Penelope (14 page)

Penelope
giggled, “I would probably laugh if I thought that.”

“Your stomach
will be full of butterflies. Laughter will be the furthest thing
from your mind. Even if you do laugh, then it will make you appear
confident.”

Madame spent
the next two hours teaching her how to gracefully walk into
ballrooms, dinners and tea parties. She was even taught the correct
method of ascending and descending from a carriage in the most
ladylike manner.

“It is almost
seven. We will take a break for tea. After that, we will work on
your curtsy. It is complicated and your knees will hurt from all
the bending, but the result,” she said kissing the tips of her
fingers, “will be exquisite. You will charm the ton with your
entrance, and the moment you curtsy you will be labelled a refined
lady. Thereafter, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut and we
will have you wed before you know it.”

It was past
nine o’ clock before Penelope was excused for breakfast. She
swallowed her slice of buttered toast and gulped down the hot
chocolate. Thereafter, she was back in the Blue Room for her next
lesson, the one she had been looking forward to all morning—
dancing.

Penelope
entered the room and found Madame surrounded by a number of fans.
Some were shot in silk, while others were patterned, painted,
carved from ivory, or plucked from assorted birds and glued
together.

Her heart sank
in disappointment and Madame smiled. “This is for another time,
Miss Fairweather. I haven’t forgotten my promise to teach you
dancing after breakfast. I am assuming by the eager look on your
face that you are good at it?”

“I like
dancing. As for how good I am, only you can judge. I have only
danced in small village gatherings before.”

“How is your
ankle fairing?”

“It is much
better. A slight twinge now and then, but I will be alright. I can
dance.”

“Positions,”
Madame barked and two maids ran to the centre of the room and stood
facing each other. Penelope went and joined them facing a third
maid.”

“You know what
this is?”

“Cotillion, the
dance of debutants.” Penelope replied.

“Very good.
Rose, show us your skills and play us a tune on the piano. Now we
dance! Very good ... Now change the figure ... Change again ...
Flash that petticoat. Very good ... More petticoat … Step, step,
step, flash that petticoat … Step, step, dip and twirl … Stop.”

“Miss
Fairweather, I had such hopes. And if I look at your face I see
delight and confidence that is generally lacking in your manner,
but if I dare glance at your feet, I can scarce control my tears.
Have you ever danced the Cotillion?”

“Yes in
the—”

“Village. I
know you said. You are quick with your feet, so this may not prove
to be so difficult. Here, watch me.”

Madame
Bellafraunde stepped into the centre of the room and chose the
tallest maid to partner with. She waved a hand at Rose, who
commenced playing the piano. She then dipped, twirled and glided
around the floor. Her feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she
flew across the room in time with the music.

“Madame,”
Penelope said, her eyes round in awe. “You are a wonderful dancer.
I also think that you would make a very good burglar. You are so
light on your feet that you could easily scale walls, tiptoe into
bedrooms, and steal all the jewels, and no one would know. ”

Madame stopped
dancing. She hmmphed, but a small pleased smile flitted across her
face. “Now you try,” she said in a more genial mood. “Very good.
Another hour and we would have succeeded in mastering the first
dance.”

“An hour for
one dance?”

“Strive for
perfection. I know we are going a little slow but that can’t be
helped. Perhaps we can work all night. I will have to have a word
with the dowager.”

The pleasure of
dancing nicely ruined for Penelope, she hopped, skipped and jumped
to the merry tunes. Step, step was interspersed with flashes of
ankles, wrists and petticoats.

At eleven the
dowager and Lady Radclyff joined them, which livened up the Blue
Room. With every new style, Penelope became more confident. She
just had to tone down her enthusiasm and try and be more sensual.
Her approach softened and she soon learned to sway to the music,
letting it run through her body. Her ankle ached, but she didn’t
care. For the first time since Madame’s arrival she started
enjoying her lessons.

“Now we come to
the Waltz. The dance made for lovers, where you will embrace a man
for the first time in full view of the public. If you succeed in
doing it right, you can trap any man into marriage if he takes your
fancy.”

