Penelope (18 page)

The duke leaped
out and was followed by Anne, who kept muttering about wanting to
go to Cheapside and Fleet Street instead.

Penelope
scrambled after Anne and poked her head out of the carriage. She
quickly jumped back in. She had spotted four soot stained faces
leering at the carriage from across the street. Anne coaxed her
out, and the footman helped her descend right into a pothole.

 The road,
she was surprised to note, was paved, pitted and broad. Two or more
carriages could easily go along side by side. Across the road stood
rows and rows of gleaming shops jutting out onto the street. The
glass windows sparkled in the sunlight and the area surrounding the
shops was kept clean. Penelope, Anne and the duke leaped over the
puddles, skirted the racing children and avoided the passing
carriages, horses and wagons to arrive on the pretty side of the
street.

Penelope paused
outside almost every shop window. A large silver shoe gleamed
outside the cobblers. Golden filigree scissors hung outside the
tailors. Piles of Spanish grapes, lush peaches, and mounds of
oranges and apples, beckoned from the grocers. The prettiest was
the confectioner’s shop decorated in soft pastels and filled with
beautifully crafted cakes and biscuits. She stood outside the door
taking deep whiffs of fresh pastry, coffee and cinnamon.

 Anne
caught her hand and dragged her to a shop at the far end of the
street. It was a discreet establishment; grey and dull on the
outside with a solid olive green door. Only the sign above gave an
indication of what it truly was.

Beany &
Sons, 23 Winmore Street, Mayfair

Shawl and linen
warehouse offering the finest from England and foreign markets

Inside the shop
was bustling with female customers and busy male workers. It was a
huge room with sofas and cushioned seats strategically placed in
front of large wooden tables. The salesmen pulled out giant rolls
of cloth in different colours, materials and textures and laid it
out on the table for the women to inspect. Hundreds of such rolls
were fitted into the shelves on every wall from top to bottom.
Champagne, wine, tea and coffee were liberally served free of
cost.

Anne settled
into a chair, ordered a cup of coffee and got to work. The duke,
after ascertaining that his sister would not move from her place
for at least an hour, departed to see to some business.

Penelope was
already bored. She had no idea that brocade was now out of fashion
and that gold muslin was the next new thing. Besides, she had only
fifty pounds to her name, which she could not afford to spend on
frivolities. However, she had convinced herself to bring along two
pounds in case something truly marvellous caught her eye. The cakes
at the confectioners had done just that and her growling stomach
wanted to go sniff outside that shop some more. After listening to
an oily salesman trying to sell her yards of hideous brown silk,
she gave up.

“Lady Radclyff,
I am hungry.”

“Hmm, what do
you think of this silver pashmina? I have never felt anything so
soft in my life.”

“It looks
expensive. Can I go down to the confectioners? I will be back
within five minutes.”

“Hmm, do you
know how to test a good quality shawl, Miss Fairweather? Take any
ring off your finger, and then gathering up the shawl pull it
through the hole in the ring. If the entire shawl comes out through
the tiny hole, then it is worth buying,” she said
demonstrating.

“How
fascinating. Now, can I please go? I won’t be long.”

“Yes, yes … Can
you show me the black in this?” Anne said, half listening to
Penelope, her eyes on the bolts of cloth.

Penelope shot
off the chair and rushed out of the door. She breathed in the
stench of London and sighed in pleasure. Away from the stuffy,
fancy shop at last. She quickly made her way to the confectioners
and paused outside. Her eyes were glued to the giant cream cake
decorated with candied rose petals and white jasmine flowers. Her
mouth watered, but she dithered knowing the prices would be
exorbitant. Should she save her pennies for something that would
last, for a ribbon or two perhaps?

A swift yank at
her petticoat had her look up. A young boy stood grinning a few
feet away from her holding what looked like her drawstring
reticule.

She stared at
him in confusion. Surely that wasn’t hers. She had carefully sewn
her bag in the hidden pocket inside her skirt. How had the lad
managed to extract it in a moment, and then had the audacity to
show her his handy work. A quick check confirmed the skill of the
lad and in a trice she was after him.

