“What was that?” demanded Penelope, slightly muffled from her face pressed against his coat collar.
“Don’t know,” said Marchford as he scanned the room in an instant, looking for danger. Women screamed; the music stopped; people began running in random directions. He could not see any damage nor the location of the explosion. Admiral Devine ran past, waving his arms, calling for people to remain calm. Marchford darted after him, not letting go of Penelope’s hand for an instant.
“The safe! Where is it?” demanded Marchford, even as smoke began to pour into the ballroom from doors leading downstairs.
“Downstairs, in the cellar. Not again. Not again!” Admiral Devine hustled toward the door leading downstairs as the kitchen staff ran upstairs, away from the choking smoke.
The chaos was causing panic. The footmen ran to dump water on the burning tree. An elderly man was knocked down in the crush. People were going to get hurt. Marchford whistled loudly. It was not the most gentile form of communication, but it was necessary and effective.
People stopped and heads turned in his direction. “Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the exits,” he commanded in a loud voice. “Gentlemen, please assist those who may need it. Once outside, the footmen shall deliver your cloaks and arrange for your carriages as soon as possible.”
His calm words brought order back to chaos, and everyone began to do as he suggested. Despite his outward appearance, he was breathing hard. He had learned long ago to keep his emotions in check, particularly in times of crisis. And yet the black smoke gave him pause. He could face almost any trial, but being stuck in a burning building was something that made even him nervous.
Penelope squeezed his hand and gave him a confident nod. He had almost forgotten he held her hand. She believed in him, and it steadied his nerves.
“My grandmother?” he asked.
“I will see to her. Do not worry.”
He knew she would take care of things. It was what she always did. He squeezed her hand in return and hoped it would express everything he could not say. In a blink, she let go of his hand and disappeared into the crowd.
“Where is the fire? Where is the fire?” Admiral Devine shouted at the kitchen staff as they evacuated up the stairs, coughing and sputtering, their faces blackened. No one could say, except that it had not originated in the kitchens.
“Is there another way down there?” asked Marchford.
“Follow me,” boomed the admiral, and he followed him first outside the main door and then around to the back. They stopped short at what they saw.
A huge hole, low to the ground, had been blasted in the side of the redbrick town house. They ran to it and stared into the gaping hole, squinting into the acrid black smoke.
“My safe!” cried Devine. “It’s gone!”
Seventeen
It had been a long night. Penelope had escorted the dowager back home, though she would have preferred to stay with Marchford while he investigated the explosion. She had learned that a huge hole had been blown into the side of the house. Instead of trying to crack the safe, the thieves had chosen to remove the entire thing.
Penelope woke late to a cold, gray Christmas morning. It was a stark contrast to the cheery Christmas mornings of her childhood. Penelope put her feet on the frozen floor and took a deep breath of cold air. She walked to her closet undeterred. She would bring some joy into this house if it killed her. Her hand passed over the sensible frock she wished to wear and instead landed on a modish morning dress of white muslin with a bright red sash.
She met Marchford downstairs in the hall. He was dressed as well as ever, but his eyes were tired and she wondered if he had gotten any sleep.
“Did you find the safe?” she asked.
He shook a tired head. “The thieves used a wagon to haul away the safe. We followed the trail through London. Searched all night, tried to follow tracks of the wagon in the snow, but we lost it. We think it went somewhere in the direction of St. Giles.” His voice was grim.
“Do you think it was regular thieves or the work of foreign spies?”
“Undoubtedly the latter.” Marchford rubbed his forehead in a tired motion. “No average thief would have access to as much gunpowder as what must have been used to blow that hole. We are lucky the whole house wasn’t collapsed or consumed in flames.”
She reached out to touch his arm. “This was not your fault. You are doing everything you can.”
“Am I?” he asked, but his eyes softened toward her.
Antonia joined them and they were soon bundled up from head to toe for the requisite trip to St. George’s for Christmas Mass. Marchford escorted them into their reserved box and they sat mutely in the cold church. If Penelope wished for Christmas carols, she was disappointed. This was St. George’s after all, not some country parish. Yet even the staid reverend could not diminish the good news of the birth of the baby Jesus, who came to forgive the sins of the world and restore all to a relationship with their creator.
“God must truly have loved us to send his only son,” whispered Penelope. “I can’t imagine giving away my child to save the life of another.”
Marchford frowned, as if the concept was a new one. “Nor I.”
“That’s why I love Christmas so much. It reminds me that there is hope.” She wished so much to share this hope with the dejected man beside her.
The dowager hushed them like errant children, and Penelope returned her attention to the service.
Upon their return, Pen made her way to the kitchens. She found willing allies in the cook and kitchen staff. Together they decided on a menu of roast goose with chestnut stuffing and celery sauce, marmalade glazed ham, pork and cranberry pie, and spiced prunes, with plum pudding and hot rum cream for dessert.
She might not be able to fix all the problems facing the Marchford house, but at least she could ensure their Christmas table, and that of the many domestics within their employ, would have a feast for supper. Returning upstairs, she surveyed the festive touches added to the dining room by the butler, who had been emboldened to include his own exquisite touches.
