At last Augusta could wait no longer. Mr. Liwoski had obviously decided not to attend, which was strange since he had not been paid and had not let Augusta see the portrait, having promised her a glorious surprise on the day of the unveiling.
Augusta gave a loud cough to collect everyone’s attention. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a voice quite squeaky with excitement. “I shall perform the unveiling of the portrait myself.”
She grasped the edge of the cloth which covered the easel and pulled.
There was sudden silence.
Penelope stood rooted to the floor, gazing in horror at the portrait.
The paint had been laid on by the hand of a genius. The figure in the portrait seemed alive. The painted Augusta Harvey stared at the room full of guests, her face a mask of hatred, cunning, and malice.
The real Augusta Harvey looked proudly up at her painted self, seeing nothing amiss. It was, after all, a face that often stared back at her from her looking glass.
Then the silence was hideously shattered. Charles let out a high, thin, screaming, spluttering laugh. With a shaking finger he pointed to the canvas.
“Augusta Harvey to the life,” he screamed. “By God, Augusta, the man has painted your soul!”
The Earl hurried towards his brother and then, taking his arm in a firm grip, led him from the room.
The guests all burst out into noisy speech.
Penelope stood quite still, staring at the portrait. Her own feelings for Augusta had swung back and forth as her still undeveloped personality swung from maturity to immaturity—one minute the woman, the next the child. The woman felt that Augusta should be watched very carefully and not trusted very much. The child longed for Augusta to be a substitute mother and saw in her coarseness a rough diamond. Which was the real Augusta?
Penelope did not know.
But as she continued to stare at the portrait, she began to feel afraid.
Chapter Eight
WYNDHAM COURT, HOME of the Earl of Hestleton, was a great rambling pile of mixed architecture, from Tudor to modern. It stood on a rise, commanding a fine view of the fields and woods of Hertfordshire.
Here was the home Penelope had dreamed of, with its long, spacious rooms and bowls of flowers.
She had at first been intimidated by the army of servants and the rather grim and austere figure of Aunt Matilda who was an extremely tall, thin elderly spinster. But the servants had done all in their power to make the future mistress of Wyndham Court feel at home and Aunt Matilda had turned out to be garrulous and friendly and not at all like her forbidding exterior.
The weather was idyllic, long hot sunny days fading into soft gray and rose evenings and starlit nights.
Penelope had spent her days being driven around the estate by the Earl and her evenings playing the piano for Aunt Matilda who had an insatiable love of music. And then, sometimes, in a quiet corner of the garden there were those stolen, hungry kisses with the Earl. Each time they seemed not enough, and Penelope would toss and turn during the night, feeling strangely restless and unsatisfied.
It was not that Aunt Matilda was a particularly conscientious chaperone. It was just that she had taken a great liking to Penelope, trotting happily after her when Penelope retired for the night and passing half an hour each night in Penelope’s bedroom “having a comfortable coze.”
Early one evening Penelope escaped from Aunt Matilda’s company and went out onto the broad flagged terrace to enjoy the cool, still air. Scarlet roses spilled over the edge of great stone urns on the balustrade of the terrace, and beyond, the wide, green, shaven lawns rolled gently away towards the darkness of the woods.
Penelope heard a step on the terrace behind her and a well-loved voice said, “Dreaming, my dear?”
Penelope turned, her pale skin almost translucent in the soft twilight. “Oh, Roger,” she sighed. “Of all things to think about on this beautiful evening! But I can’t help wondering why Mr. Liwoski painted Aunt Augusta so. He did not seem a particularly malicious man. He made her look evil.”
“It was a caricature, that was all,” said the Earl mildly.
“But it could not be that,” expostulated Penelope. “A caricature dramatises, highlights, qualities that are there. And Aunt is not malicious or evil.”
Her voice rose at the end in a faint question.
“There is no accounting for the whims of artists,” said the Earl lightly.