She sprinted
across the street, her skirts flying and ankles on display. To hell
with propriety, she thought. Two whole pounds lay in that bag.
Besides, the bag was from Madame and therefore expensive.

She raced after
the soot faced imp, leaping over pot holes, avoiding the gin
sellers, and ducking under the arms of tinkers and thieves. She had
clearly crossed the elegant Mayfair and reached murkier parts of
the city. The boy disappeared into a tiny lane on the right and
Penelope hesitated. Should she or should she not, she wondered.

The boy poked
his head around the corner and stuck his tongue out at her.
Gripping her skirts, she wasted no more time on thought and
followed the boy into the darkened London alley.

‘24 Gin road’,
as it was appropriately named, was warm, dank, sunless and smelly.
A few cats sat cleaning their paws on the back steps of various
grey buildings jammed together on either side of the lane. A dozen
mean looking, dirt smeared boys aged around nine to fifteen were
sprawled on the filthy street. Some sat playing marbles. Another
sat with his back against the wall chewing what looked like a piece
of wood. A few were smoking, and the thief who had stolen her purse
sat on top of a mountain of sacks filled with rubbish. Unlike the
clamour and crowd of Mayfair Street, here it was all quiet with
only a few shady characters lazing about. She was suddenly feeling
not at all brave but did her very best to look it.

“He stole my
reticule,” she announced to the group in her haughtiest voice.

No one even
glanced at her except the little thief who sat watching her like a
curious little monkey. A bark of laughter from one of the children
had her jump in fright. At this point another of the youngest
devils noticed her.

“Lady got
pretty gloves and shooos,” he said, advancing towards her.

Penelope
brandished her parasol like a weapon. One whack and the lad would
go squealing to his mamma, she thought.

“Joe, see
pretty lady.”

Joe appeared
from behind the sacks of rubbish. He was not a child but a full
grown man with a short beard and muscular arms. Her parasol was no
match for this man. She inched backwards suddenly terrified. She
knew she had lost her way in her mad dash to catch the thief, but
surely if she could go back to the crowded street someone would
help her.

The man’s eyes
gleamed and he licked his thick lips. His eyes were not on her
gloves or shoes but on her. She turned to flee and found herself
surrounded by the boys. They had silently formed a ring around her
trapping her. She could have handled one child, possibly two, but
not fifteen. She held the parasol out aiming the pointed end. She
slowly turned in a circle trying to find the smallest child to
dodge. The group tightened leaving her no room to exit.

A brief prayer
escaped her lips. She heard her father’s voice scolding her for all
her rash decisions and her stepmother’s sneering voice warning her
that her thoughtless actions would one day lead to an ugly end. Was
this it she wondered? The ugly end?

The man was
close to her now, gin strong on his breath. She watched as if from
somewhere far away as he lifted his hand. It was all so slow, she
thought confused, as if time had slowed. Her vision became clear
and precise. She could see a young boy scratch his nose from the
corner of her eye, another one shuffled his feet somewhere, and the
man’s large tobacco stained hand was about to touch her. She closed
her eyes.

“Unhand her,”
said a voice behind her. A voice she had never before thought she
would be glad to hear. A voice that was commanding, strong and
deep.

Her eyes popped
open and she whirled around to find the duke standing right behind
her. The man made a grab for her but the duke had already caught
her waist and deposited her behind him.

“Let us go and
I will not inform the authorities,” the duke suggested.

The man
sneered, “Lady is mine.”

“Dear fellow, I
would love to hand you over this young lady with all of my
sympathies, believe me. But my sister and my mother would have my
head. She, you see, belongs to them,” the duke countered.

The man paused,
his eyes assessing the duke. In a split second the decision was
made.

“Lads, we can’t
let a drop of good stuff like this go,” the man bellowed, lifting
his hand to strike the duke.

