Penelope (7 page)

“Deeper?
Darker? Sounds like you have only ever had watered wine,” Lady
Radclyff said, laughing. Her smile froze as she noted Penelope’s
expression. “You have had only watered wine! My goodness, I didn’t
realise … but you have had only one glass. You should be alright.
Just drink sparingly. What I mean is if you are not used to it,
then it may go to your head.”

Penelope stared
at Lady Radclyff in alarm. She had drunk more than a glass, a few
in fact, and the brandy. How many glasses was that? She had not
even eaten anything. Did that make things better or worse? Her head
was feeling a little strange, but maybe it was due to hunger. She
frowned trying to think, and the more she strained her brain, the
more muddled she seemed to be getting.

The candles
seemed to have become brighter, and Penelope squinted at Sir Henry
as he sat staring at his pocket watch. He lifted his hand and let
it fall onto the table with a thud once. Lady Radclyff nudged
Penelope and she noticed everyone picking up their spoons and
starting on the soup. She stared at the numerous spoons and forks
and randomly chose one. She carefully dipped the spoon into the
bowl and lifted it towards her mouth. Her brain was decidedly
scrambled by now. That simple procedure was proving to be a
difficult task. She finally managed to bring the spoon to her mouth
and swallow the contents. She grinned in delight and looked around
the table proudly.

Lady Radclyff
was eyeing her in concern while the duke was looking
disapproving.

Penelope stuck
her tongue out at the duke and blew a raspberry.

The spoons
halted in mid-air and everyone turned to look at her in
astonishment.

Penelope was
pleased. She would show the duke, she thought happily. She could
eat her soup and drink as much wine as she liked. She grabbed her
glass and drank the contents, licking her lips.

Sir Henry,
oblivious of the situation, said, “Miss Fairweather, what brings
you to London?”

Penelope
frowned trying to make sense of the words. “I am here to catch a
man, a husband, I mean, during the season …. It is odd, is it not,
that we call it the London season. It is like saying it is the
hunting season … which I suppose it is, except we hunt men instead
of rabbits.” She giggled and repeated, “Rabbits, bunny eared men,
hee-hee.”

“Do you have an
inkling of what sort of husband you would like?” Sir Henry asked, a
little lost over the bit about rabbits.

“No, anyone
will do as long as he is a man. But, Sir Henry, I will not find a
man in this dress. I hate it because it is pink and pink reminds me
of pigs. I don’t know why it reminds me of pink pigs,” she said
mournfully.

“Any man?” Sir
Henry plodded on desperate to keep the conversation coherent.

“Yes, any man.
If he is rich, then even better,” she hiccupped.

“I don’t
believe you are titled or that you are an heiress, then how will
you land a wealthy husband, my dear? Perhaps you should keep your
mind open to all prospects. It is a kindly advice from an old
man.”

“I suppose… I
suppose I will use some of the feminine tricks ladies use to snare
a man. I have to marry and as soon as possible. But I take your
point, Sir Henry. I will take anyone who will have me.”

The dowager’s
fork clattered onto her plate. She nervously glanced at her son.
The duke looked thunderous.

“Are you a bit
sozzled, my dear? You have had time to only have a glass or two of
wine since we sat down. A very delicate constitution, I suppose,”
Sir Henry remarked, finally grasping the situation.

Penelope smiled
widely, and after a minute of grinning foolishly, she said, “A
toast!”

Clambering up
on her chair, she unsteadily raised her glass, “A toast to … to
moustaches,” she giggled. “To moustaches … If you have in mind to
take a bride, Sir Henry, then my cook, Della, back at my father’s
house has a shplendid moustache. You would love her moustache, and
she even has a few strands of hair on her chin. They curl.”

Lady Radclyff
leapt up and tried to pull her down whispering urgently.

“Shhh, Lady
Rashclyff … I have a shecret,” Penelope whispered back loudly. “You
are shweet and I like you. The dowager ish beauutifuuul, who I also
like, and she has unfortuna … unfortu-nate-ly spawned a handsome
and rude and mean and other bad stuff …err …,” She straightened and
pointed at the duke, “You, I don’t like you, and sadly I am seeing
three of you.”

