by Jane Ashford
“And the Pratts cut me dead. They’ll see that everyone does. You as well.”
“The Pratts and all their ilk may go to perdition. Do you imagine I care for the opinion of petty, malicious people?” He squeezed her hands. She really was cold. “Let’s go in.”
“If you were cast out of society because of me, I couldn’t forgive myself.”
“My social position is unassailable.” Daniel smiled, trying to tease her out of the dismals.
His lightness had no effect. “If you wanted me to, I would go,” she added. “You could have the marriage set aside, say it was a mistake.”
“It was not! And I do not want you to go!” He dropped her hands and pulled her close. “You vowed till death do us part.”
“Yes, but Daniel—”
“No buts. You are my wife.” He felt her tremble within his arms. “And I’ll take care of the blasted Foreign Office.” Wondering why he hadn’t yet had a reply to his letter to Macklin, and whether he would have to return to London himself, he pulled her to her feet. “Now come in and get warm.”
Penelope let him lead her along the path and into the drawing room. She didn’t object when he ordered a fire, though her chill was more spiritual than physical. She drank the tea he ordered for her as well. But the exuberance he so loved was not restored. Had it been a constant before the last year ground her down? The idea filled him with anger and regret. The government agents had much to answer for. “I have a plan,” he said. “This situation will soon be resolved.”
“You’ll give up the notebooks?” It seemed the only solution.
“On my terms, not theirs.”
“What terms? Men like that don’t listen, Daniel.”
“Let’s be sure my scheme works first.”
“Scheme? It’s no good bargaining. They take it as an admission of guilt.”
“I understand. I’ll take great care. Will you trust me?”
Penelope met his earnest gaze. He was so dear to her. She wanted to trust. She could remember a time when belief in others had been automatic. But so many people had let her down since then—believed the worst, enjoyed the spectacle of her disgrace, drew back as if she was contagious. Daniel wouldn’t do that. He was steadfast. But his plan might fail. She’d made plans this last year, and so many of them had collapsed.
She had to blink back tears. When she came to Rose Cottage, she’d thought there could be nothing worse than to be dragged back into the orbit of her questioners. But there was. Seeing Daniel there, ready to throw himself against the stone wall of suspicion.
“Penelope?”
She nodded. What else could she do? That was the question, she realized. Was there anything she could do?
Nineteen
Foyle came to see Penelope the following day, a nearly unprecedented occurrence. “Is there a problem at Rose Cottage?” she asked when he was ushered into the drawing room.
“No, miss. Lady Whitfield, that is. Well, except those daft dogs and their goat. They herd the creature into the garden to eat the veg, and when Bob tries to chase them off, they snarl at him and offer to bite.”
“Bite?”
“They haven’t bit him yet,” Foyle said. “He thinks they will though, which is their point, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you think a gardener could outface a couple of hounds?”
Penelope suppressed a smile. “Jip and Jum are…eccentric dogs.”
Foyle looked aggrieved. “It’s my belief they’re not right in the head, my lady. They wouldn’t hunt, would they? What kind of foxhound refuses to hunt?”
“An odd one, apparently.”
“Huh.” Foyle looked as gnarled and crotchety as ever. And yet there was something different about him. “Another thing I wanted to speak to you about,” he added.
“Certainly. Will you sit down?”
“I’d druther stand.” He held his cloth cap crushed in one hand, and he hesitated, which was not like him. Foyle practically defined forthright. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve asked Dora Hart to marry me.”
“Ah.” When he said nothing more, Penelope had to ask, “Did she accept?”
“Oh. Yes, she did.” He sounded surprised as well as shyly pleased. “You may think I’m an old fool—”
“Of course I don’t. I’m very glad for you. And Mrs. Hart, too.”
“Thank you, mi…my lady. So we was wondering if you’d be agreeable to us staying at Rose Cottage. As tenants, like.”
