. “For years I have been helping people, giving all my time and money. And what is my reward? To be humiliated in front of Maria Blenkinsop.”
“But Your Grace,” said Mr. Baxter eagerly, “there are more sound ways of helping people than giving them a Season. For example, there is one orphanage of genteel females in Highgate Village alone which is constantly in need of food and clothes. There must be two hundred girls at least.”
The duchess was about to scream at him, but the impact of what he had just said entered her brain. Two hundred lame ducks! Two hundred! She felt quite breathless. Two hundred packages of gratitude just waiting to be unwrapped.
“Mr. Baxter,” she said firmly, “when we find Penelope Mortimer, we shall see
that justice is done. In the meantime, we must help these girls in Highgate. You have all that jewelry. It must be sold, and a trust must be set up.”
“Oh, excellent woman,” cried Mr. Baxter.
“So just get out there again and tell ’em I’ll be running your charity,” said the duchess.
Mr. Baxter strode out onto the terrace and held up his hands. The duchess stood by the side of the window and watched Maria Blenkinsop’s face and saw it slowly assume a pinched and withered look.
The Duchess of Parkworth had never felt quite so happy in all her life.
Lord Andrew awoke about the middle of the afternoon. For one brief moment he did not know where he was, but then memory came flooding back—Penelope, the wedding, the row. He closed his eyes again. He wished now he had not been so angry with her. But somehow, he knew it now, he was bitterly ashamed of himself for having rushed her into that grubby wedding. What sort of man was he that he could not even wait for a special license? He should not have taken his self-disgust out on her.
He opened his eyes again and twisted over on his back and looked about the room. All sorts of facts tumbled into his brain. Her imperial was gone, her toilet things were gone, and there was a letter for him on the desk. He could just make out his name under that little pile of torn paper.
He got up and went over to the desk. He was about to brush aside the scraps of paper when he saw they were the remains of their marriage certificate. He slowly crackled open the letter. It was very simple and to the point. Penelope had prevailed on the preacher to cancel the marriage. He would, she had written, find out it was all for the best. She had borrowed five pounds and would return it to him as soon as she could. He would soon find the sort of woman he wanted, compliant and obedient. Their characters were not compatible. He was free.
Free! He stood looking blindly at the letter. He did not feel free. He felt weighted down with chains of misery and guilt.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the letter in his hand. He sat there for quite a long time. The sun went down, the landlord announced dinner and then supper, and still he sat there, unmoving.
At last he decided it was all really very simple. He wanted Penelope Mortimer—for life.
He jumped to his feet, ran out of the bedroom, clattered down the inn stairs, and sprinted across the courtyard. Now, where was that church!
Penelope awoke to another splendid day. She almost wished it were raining. Rain would match her mood. She climbed out of bed and shivered. If the cottage was this cold in some of the best weather England had had in years, what on earth was it going to be like in the winter?
She washed and dressed and tried to eat breakfast, but the bread stuck in her throat and the tea tasted dusty and old. She decided hard work was the only cure for her miseries. She collected a spade and went out to the back garden. It was fairly large, consisting of some fruit bushes, badly in need of pruning, and an expanse of weedy lawn. “All this space going to waste,” marveled Penelope. She may as well start digging a bed for vegetables.
The sun was hot and the work was hard. She finally stood upright to ease her back and looked ruefully at the beginnings of calluses on her hands. She should have worn gloves. What man would ever want to hold hands with her now?
Penelope reminded herself severely that she had forsworn all men.
Lord Andrew Childe, having found the front door open, had simply walked through the house and out into the garden at the back.
Penelope was wearing an old, much-washed blue cotton gown of old-fashioned cut, which meant the waist was where waists were supposed to be and not up under her armpits. He thought she had never looked more beautiful or more dear.
“Good day, madam wife,” he said.
Penelope turned round. “You should not have come,” she said quietly. “It would not answer. You must see that. We are not at all suited.”
“If we are not suited,” he said huskily, “then why do I feel so ill and wretched?”