“Please hush,
Miss Fairweather,” Lady Radclyff begged.

“Aye, aye,
picaroon!” Penelope screeched.

Lady Radclyff
winced, slapping her hands around her ears.

Penelope
laughed and twirled on her chair, “Oh, Lady Bathsheba, I left you
with Mary, but you missed me and you came.”

Everyone turned
to stare at the door where the goat now stood looking bored. Mary
rushed in looking apologetic and tried to take the animal away.

“Nooo, Mary,
you cannot take her away … Lady Bathsheba,” Penelope wailed and
fell off her chair.

 The duke
didn’t even attempt to catch her. Lady Radclyff halted the fall but
not completely.

Penelope lay
sprawled on the ground completely passed out.

A deathly
silence fell in the room.

Sir Henry
finally looked at the duke and asked, “I knew we were having
trouble with the chef, but to send our dinner uncooked and alive
and kicking is truly disgraceful.”

The duke stared
at his grandfather in confusion.

“The mutton, it
wasn’t cooked.”

“Charles, carry
Penelope to her room,” the dowager quickly intervened. “You will do
as I say,” she added, noting the duke’s expression.

The duke nodded
and unceremoniously grabbed Penelope around her waist, flung her
over his shoulder and strode out.

Sir Henry, for
once, allowed his daughter and grandchildren to leave the dinner
table early. He watched them depart, twirling his fluffy white
moustache thoughtfully.

Lady Radclyff
started laughing.

 The
dowager glared at her, gesturing towards Penelope who was asleep on
the bed.

“Mother,” Lady
Radclyff giggled. “She arrived this afternoon and has managed to
annoy Charles, scare Sir Henry, horrify you and entertain me. And I
cannot believe she is a drunk. This is splendid. Oh, I wish the
season would begin. Imagine us letting her loose in a ballroom. She
will destroy the place faster than a real live Bengal tiger.”

The dowager
frowned disapprovingly at her daughter.

Lady Radclyff
sobered, not because of her mother’s scathing glare, but as a new
tentacle of thought wriggled its way into her pleasant
daydreams.

“Will she have
to go back to Finnshire? Charles will never agree to keep her now,
and Grandfather, why, if he sees her at dinner again, he might
throw a fit or in despair drown in the turtle soup,” she slumped in
disappointment.

The dowager
glanced at Penelope, a deceptively harmless looking bundle smiling
away in her dreams. Next she looked at her daughter, who had
adopted the pose of a tragic queen about to see her lover slain on
the battle field. She sighed and said, “I don’t understand her. She
is incredibly naive, yet I see intelligence lurking behind those
big brown eyes. Initially, I thought she was shy and her insecurity
made her babble, but then she launched into that tale describing
her brave encounter with the highwayman. It rattled me. Is she a
confident woman, a neglected young girl or—”

“She is mad,
Mamma. Loony, barmy, batty … completely and utterly daft. Just
before dinner she told me that she had been talking to her dead
mother. Besides, I caught her whispering to that goat and not
loving little coo’s, mind you, but having an adult conversation …
with a goat.”

The dowager,
instead of being alarmed, looked at Penelope pityingly. “Perhaps
the letters Gertrude wrote to me swearing her love for the child
were complete falsehood. It is possible that Miss Fairweather has
been shamefully neglected and to such an extent that she has had to
turn to inanimate objects and animals to keep her spirits up. And
the girl has spirit and courage; a whole lot of it. I should have
kept a better watch on the girl. I have been remiss in my promise
to her mother. It is not too late. I will do what I can. We have to
keep her.”

“Pfft,” Lady
Radclyff snorted. “Easy for you to say, Mamma. How will we convince
the big, arrogant jungle beast that is my brother? And Grandfather
would rather shave of his fluffy moustache than agree to keep an
escapee from Bedlam.”

“My dear, how
have you failed to notice that in all these years everything has
gone according to my plans? Not my son’s or my father’s. Oh, they
believe they are the ones in in charge, but a lesson to you, Anne,
is that a man, however much he lives under the illusion, is never
in control. A woman holds the whip that slaps the horse’s rump, my
dear. And here is another lesson for you to chew on. Men are like
barrels of wine in Sir Hammersmith’s basement. Strong, sturdy and
inviting on the outside, whereas on the inside completely
empty.”