At that moment they heard Aunt Matilda calling them in to dinner. While she regaled Penelope with a recipe for rose water, the Earl sat buried in thought, remembering the aftermath of the portrait party.
Augusta’s portrait! Charles had been nearly incoherent. “But don’t you see, Roger? Don’t you see the joke of it all,” he had kept saying over and over again. “It’s the pig lady in person.”
The pig-faced lady was one of the absurd reports and ridiculous stories which had swept London during the spring of 1814. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had seen the pig-faced lady. The shops were full of caricatures of her wearing a poke bonnet with a large veil, with “A pig in a poke” written underneath. A timid young baronet, Sir William Elliot, claimed that the pig-faced lady lived in Grosvenor Square. He had met her when he had called at a certain mansion and had been unable to restrain his cry of horror when what he thought was a fashionably dressed young person turned to reveal the monstrous and horrible face of a pig. He claimed that the pig-faced lady, incensed at his cry of horror, had rushed towards him with great grunts and had bitten him in the neck. The wound had been dressed by Hawkins, the surgeon, in St. Audley Street and Mr. Hawkins had said the wound was a severe one.
Sir William, however, claimed to have forgotten the exact address in Grosvenor Square.
For days after, several bucks and bloods had hung around the confines of Grosvenor Square hoping for a glance at this lady, but in vain. The story spread all over London. The pig-faced lady had been seen at the Tower, at Gunter’s eating ices, even at Almack’s!
The Earl realised that if Charles continued in this hysterical vein, most of London would be flooding to Brook Street for a glimpse of Augusta Harvey.
He finally seemed to have driven some sense into Charles’s head, and when his young brother appeared calmer, had asked him the meaning of the outburst. Charles had looked slightly furtive and had claimed that he had been foxed and the Earl remembered that his brother had smelled of brandy.
The Earl turned his thoughts to the more pleasant prospect of the present. He looked down the long table to where Penelope sat at the other end and could not help comparing her with her aunt. The girl radiated innocence and sweetness. Her manners were well-bred and refined and her voice, soft and gentle.
He considered himself very lucky indeed as he watched the soft candlelight playing on her delicate features, and he forgot all his worries about Charles and Augusta. London seemed very far away with its noise and bustle and dirt.
“My dear, do try this buttered crab,” Aunt Matilda was saying as she helped herself to another plateful. Penelope shook her head. Aunt Matilda seemed to be able to eat a vast amount of food for such a thin lady.
“As I was saying,” Aunt Matilda droned on, “it is most necessary to call on sick tenants in person. Of course one can go too far. Now, Lady Barbara Desmond over at Suthers carried it to extremes and would go even if they had the smallpox and, of course, she died. Not of smallpox, dear, cholera it was. An excess of zeal. An excess of zeal! Do have some more buttered crab. Oh, I have already asked you that. Then I had better finish it myself. It is too rich for the servants, you know, and might give them ideas above their station. And it is very bad for people to get ideas above their station. I trust, my dear, you would have escaped the contagion emanating from Godwin, Wollstonecraft, Holcroft, Thelwell, and the writers of that pestilential school. But then the servants do not read much—if they can read at all —and, believe me, buttered crab is famous for arousing radical notions in the palates of tho
se unaccustomed to it!”
“Really,” teased Penelope, “it is the first time I have heard of anyone’s palate having radical notions.”
“But it sends the message to the brain,” said Aunt Matilda earnestly. “It says ‘Arise! Lead the aristos to the lanterne, bring out la guillotine, you too can dine on buttered crab!’ You do understand now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Penelope faintly. A choked sound came from the Earl.
“Of course, there are other messages from food. Quite pleasant ones,” went on Aunt Matilda. “I was once in love, my dear. Hard to believe, when you look at me now,” she added sadly, tucking a wisp of gray hair under her lace cap. “But I was. Yes, indeed. And with the curate, too. Most unsuitable and of course Papa was quite right although naturally I did not think so at the time. When he came to tea, Mama always served macaroon cakes. Macaroon cakes and tea. Now every time I taste a macaroon, I still feel very young and lost and sort of trembly, you know.” Aunt Matilda fell silent as she stared back down the years.