The duke had
meant to react. In fact, he had lifted his hand up to counter the
blow but Penelope, now fearless with the duke beside her and
emboldened by the man’s war cry, lifted her parasol first.

She whacked the
man on the head and then for good measure between his legs. The man
collapsed and the children scattered. And as quick as that the war
was won and she burst into tears.

“Do you think
he is dead?” she blubbered.

The duke took a
deep breath. “The young chaps may bring more of his friends. We
need to get back to Mayfair and quickly. Now run!”

Penelope
ignored him and moved to touch the man lying on the ground. The
duke grabbed her arm, whirled her around and dragged her out of the
lane.

“When I say
run,” he said through gritted teeth, “you run.”

Penelope
ran.

They finally
reached the duke’s carriage, and he quickly opened the door and
pushed her inside. The driver came around and the duke gave him
instructions to drive if any odd characters came sniffing near the
carriage. He then sent a message to his sister to stay put at the
shop.

Penelope sat
with her head between her knees trying to catch her breath and
listening to the duke issue instructions. He seemed so calm, she
thought enviously, and not at all out of breath.

“Thank you,”
she gasped, her head still stuck between her knees.

He ignored her
and started searching for something under the seats.

When she
straightened, she saw him pocket a small pistol.

“I said thank
you.”

He did not
reply.

“Well, I am
thankful. You saved me from that rotten man. But you could have
nudged him with a toe to at least ascertain that I did not kill
him. I could have murdered the man and not know it. For the rest of
my life I will be crossing the street every time I spot a priest or
a runner—”

“Quiet! For a
moment stay silent. How could you be so ridiculously stupid? Do you
have any idea what the man was about to do? Do you? You foolish
girl, by the end of it you would have wished you were dead—”

A sob from
Penelope stopped him. She knew she had made a dreadful, dreadful
mistake. Those few moments in the laneway would give her nightmares
for the rest of her life. That man’s leering face was imprinted on
her mind and she felt dirty and disgusted.

 The duke
saw the change in her expression and the genuine regret on her
face. He came and sat by her. His arms slipped around her
shoulders.

“I am sorry. I
have always felt so safe in Finnshire. I never understood how
dangerous London was. I chased after that boy for two pounds, but
two pounds is not worth my life,” she cried, her hands clenching
his shirt and her face buried in his chest.

“The man was
not dead. I saw him breathe. It’s alright. Nothing happened. You
are safe now … shhh,” he comforted, rocking her.

“I am sorry. I
am always making you angry, and I am not good enough for the ton,
and my stepmother hates me. I can’t go back to father’s house, I
miss Lady Bathsheba and Anne is waiting all alone in the shop,” she
wailed.

“Anne will be
fine. She will happy to have a few more minutes to shop. You will
see Lady Bathsheba as soon as we get home. As for your stepmother,
I can’t do anything about that but you will have a good
mother-in-law. She will love you, I am sure.”

Penelope
blinked the tears away and lifted her head to look at the duke.

“Truly my
mother-in-law will love me?”

“Truly,” he
replied, smiling softly.

“Promise?”

“She will truly
love you, like your own mother would have.”

“How do you
know?”

“I just
do.”

Penelope
searched his eyes. The bare glimmer of light filtering through the
shuttered windows hid most of the duke’s expression. London, it
seemed, had gone silent.

For the second
time that day time seemed to stop. All she could hear was her
thundering heart, and all she could feel was his hand tightening in
her hair. He bent his head and briefly touched her lips.

 A knock
at the carriage door had them flying apart.

He cursed. The
driver’s voice said something, but Penelope could hear not a word.
Her hammering heartbeat drowned out every other sound. The duke had
kissed her, briefly, but lips touching lips equalled a kiss. Her
hands flew to her face and her eyes clenched shut.

“Here, eat some
of this,” the duke ordered. His voice sounded calm and controlled
as if the kiss had never happened.

She opened her
eyes and found a thick slice of the cake she had been eyeing at the
confectioners. He held a cup of lemonade in his other hand.

“How did you
know?” If he could pretend that the moment never happened, then so
could she.