“I see you have now corrupted my entire staff.” Marchford strolled into the empty dining room, surveying the crystal dangling orbs and silver bows with a critical eye.
“Should I apologize?” asked Penelope.
“Indeed, you should. I am in no mood for cheer.”
“But that is when you are most in need of it.”
Marchford merely shrugged. His usually bright eyes were dull and tired. “Since the thieves most likely are using the Rookery of St. Giles as a base of operations, I am amused by the prospect that, with my misguided philanthropy, I provided a hearty meal for the agents before they carried out this plot.”
“No, no, I’m sure you did good.” Penelope stood beside him next to the long table, beautifully decorated with crisp, white linens and pure-white china with gold accents. “I have something for you,” she added, wishing to change the subject and lift his spirits.
“You do? Why? Oh, right, that Christmas thing.” He answered his own question with a dejected mutter.
“I was going through some trunks in the attic,” Penelope began.
“Why on earth would you be rummaging through my trunks?” asked Marchford in a manner that could only raise Penelope’s defenses.
“I was hiding certain garments from your grandmother to prevent them from being burned,” she explained.
“That’s my girl,” muttered Marchford, though she was not certain if he was referring to herself or to his grandmother.
“As I was saying, I found this miniature and I wondered if you knew who it was?” Penelope handed him the miniature and was surprised at his immediate reaction.
Marchford gasped and stared at the tiny picture. He shook his head and muttered something Penelope’s tender ears should not have hear
d. She wished to ask who it was but held her tongue, allowing Marchford to stare at the picture in peace. He leaned against a chair for support, closed his eyes, and held the miniature to his chest. “Where did you find it?”
“In a chest, far back in the attic, with a gown I believe she is wearing in the picture.”
He stood up tall, his eyes intense. “Where? Show me!”
Within minutes, they were in the attic, lit dimly with pale blue light from the dormer windows. Penelope showed him the trunk and he opened it slowly. He removed the gown with reverent hands, pausing to breathe in its scent.
“Was she a lost love of yours?” Penelope asked softly, swallowing down any inappropriate jealousy. She had no claim on this man.
Marchford gave a half smile. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.” He removed the other items with gentle hands. A fan, a bottle of perfume, an ivory-handled brush and comb. Underneath it all was a large, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. Marchford did what she had not dared and removed it from the trunk, slowly unwrapping the portrait.
“I thought this was burned,” he whispered. It was a portrait of the same young woman. She was quite handsome, with an olive complexion, black hair, large dark eyes, and a wide, full mouth. The artist had captured a look of devious amusement. It was an enchanting picture.
In fairness, Penelope could easily see how Marchford would fall in love with such a beauty. In truth, who would not be tempted by her charms? Penelope pushed aside a flood of envy. Of course Marchford had experienced previous loves, and of course he would do so again. And when he did fall in love again, it would be with a divine creature like the one painted before her. It would not be…her.
Penelope cleared her throat and asked, “When did you know her?”
“When I was young.” His voice was soft. He reached up to touch the cheek of the lovely lady.
“Yes. Quite. I am glad to have reunited you with her,” said Penelope with something less than candor. She had never seen Marchford—safe, stolid Marchford—so entranced. It was not a vision she enjoyed. Handsome, young, rich, titled men fall in love with beautiful ladies. Those were the facts she knew all too well. She did not need to watch Marchford make love to a portrait to have the point driven home.
“I shall leave you to have some privacy for your remembrances,” said Pen, feeling she had already overstayed her welcome—or at least her tolerance.
“Thank you, Penelope,” murmured Marchford.
Pen stilled. The man never called her by her given name.
His eyes met hers. “This was my mother.”
***
To see his mother again was the best Christmas gift he had ever received, though in truth he had received very few presents in his life. Over time, the memory of her had faded and his vision of her image was obscured. He remembered her soft voice and the smell of her perfume—which still clung to her gown—and now her image was renewed in his mind. Penelope had given him back the image of someone he thought lost forever.
“Your mother!” Penelope’s surprise was evident. She sank down on the floor beside him. “There is no record of her in the house.” Penelope was referring to the fact that his mother’s portrait did not hang in the gallery with the other family members.
“No indeed. My grandmother did everything in her power to ensure that all memory of my mother was erased. This portrait should be hanging now in the gallery, but my grandmother would rather be buried alive than allow such a travesty to occur.”
“I understand your mother and your grandmother were not the best of friends,” prompted Penelope gently.
“My father’s first marriage was an arranged alliance to Sophia of Lincolnshire. She was a lovely creature but did not survive childbirth with my elder brother, Frederick. My grandmother moved back into the house to care for Frederick, and my father took to the Continent for a grand tour. In Spain, he met a very beautiful lady. She was the daughter of the Earl of Wainwright and a very famous Spanish courtesan. My father fell madly, passionately in love with Belicia, Bella he called her, and they were married.” Marchford paused for effect.
“Oh my,” whispered Penelope. Marchford was the grandson of a Spanish courtesan?