“The Waltz, but
that’s scandalous,” Penelope gasped.

“Waltz is all
the rage nowadays, and the dowager will get the permission for you
from the patronesses of Almack’s. Now stop blushing like a
simpleton and stand up. Lady Radclyff, could I trouble you to
organise a man for us that knows how to waltz?”

Lady Radclyff
left with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that Penelope noticed
with dread. Her misgivings turned out to be correct when the duke
entered the room. Lady Radclyff must have shed more tears on her
behalf, it seemed. Lady Radclyff, she concluded, was entirely
vexing.

Penelope’s
agitation was momentarily forgotten when the dowager excused
herself confessing she was tired after all the excitement of the
afternoon. Her forehead creased with worry as she watched the
dowager depart.

“I am glad you
approve, your grace. It has only been a day and I see you have
noticed an improvement in my young student here,” Madame
observed.

Penelope’s eyes
shot to the duke’s face, startled to catch him staring at her.

Noticing her
regard, he quickly looked away.

“Her cheeks are
flushed becomingly and her eyes brighter and larger. It is a wonder
what a few pots of lotions can achieve,” Madame commented
drily.

Penelope turned
vermillion and stared at her feet. She wondered at Madame’s
compliment. Her dress was old, her stockings ancient, and her
slippers prehistoric.

She was unaware
that her old morning gown had aged to a becoming cream, the
material softening with years of use and moulding to her figure
perfectly. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled from all the
dancing. While the sunlight gleaming through the windows made her
look delicate, soft and inviting.

The duke
clenched his fist and muttered for the whole bloody thing to begin
quickly.

“Music,” Madame
said softly, and the duke stepped up and took Penelope in his
arms.

They began the
first few steps and Madame’s husky voice spoke in time with the
music,

“The man leads
and the woman follows. Miss Fairweather, a woman in the arms of a
man she loves loses her sense of belonging. She forgets the
audience, the steps and the music. Instead, a mist descends over
her mind clouding her judgement, making her aware of touch, scent
and raging emotions. All she can hear is her own heartbeat.”

Penelope,
dancing in the duke’s arms, could not hear a word of what Madame
said. Her eyes were locked on the duke, her mind focused on the
spot where his hands were touching her waist. His touch almost
tickled, and she would have giggled if other complex feelings had
not been running through her simultaneously.

“You did not
ask me to lead, your grace?” Madame asked, watching the couple
circle the room.

“You are more
ladylike than a lot of women of my acquaintance, Madame,” the duke
replied.

Penelope,
momentarily shaken out of her fog, looked over at Madame, who was
blushing in pleasure. She hadn’t been aware the duke was capable of
charm.

“Keep your eyes
locked on the duke, Miss,” Madame corrected.

Penelope forced
her lashes to lift back up and look into his inky blue eyes. Her
stomach flipped.

“Should I call
you Madame or …” the duke asked, wrenching his eyes away from
Penelope.

“Madame will
do,” she replied hastily.

“But I know
…”

“Concentrate on
the steps, your grace, and look at Miss Fairweather. Why are you
trying to distract yourself from the lovely girl in your arms?”

The duke
reluctantly brought his eyes back to Penelope.

After a moment,
Madame asked, “Are you thinking of your grandmother, your
grace?”

The duke
stopped dancing.

“How did you
...?” he spluttered.

“I know men,”
Madame replied smugly.

“Why were you
thinking of Grandmother?” Lady Radclyff spoke up.

The duke looked
embarrassed, and noticing Penelope’s baffled face, he abruptly
stepped back.

“Enough of this
nonsense. I don’t care if you promise me a month of no tears,
Annie. I am not getting involved in her training. I am sorry,
Madame, but I have just recalled some urgent business. Please
excuse me.”

Penelope shared
a confused look with Lady Radclyff. What in the world had made the
duke run out in such a hurry, and why was Madame looking pleased?
And how was the duke’s departed grandmother involved?

Lady Radclyff
followed the duke out to get some answers while Madame took pity on
Penelope.