“Of course, Foyle. I’m happy to have you there.”
He looked relieved. Had he actually been worried? Penelope was glad to have such a responsible couple occupying her property. “When will you marry?” she asked.
“The banns will be done with next Sunday.”
“I hadn’t heard.” She had been away, but there’d been no mention of the match at the village church last week.
“Dora’s chapel,” Foyle said. “So they was posted over to the Methodist place.”
And begun before her own wedding if they were nearly complete, Penelope noted. Foyle had been as reticent as ever. “Will you allow me to give your wedding breakfast? I should so like to do so.”
“I’d have to ask Dora.”
“Of course you will. Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit. I haven’t seen her in quite a while.” Since they’d cooked together at the cottage, which felt like such a long time ago.
“That’d be right kind of you,” answered her family’s old servitor.
Penelope was happy to oblige. But as she prepared to leave Frithgerd the following day, she found she was worried about encountering the Foreign Office men outside the estate’s walls. She sat in her bedchamber, bonnet on, carriage waiting below, and looked down at her clasped hands.
“Is anything wrong, my lady?” asked her new maid Betty. “Do you need something else? You look right smart.”
The mirror told Penelope that her sprigged muslin gown and chip straw hat were perfect for a fine summer afternoon. The shawl over her arm was a lovely, filmy froth. Blond ringlets framed her face. The expression was the problem. Her features showed that the thought of going out made her apprehensive. How she hated that!
Penelope stood. She smiled at Betty and thanked her. She couldn’t deny her fears, but she would not be ruled by them. She walked downstairs, got into the carriage, and set off. And although the sound of approaching hoofbeats on the road made her stiffen during the short journey, she didn’t give in to anxiety. None of them turned out to be the agents, and she reached Mrs. Hart’s small cottage without interruption.
The older woman greeted her cordially. Penelope had sent word ahead, knowing that Mrs. Hart would like to be prepared. And she was. Two luscious cakes flanked a tea service in her parlor. And the water was boiling moments after Penelope sat down. She accepted her cup and plate gladly. “I wanted to offer you my congratulations,” she said. “And our help with the wedding breakfast if you’d like it.” She indicated the cakes with a gesture. “Of course you’re such a splendid cook—”
“I’d dearly love to have somebody else do the cooking, my lady.” Mrs. Hart smiled. “I’ll be cooking every other day of my life. Ronald told me about your offer, and we’d be happy to accept.”
Briefly, Penelope wondered who Ronald might be, and then she realized this must be Foyle’s first name. It wasn’t the least odd that he had one. And yet it made him seem such a different person.
“I’d like to have it at Rose Cottage if you’re agreeable, my lady.”
“Splendid.”
“Supposing it’s a fine day—which I hope it will be—we can put a keg in the yard near the kitchen door with tables for the food down the side. That’d save the kitchen for making tea and such.”
It sounded like a village festival. “How many will be coming?”
“I’ve quite a few friends in the neighborhood,
my lady. And at chapel, of course.”
Life was going to change for Foyle, Penelope thought. She was glad for him, though she wondered if he would enjoy a throng of friends. “I can send over flowers from the Frithgerd gardens.”
“That would be lovely, my lady. And I was wondering if you’d be able to take out some of the furniture at Rose Cottage. I’d like to bring my own things with me.”
Mrs. Hart had always been a woman who knew her own mind. And not shy. Penelope liked that about her. “Of course.” There was ample storage room at Frithgerd. “Make a list of what you’d like gone, and I’ll send a wagon over to remove the things.”
“Thank you, my lady. You’re very kind.”
“Foyle is an old friend. And you are a new one. I’m happy to help.”
They agreed on various other details. Penelope ate her sumptuous cake, and they parted warmly, very much pleased with the arrangements they’d made. Foyle was a fortunate man, Penelope thought on the drive back. He’d found a congenial wife at a somewhat advanced age, and she had every hope that they would be compatible. She was so occupied thinking of them that she forgot all about the government men.