Penelope looked down the table and found her gaze held by the Earl. She began to feel very young and lost and trembly as well. How long could the Earl, who was used to experienced liaisons with experienced women, be content with mere kisses? How long could she?
Penelope sighed and became aware that Aunt Matilda had roused herself from her reverie.
“What a monstrous amount of food I have consumed,” said that lady. “Now, shall we go into the drawing room, Penelope, and leave Roger to his port. And you shall play something for me.”
The Earl rose as well and grasped the decanter. “You are not having Penelope’s beautiful music all to yourself tonight, Aunt,” he said. “I shall join you.”
Soon the rippling notes of Vivaldi echoed round the drawing room, and the Earl stretched out his long legs and admired his fiancée and wished they could be married by special license that very night.
Suddenly a loud snore interrupted the music and Penelope stopped and swung round. Aunt Matilda had fallen fast asleep, her cap tipped over one eye and her mouth open.
The Earl moved slowly towards Penelope, his face lit with a mischievous smile. “Our chaperone has gone to sleep,” he whispered, “and I have been longing to kiss you all day.”
He drew Penelope to her feet and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her long and hard until they were both dizzy. “I can’t stand much more of this frustration,” muttered the Earl finally with his mouth against hers. “I….
“Roger!” Aunt Matilda was awake, her face suffused with a delicate pink. “You are to be married quite soon, dear boy, so you should curb your … well, till … well never mind. ‘Tis not genteel to talk of such things in company. Come, Penelope, I shall see you to your bedchamber and we shall have a comfortable coze.
“In fact, I think we should go now. It must have been the duckling!” she said triumphantly, pausing in the doorway. “Duckling is inflamatory! Very. Good night, Roger. Come, my dear, what was I saying. Dear me, I do forget things these days. A sad sign of getting old. Oh, yes, chaperone. Roger. Watch that step, my dear, it wobbles so and I have told the servants to fix it and they say they have, but there, it wobbles just the same and one could so easily get a turned ankle.
“As I was saying, has your aunt discussed the Delicate Side of Marriage with you? No? Then … ah here we are.” She sat down heavily on a chair. “Put my candle on the mantelpiece, my dear. Don’t ring for the maid yet. I must tell you, you see. There are certain things that are Right after marriage and Wrong before marriage. Now, ‘twas most embarrassing for the Wiltons over at Hadley Hall when Sally was married to young Brothers and her wedding gown stuck out in front in such a fashion. Of course, they claimed she was wearing a pad but no one has worn them since I was a girl when it was fashionable to look six months pregnant. And she was ! So there. I am glad we have had this little coze. You see, someone has to tell you, and I am so very fond of you.”
Penelope, who had been opening and shutting her mouth, trying to get a word in edgeways during this rather incoherent lecture, gave it up as a bad job and kissed Aunt Matilda’s withered cheek before that lady sailed from the room with a smug smile on her face, indicating that she felt she had just completed a distasteful task and had done it well.
But after the maid had prepared her for bed, Penelope stood for a long time, looking out of the window into the garden and leaning her hot forehead against the cool glass. Her body seemed to be trembling with unrealised, unknown, and unfulfilled passion.
Too much kissing, she thought. Too much sudden restraint on the Earl’s part. Too much of suddenly putting her away from him. They were soon to be married after all. Why was it then considered a sin to do more than kiss? Perhaps she, Penelope, was not a lady after all!
A glimmer of white in the garden below caught her eye. Her room was on the second floor and had a little wrought-iron balcony with long windows in the French manner. She pulled a wrap round her shoulders and drew open the windows. The iron of the balcony felt cold on her bare feet and a cool breeze sent her long nightdress billowing about her legs.
The Earl of Hestleton was walking backwards and forwards below her window. He was wearing a cambric shirt, open at the throat, leather breeches, and top boots.