“Miss
Fairweather, when a man holds a desirable woman in his arms, he
thinks of his grandmother. It helps dampen his baser
instincts.”

“The duke
thinks I am desirable?” Penelope asked in disbelief.

“Men find all
girls in skirts desirable depending on their mood. A man need not
love to make love.”

Penelope
blushed and avoided Madame’s eye.

“You danced the
Waltz well enough. I think you deserve a few hours rest. Practice
on your own in the evening before supper. And, Miss Fairweather,
keep an eye on the dowager. I don’t think she felt very well this
afternoon. She barely touched her meal.”

“Madame
Bellafraunde, what shall I learn tomorrow?”

“A woman’s
weapon.”

Fans, Penelope
thought. It had to be.

“Very good,
Miss Fairweather. Tomorrow’s lesson is the language of fans, the
importance of parasols, and the art of polite conversation.”

Penelope
blinked. Madame was sometimes uncanny in her mind reading
abilities.

“I don’t read
minds, I simply observe better than others,” Madame said, waving
goodbye to the open mouthed Penelope.

“Choose your
weapon.”

Penelope stood
staring at the colourful array of fans lying on the couch. Her hand
hovered over the peacock feather and the ruby satin, but finally
her eye was caught by a simple oriental silk fan with a mother of
pearl handle. She picked it up and was pleased to see that Madame
approved of her choice.

“Positions,
ladies.”

The maids
formed a line in front of long table, each one holding a fan.
Penelope went and joined them.

“Do you know
the basics?”

“Yes,” Penelope
said uncertainly.

“Very good, now
follow my commands. Place your fans.”

Penelope
watched the maids gently lay the fans down on the table and she did
the same.

“Up,” Madame
roared.

The girls
picked up their fans with a flick of a wrist.

“Unfurl,” came
the cry

The fans were
opened with a crack akin to a pistol shot.

Penelope
fumbled. Her fan had not made that sound, but it seemed everyone
else’s had.

“Throw,” was
the next shout and Penelope quickly tossed the fan onto the
table.

“Up … and
flutter, flutter, flutter,” screeched Madame

Penelope
fluttered.

“Down, and
stop.”

Madame wiped
her brow and glared at Penelope.

“You know the
commands, but the execution ... Miss Fairweather, the fan, this
beautiful creation, is meant to keep our hands occupied, cool our
heated skin, hide our blushes, help brush over awkward situations,
communicate secret messages, but most of all it is a weapon whose
breeze should be strong enough to send a man flying through the
air, the sound scare a murderous bandit, and its beauty entrance a
beloved. What you did was shameful, an embarrassment to all the
women in England. You have disrespected our only weapon.”

Penelope hung
her head, her eyes falling on the object in question. She guiltily
acknowledged that she had always considered the fan a silly
foppery, something that was a bother to hold and carry around.

Madame sighed
and collapsed back on her seat. “Tea. I need some refreshment after
this latest debacle.”

It was two
hours before Madame recovered. The dowager, looking a little pale,
joined them as did Lady Radclyff. The three of them spent the
entire day teaching Penelope the nuances of diplomacy, the language
of fans, and the correct way to unfurl and place a parasol.

“Do not speak
about anything other than the weather. Remember, if you feel
nervous, imagine the person you are conversing with in pink
bloomers and nothing else,” Madame advised.

“Encourage the
other person to speak about themselves. Ask about their health if
you have to speak ... say at a dinner table. Divide your attention
equally between the two people seated on either side of you,” the
dowager suggested.

“I will stay by
your side during every social gathering. I will guide you. Don’t
worry if a situation we haven’t dealt with today arises,” Lady
Radclyff comforted.

Penelope nodded
weakly, her brain full of advice, admonishments and warnings. Her
head therefore ached dreadfully by the time she retired for bed.
Even Mary’s sassafras tea didn’t help ease the pain. She tossed and
turned all night. How was she to remember everything? The dancing,
the fan and the rules of polite society? She knew it was hopeless,
half of it was already forgotten.