Penelope had barely taken off her hat when there was a knock on her chamber door. “Come in,” she called. A piquantly pointed face looked around the panels. “Kitty, hello.” The girl entered and dropped a curtsy. She looked older and more assured in the short time since they’d left Rose Cottage. It was odd. The young maid had been a constant presence in Penelope’s life for weeks, and now she barely saw her except when she went to the kitchen to confer with the cook.
“My lady,” she said. “I wanted to ask if I might bake the cake for Mr. Foyle’s wedding.”
“You’ve heard about that already?”
“Lots of people knew. Because of the banns. But Mr. Foyle wanted to tell you himself.”
“I see.” She wasn’t in touch with the servants’ gossip in her new household, Penelope thought. Back home in Lancashire, she would have picked up hints and drawn conclusions. That would come as she became better friends with the Frithgerd people, particularly Betty.
“I’ll make him a first-rate cake.”
Remembering some of Kitty’s mishaps in the kitchen, Penelope doubted that. “I’ll be making a plan with Cook,” she said.
“She’ll say I should do it.”
“And she did,” Penelope told Daniel that night as they lay in bed. They’d fallen into the habit of talking over their days in the glowing aftermath of passion. Each activity was as sweet as the other.
“Kitty’s Shrewsbury cakes were not a success,” Daniel pointed out. He toyed with a curl of Penelope’s pale hair.
“They were not. I hinted as much to Cook, and was given the impression that she thought herself a much better teacher than Mrs. Hart.”
“That sounds ominous. Do we have a feud?”
“More like a friendly rivalry, I think.” Penelope nestled closer. “Or perhaps the pride of a professional versus an amateur. There was passing mention of the bakery prize at an agricultural fair. And it’s partly because Mrs. Hart cooked for me at Rose Cottage.”
“And now you are here.”
“And so much grander,” said Penelope teasingly.
“As your food must also be.”
“Naturally.” Penelope rose on one elbow to drop a kiss on his lips. He responded in a similar vein, and conversation was extinguished for a time.
“Cook wouldn’t spoil the wedding?” Daniel asked a good bit later.
Penelope stretched like a cat. “On the contrary, I think it will be lavish. Demonstrating every skill Cook possesses. Aggressively. And she assured me that Kitty can make a creditable cake. I expect she’ll see to it.”
“So all’s well then. The happy couple won’t be disappointed.”
“No. In fact, I began to wonder if Mrs. Hart knew exactly how this would unfold. And perhaps enjoyed the idea of Cook exerting herself to create a memorable wedding feast.”
“You think the future Mrs. Foyle is so devious?”
“Mrs. Foyle,” Penelope repeated. “How odd that sounds. For all my life Foyle has been—”
“The resident gargoyle?”
She hit his shoulder playfully. “A steady, solitary presence. I never felt he wanted any family other than ours, which is vastly selfish of me, I know.”
Daniel shrugged, his shoulder moving against the side of Penelope’s face. “I don’t know him well enough to say. But perhaps he feels his work is done.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the last of the family, and you’re settled here. With me.” Smug satisfaction tinged his voice. His arm drew her closer.
“Huh.” Penelope contemplated this new idea.
“Or perhaps he simply met the right woman at last,” Daniel added. “A man can have no interest at all in marriage, and then suddenly, between one week and the next, be determined to wed.”
Penelope smiled. “Indeed, my lord?”
“Oh, yes. There’s no warning. You know nothing until the blow falls, like a thunderbolt from the blue.”
“Thunderbolts knock things to pieces and set fires.”
“Precisely.”
She ran her fingertips over his chest. “Are you calling me incendiary?”
“Utterly. Unprecedented, revolutionary, the dawn of a new epoch.”
“Epoch? How will I live up to such a grandiose label?” She let her hand drift to his ribs, and started tickling.