They had no
more time to dwell on the buffoonery of men for the glowering head
of the duke appeared at the bedroom door.

The duke paused
at the door, caught by the sight of sleeping Penelope. Her small
face was peeking out from under the thick quilt and her long lashes
cast shadows on her soft flushed cheeks.

He forced his
eyes away from her and addressed his sister, “Anne, she was pickled
at the dinner table. On her first day in London. How can you expect
me to overlook that? I can forgive her for pinching my ear, even
for wearing that … that pink abomination and almost breaking her
neck, but getting foxed and insulting me under my own roof is
unforgivable. I am sorry, Anne, even if I do relent, Grandfather
will not.”

The dowager
spoke before Lay Radclyff could reply, “Charles, she had a hard
day. The girl left home for the first time in her life. She was
almost robbed by a highwayman on the way here, and then you
dismissed her so rudely. You are a duke and she is a mere country
girl. Think how your hostile behaviour must have frightened her. We
should give her another chance. We hardly know her.”

“You must
convince Grandfather, Charles,” Lady Radclyff added. “She didn’t
realise the wine was not watered. The poor, poor dear was terrified
in spite of her show of confidence. I saw her hands tremble … and
Mamma made a promise to Miss Fairweather’s mother. Think of Mamma’s
honour, Charles. You have to let her stay.”

“Her kind does
not belong here and mother knows better. She should have never
issued the invitation in the first place,” the duke snapped.

“Her kind?” the
dowager said frowning. “You have always treated everyone equally. I
never thought you considered yourself superior to others simply due
to your title?”

“Yes, her kind.
The sort that goes to any length to trap a man. She is desperate to
make a match and she … I just don’t want her in this house.”

The dowager
looked at her son sympathetically.

“Deny it, tell
me she isn’t desperate to marry, desperate enough to trick and
cheat. You all heard her at dinner tonight. Hunting for a man like
one would hunt down a rabbit,” the duke roared.

“She has to
marry, but then so do all young women of her age. True, her family
is depending on her, and the pressure may have tickled her buttons
a bit, but from her conduct today, I think she is incapable of
tricking anyone. Her missteps were unfortunate but not
unforgivable. In fact, I have never met anyone so honest or open
before. No deceiving, sly creature could make such a blunder of
things,” Lady Radclyff argued.

“So you agree
that her behaviour was disastrous. How can we let such a halfwit
into polite society?”

“Charles, what
is it?” the dowager asked gently.

The duke turned
his back on his mother and glared at the sleeping girl. He didn’t
answer.

After a minute
of tensed silence, Lady Radclyff asked, “What did you mean when you
said that she almost broke her neck?”

“She tripped
coming down the stairs. I stopped her fall and gave her a glass of
brandy to calm her nerves. Now I regret that act of kindness. I
should have let her kill herself.”

“Now you are
being cruel. I will not have you speaking like that. How much
brandy did you give her?” the dowager asked.

“A generous
amount, and then she asked for more. I could have sworn she had
never had it before.”

“And did you
give her more?” Lady Radclyff enquired.

“Well, yes
….”

Lady Radclyff
hid her smile behind her hand. Another heavily laden look was
exchanged between the mother and daughter.

Wiping the
smile of her face, Lady Radclyff adopted a firm countenance and
faced her brother. “That explains it. No wonder the dear creature
drank herself into oblivion. She was in shock and really, Charles,
this is all your fault. You should have taken better care of her
and ensured that she had eaten a bit before drinking that brandy,
or allowed her to retire to her room. She could have been killed,
Charles,
killed
, after tumbling down those stairs. And
instead of helping her you go and get her foxed. Mamma, I am sure
you agree. He has to make amends for not only being rude to her but
also getting her pickled. He has to convince Grandfather.”

“What? That is
ridiculous. I did not get her drunk,” the duke roared.

“Hush, the girl
is asleep. You have been unkind enough and now it is your duty to
set things right. I want to hear no more of this, Charles. She may
not know better, but you know the effects of mixing brandy and wine
well enough. You should have cautioned her. I am afraid I have to
agree with Anne,” the dowager said firmly.