“Can you possibly imagine the feelings of my grandmother when he returned with his new Spanish wife?”
“I am surprised the house was not rocked off its foundation.”
Marchford gave a humorless laugh. “Very nearly. Grandmother was furious. It was all the talk. My grandmother refused to acknowledge my mother and to this day denies the legality of the marriage. In truth, she repeated this sentiment so often that I grew up with the strong impression that I was a bastard son and my father had brought home a mistress. One of the first things I did when I gained my majority was to travel to Spain to determine once and for all whether my birth was legitimate.”
“And was it?”
“Oh yes, quite. The marriage was performed by an English minister for the British consulate to Spain. I found the register.”
“It must have been difficult to grow up this way.”
Marchford leaned back against the trunk. “My grandmother refused to leave Frederick to the care of a woman she despised, and consequently, we all ended up living together, one big, miserable family. My grandmother was supposedly raising Frederick and my mother supposedly raising me, though in truth they left most of the actual child care to a series of nannies and governesses, to whom they gave conflicting instructions.” Marchford inspected the bottle of perfume as he told a tale he had never verbalized to anyone before now.
“I believe the primary reason they remained in the house was to fight. My mother planted flowers; my grandmother ripped them out. My mother redecorated the parlor; my grandmother refused to set foot in it. It all played out in society with different members of the ton taking sides. My father attempted at first to effect compromise and peace in his household but eventually gave up and spent most of his time at his club or hunting.”
“What a dismal childhood.” Penelope’s voice was warm with understanding, but he could not look at her.
“It was not all bad. Frederick and I would secretly meet and play together when we should have been taking naps or focusing on our studies. Freddy was a marvelous companion, and though I’m sure he was often told that I was of inferior blood, he never once made me feel slighted.
“He was an excellent older brother, weak as he was. He had a fever early in life, and his body never fully recovered. Though his illness occurred before my father brought home my mother, my grandmother even laid the blame of that on my mother’s doorstep. I think it offended my grandmother greatly to see Frederick remain so weak and me grow strong and healthy. The offense of this I could never overcome in her eyes.”
“I cannot believe she was so hurtful to you!”
“When I was ten years old, my father died in a fire in his hunting box.” Marchford closed his eyes, remembering the moment when the news had reached the household. His mother had collapsed on the floor, crying. His grandmother proceeded to scream at her for being overly dramatic. His mother had screamed right back.
“That must have been very difficult for you,” said Penelope softly. She put her hand on his. It was warm and comforting, and he paused a moment simply accepting the comfort she provided. He had never told anyone this story. His oldest friends already knew and nobody else would dare to ask. A part of him wondered why he was telling Penelope now. She was nothing more to him than his grandmother’s companion. And yet she was more—much more.
“After my father’s death, it all became very ugly. I was sent away to school, and my mother was left to duel it out with my grandmother. It did not last long.”
Marchford continued his tale, slowly turning his hand until Penelope’s rested in his. It was natural, right. “One day they called me in to a small parlor at Eton where my mother was waiting. She hugged me tight
and told me she loved me and that she was going away for a little while but that her love remained.”
Marchford paused to ensure his voice was steady before he continued. “It was the last time I ever saw her.”
Penelope closed both hands around his. “I am so sorry. Whatever happened to her?”
“I am not sure. I attempted to find her, but to no avail. My grandmother also hindered any attempt. I wrote many letters that were never answered. Later, I discovered my grandmother had paid the school to ensure no letter was ever posted.”
“How cruel!” Penelope squeezed his hand. Her eyes blazed. “I am so sorry. I had not thought the duchess to be so mean-spirited.”
“I am glad you are finally seeing her from my perspective.” He hazarded a glance at Penelope, who looked at him with nothing but compassion. “Though to be fair, I believe she thought she was doing right by me. She believed my mother to be a poor influence on me, and in truth, there may have been something to it.”
“How so?”
“When I gained majority, I attempted to follow my mother’s path. When she left England, she was not alone but in the company of a German prince. After that, she had an alliance with the King of Spain until his wife objected. I fear she had a variety of liaisons until the trail grew cold, and I could no longer discover any word of her.”
“You believe she has died?” Penelope’s voice was soft yet strong. This was something he had never verbalized, yet she gave him the strength to speak of this long-denied pain.
“It is most likely. I have never received any word from her. Not even when Frederick died and I ascended to the dukedom. I can only assume she has passed.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” In Penelope’s eyes, he saw honest compassion and understanding. Her parents also being deceased, he knew she truly did understand what it was like to be without one’s parents.
Marchford sat on the dusty floor of the attic on Christmas day with his grandmother’s companion and the image of his mother. It was a strange day. “When I returned on holiday from Eton, I found all trace of her was removed. All questions regarding her whereabouts were rebuffed. It was as if she had never existed. I was never allowed to express…” He paused, unsure how to proceed. His grief at his mother’s absence became an illicit thing. He could not voice the loss. Except, apparently, with Penelope.
A Winter Wedding Page 13