“Hey!” He retaliated, and their discussion dissolved into an orgy of giggles.
* * *
His cook had certainly outdone herself, Daniel thought a week later as he walked along the row of tables that held the wedding viands. She and her assistants had produced a spread to rival one of the Prince Regent’s banquets. There were terrines and jellies and timbales and other delicacies he couldn’t even name. Piles of tartlets and special breads and macaroons. Roasted meats punctuated the offerings. And at the end, young Kitty stood beside the cake, a tall fantasy of frosting, receiving compliments as if to the manor born. She appeared to find Mrs. Hart’s—Mrs. Foyle’s—astonishment especially gratifying.
Shoals of villagers and Frithgerd servants marveled and ate and chatted and ate some more. Many he knew, but there were others who looked only vaguely familiar. The bride seemed to be acquainted with everybody in the neighborhood—at least well enough to feed them. She looked warmly matronly in a dark-blue gown and satin bonnet. Foyle, standing at her side receiving congratulations, seemed a bit dazed. His craggy face was occasionally split by a smile, but mostly he was glassy-eyed.
“It’s strange to be back here in such a different way,” said Penelope, coming up to join him.
Daniel turned to look at her. He never tired of doing that. Each time he saw her, he seemed to notice a new facet to her beauty.
“I was just making sure the dogs are all right in the barn,” she said.
“With their goat.”
Her smile was wry. “With Jemma.”
“She has a name now?”
“Foyle gave in on that score.”
“So he’s become resigned to her presence?”
“Actually I think he’s grown fond of her.” Her expression grew pensive as she surveyed the wedding guests. “When I first arrived, I thought I’d live here for the rest of my life. Or as far as I could see ahead, at least. Once, I imagined Kitty and me as a pair of gnarled old women, still tending Rose Cottage after fifty years.”
“What a terrible waste!” Daniel exclaimed.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you think of solitary women?”
“Kitty would never have become a baker. We’d have none of those teacakes she sent up on Tuesday. Or the macaroons. No, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”
She laughed.
&nbs
p; The champagne was opened, and toasts began. The newly married pair approached the cake, and Dora Foyle picked up a knife. For a moment, it seemed that Kitty would stand in defense of her creation. But then she stepped back with an openhanded gesture, though she did wince at the first cut.
“Delicious,” said Daniel with his first bite. “I suppose Kitty really does make her confections? It’s not some elaborate plot with Cook to pay us back for mocking her Shrewsbury cakes?”
But Penelope didn’t seem to be listening. She held her cake plate as if she’d forgotten it and stared over his shoulder as if she’d see a ghost. Daniel turned.
The two Foreign Office agents sat on their horses on the road in front of the house, watching the festivities. They made no move to dismount, no gesture to acknowledge Daniel’s gaze. They merely sat, solemn and stern, making their presence felt.
“All this jollity is just a skim of illusion over a far different reality,” said Penelope.
Daniel was furious at the agents. Could there be two more irritating people in the world?
“Disaster can strike at any moment,” she added.
He started to argue, then changed his mind. “That’s true. Look at my parents, sailing home from another of their adventures, with one of those notebooks full of secrets, I suppose. Swamped by a storm at sea between one instant and the next.” He took her hand. “But, Penelope, that doesn’t mean the rest is illusion.”
She turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide and apprehensive.
“Foyle’s slightly nonplussed happiness, and this mouthwatering cake, and your comical dogs are just as real.”
“They can be swept away, just as the waves did that ship.”
Daniel shrugged. “Possibly. Probably not, but it might happen. And then we would pick ourselves up and work on a remedy.”
Penelope blinked, then spoke slowly. “The last year was horrible, but I got through it.”
“Like a champion,” he replied. “And then you met me.” He squeezed her fingers and tried a smile.
She gazed up at him. “If Philip hadn’t brought everything down, I never would have met you. Or perhaps I might have, during the season in London.”