“You will find it is not love,” said Penelope, striving to keep her voice steady. “We should quarrel the whole time.”
“And make up. I would rather quarrel with you, my sweet, then live placidly with anyone else in the whole wide world.”
“Now look what you have done,” wailed Penelope. “Y-you h-have m-made me cry.”
He walked forward and put his arms about her and held her close.
Penelope pulled away, took a handkerchief out of her pocket, and blew her nose. “Someone will see us.”
He looked around the garden, which was bordered by an impenetrable thorn hedge, and smiled. He put his hands on her waist. “No one will see us,” he said, “and even if they did, what does it matter? We are man and wife.”
“Not now. I told you I canceled the wedding.”
“And I uncanceled it,” he said, holding up a marriage certificate. “The unfortunate Mr. Ponsonby didn’t know whether he was coming or going.”
“But you hated being married. I saw it on your face as we left the church.”
“I was disgusted with myself. I was greedy for you and rushed you into a sordid, hurried marriage. But I do not only want you in my bed, I want you at my side, I want you to argue with me and irritate me and love me.”
“Oh, Andrew, I think that’s about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. But you must not take all the blame. I wanted you very badly as well.”
“But we are not animals,” he said, stroking her hair. “We can wait for a proper marriage.”
“Oh, yes, I do want to be married to you,” cried Penelope. “I am so miserable without you.”
She turned her lips confidingly up to his. He kissed her very gently and with great tenderness and respect. He was so proud of the cool restraint of his emotions that he kissed her again. But this time her lips clung to his so sweetly that he felt that awful roaring black passion engulfing him again. Then Penelope began to strain against him and moan in the back of her throat. “Let me take my coat off,” he panted. “Just my coat. It is so hot. There! Kiss me again.”
But the next kiss had him shaking with desire. “Faith, the sun is scorching. Pray let me remove my waistcoat. It is so tight. And this cravat is devilishly starched.” Garments flew about the grass. They sank down onto the ground clutching each other.
“But we will wait,” he said, making a heroic effort to control himself. “Won’t we, Penelope?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Penelope languorously. And then she bit the lobe of his ear.
If passion could be compared to the waves of the sea, then a whole Atlantic poured into that garden and swept them away. There was one brief moment when Penelope’s eyes dilated, when she remembered the whispers of the village girls, but the instinctive knowledge that the pain of lack of fulfillment would be sharper than any pain he could administer drove her on.
Lord Andrew slowly came to his senses. The hot sun was caressing his naked back. The naked body under his lay lax and peaceful.
“Oh, Penelope,” he said ruefully, “I did not mean it to be like this. I have had such a rigid control over my feelings for so long, I cannot understand why I cannot control them now.”
“Perhaps this is love,” said Penelope.
“Of course it is love. I love and respect you. It is not only your delectable body I want…. What are you doing?”
“I am only making myself comfortable,” said Penelope, moving her limbs. “You are heavy.”
“Then I shall rise,” he said, without moving.
“Yes, we must be sensible and make plans,” said Penelope. “But before we become sensible, you might at least kiss me again.”
It was late afternoon by the time Penelope locked up her cottage and allowed her husband to help her into his curricle. The dazed look in her eyes had nothing to do with longsightedness, and her lips were swollen. Lord Andrew picked up the reins, leaned over to kiss her, and let out a yelp of pain.
“What is it?” asked Penelope.
“Sunburn,” he s
aid ruefully. “My poor back is blistered.”
Penelope began to giggle, and she was still giggling as they drove off into the gathering dusk.
They took two weeks to reach London. They lingered at various pretty inns on the way. But as they approached the outskirts of London, Lord Andrew became possessed of a desire to have his parents’ blessing. Penelope privately thought it most odd of him, but refrained from saying so. Evidently Lord Andrew had not yet come to the realization that he was better off without the duke and duchess anywhere in his life. He and Penelope had learned of Miss Worthy’s forthcoming marriage on the road. Lord Andrew was relieved, but Penelope knew that the news must have driven the duchess into another passion.