A ripple of laughter escaped Penelope, and he quickly looked up. “You look like a pirate,” she said in a soft whisper which carried to his ears on the still night air.
He stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at her, his head thrown back. He did not say anything, only stood there, looking up at her very intently, his gray eyes gleaming silver in the bright moonlight.
Penelope stared back at him, her heart beginning to thud against her ribs. She knew what the look meant and the unspoken question in his eyes.
She gave a funny jerky little nod of her head and he moved deliberately forward and seized the creeper which grew against the wall and began to climb.
Penelope retreated to her room and sat very solemnly on the edge of the bed.
He climbed in at the window and then stood in front of her, looking down.
She rose to her feet and threw herself into his arms, her body trembling down the length of him. “Faith, I no longer know myself,” she whispered. “I love you, Roger.”
He lifted her gently in his arms and laid her on the bed and then lay down beside her, stroking her shaking body and muttering husky endearments and then kissing her and kissing her till the world went away.
At last he tried to move away, but she cling onto him desperately, her arms wound round his neck.
“Oh, dear heart,” said the Earl, “how on earth am I going to make love to you with all my clothes on?”
Penelope drew away from him and said with a shaky laugh, “It must have been the duckling.”
And, “Three cheers for the duckling!” said the Earl of Hestleton as his shirt and breeches followed his top boots onto the floor.
The stay at Wyndham Court was over and the Earl and Penelope drove slowly back into summer London in an ecstatic silence. Everything looked crystal clear and new, fresh minted in the sunlight.
Augusta Harvey had returned from France and the Earl did not want his perfect happiness to be marred by a social visit to Miss Harvey. He kissed Penelope’s hand as he left her on her doorstep and reminded her again that he would be calling on her on the following day to take her to the peace celebrations in Hyde Park.
He then drove to Grosvenor Square and whistling a jaunty tune, strode into his mansion.
“My lord,” said his butler who had let him into the hall, “I am very worried about Lord Charles.”
“Why, what’s he been up to now?” asked the Earl, stripping off his York tan gloves and handing his hat and cane to the butler.
“Lord Charles has been in the study, my lord. There was a strange report from the room and I tried the door, but it was locked.”
“He’s probably in his cups and falling over the furniture or writing love letters to s
ome inamorato,” said the Earl cheerfully. He walked across the hall and rattled the study door, calling out, “Charles! Hey, Charles! It’s me, little brother. Let me in!”
Silence.
“Charles!” he cried again in a voice suddenly sharpened with anxiety.
The house suddenly seemed very still and quiet.
The Earl drew back and crashed his booted foot against the panels of the door and kicked, kicked again, until the door splintered and flew open.
What was left of Charles, Viscount Clairmont’s head was lying buried in his arms. He was slumped across a pretty little escritoire.
A broad shaft of sunlight lit up the scene with an unreal clarity. The room was absolutely quiet except for the steady drip, drip, drip of blood onto the floor.
Charles had thrown his last dice and turned his last card. But in all his wasted life of idleness and failure, he had at last made a thorough job of just one thing. With an unerring aim and steady hand, he had blown his brains out.
Chapter Nine
THE REGENT HAD ordered great peace celebrations in Hyde Park, St. James’s Park, and Green Park which were decorated with Oriental temples, towers, pagodas, and bridges. There were balloon ascents, a miniature naval battle on the Serpentine, and a hundred-foot-high Castle of Discord “with all its horrors of fire and destruction” which finally thinned out in smoke to reveal a Temple of Concord.
Penelope saw nothing of this except great bursts of fireworks which sent their thousands of stars cascading over London and lit up her white face as she sat in the corner of the window seat. The Earl had not come. And since the servants had been allowed the day off to watch the celebrations, she had no one to send to ask the Earl what had happened.
At last she could bear it no longer. Wrapped in a long cloak, she slipped from the house and made her way through the deserted streets to Grosvenor Square. All the world and his wife seemed to have taken to the parks.
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