Penelope (21 page)

The duke and
Anne sat, albeit reluctantly.

Penelope kept
her eyes pinned on the swirly ochre flower woven into the
carpet.

“Now,” Madame
said calmly, “what happened to Lady Virginia was an accident and
everyone including Lady Virginia has been gracious enough to
consider it as such. As for Lord Poyning, he has not complained
about Miss Fairweather dousing him with wine. On the contrary, he
has only had wonderful things to say about Miss Fairweather.”

“How do you
know?” the duke interrupted.

“Madame knows
everything,” the dowager cut in. “Go on, Madame. What about Miss
Rosy?”

“Miss Rosy has
a number of pets as you are well aware. She keeps a number of dogs,
cats, birds, horses and pigs in her home. She was going to let
Puddles, that is the cheetah, become acquainted with her home and
then slowly introduce him to the rest of her pets. She now realises
that Puddles would most likely eat her darling pigs, birds, poodles
and whatnot. She is much indebted to Lady Bathsheba for helping her
understand that she cannot control a full grown cheetah. She is
also thankful that it was Lady Bathsheba who was thus frightened
rather than one of her own beloved and sensitive animals.
Apparently they suffer from nerves. She is going to call on you,
your grace, because she wants to personally thank the goat and
offer her a bag of carrots as compensation for temporarily scaring
the life out of her. As for Puddles, he is on his way back to where
he came from.”

Penelope perked
up after hearing this.

“Yes, but we
may not be so fortunate the next time. I am sorry, Miss
Fairweather, but I agree with Charles. Another mistake like this
and I will be forced to send you back to Finnshire,” the dowager
said unhappily.

“Mother?” Anne
said shocked.

“I am sorry,
Anne, but the ton is not going remain passive if things continue as
they are. The ladies are going to start giving her the cut direct,
and rather than allow her to face the humiliation, it will be
kinder to let her go home,” the dowager explained.

Penelope
promptly burst into noisy tears. Lady Bathsheba got up and walked
away.

“Disloyal lump
of mutton,” Penelope sobbed into her handkerchief.

“This is what I
suggest,” Madame said. “Give the girl to me for two days and two
nights. After that allow her one last chance to prove herself. If
the night goes smoothly, then let her stay. Otherwise pack her bags
and send her on her way.”

“Yes!” Anne
exclaimed.

“No!” the duke
roared.

“One last
chance?” the dowager said thoughtfully. “You think that you can
bring about a change in her in only two days?”

“I can try. I
think I know what to do about her habit of babbling when nervous.
If that is in control, then the confidence will follow,” Madame
replied.

“Alright,” the
dowager said. “It is Lord Bloodworth’s party in three days’ time.
If she manages to survive it without a mishap, then she can
stay.”

“But, Mother …”
the duke spluttered.

“Charles, you
don’t think Miss Fairweather is capable of handling the season. And
if you are so certain that she will not survive the party, then let
us have our way. She has one chance, and if she fails, then you
will have your wish and she will go home,” the dowager replied in a
tone that clearly signalled the end of the conversation.

“Miss
Fairweather, we don’t have time to waste,” Madame said, yanking
Penelope off the sofa and dragging her out of the room.

***

A detailed
schedule of the next two days was handed to Penelope. Penelope read
over the chart and wondered if it wasn’t better to take the next
post-chaise back to Finnshire.

“When do I
eat?” Penelope asked. “It doesn’t say here.”

“Today you eat
while walking,” Madame replied briskly.

“Walking?”

“Yes. You
cannot, absolutely cannot, waddle any longer, Miss
Fairweather.”

“I waddle?”

“Like a one
winged duck.”

And thus the
two days of intensive training began …

“Walk, Miss
Fairweather, sway your hips …”

“But, Madame, I
am blindfolded. I can’t see … Ouch.”

“I want you to
use your senses. Beyond sight there is touch, scent and sound. Use
them and glide like a swan over a crystal lake, barely causing any
ripples. Not like a bear trampling in the woods ….”

***

Later that
night …

“You are
nodding off again, Miss Fairweather. Up you get. We still have to
go over your fan work.”

“We already
went over it a hundred and sixty times. I counted.”

“Well, this is
the hundred and sixty first. Now, place your fan … Unfurl … Close
…”

***

At half past
six the next morning Penelope snored. A feather tickled her nose.
She sneezed and rolled over.

A moment later
a loud blast of sound had Penelope shooting upright on the couch.
“Wha … Wazzaat? Whazzappened?”

Madame stood
with a trumpet in her hand.

“You have had
plenty of sleep. It is time to practice.”

Penelope looked
at Madame through bloodshot eyes. She glanced at the clock.

“I have slept
for fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, well
that’s long enough.”

“I quit,” she
said pathetically.

Madame handed
her a cup of tea and tapped her foot impatiently.

“I mean it. I
quit, Madame. I cannot do this any longer. I want to go back to
Finnshire.”

“Very good, my
dear. You can go back as soon as we finish practising the
Quadrille.”

“No.”

“You will
practice.”

“I will
not.”

“Miss
Fairweather, you have five minutes ….”

“Oh, alright,
but I am leaving right after.”

The mood in the
house was sombre. It felt as if someone had died in the Blackthorne
Mansion. Even the maids were seen sporting funeral expressions.

It was that
day, the day on which all of Penelope’s hopes were pinned. It was
the day of Lord Bloodworth’s party.

Madame
personally supervised Penelope’s toilette for the grand occasion.
Penelope, clad in burgundy silk, stood staring at herself in the
mirror while Madame swept her hair back into a low coif. Not one
stray curl dared to escape the pins today. The dowager arrived to
present her with ruby earrings and a necklace to match. Penelope
took it and wore it with the air of a soldier pinning his medals in
place before leaving for war.

A dry eyed
Penelope bid her goat goodbye, and then at a measured pace walked
towards the carriage. The sight of Perkins waving a white
handkerchief at her as the carriage rolled away almost cracked her
composure. But she quickly regained her poise and her eyes remained
clear and bright all through the journey.

Penelope walked
into Lord Bloodworth’s twinkling house without a single misstep.
Her hips swayed, the polite smile on her face stayed fixed, and she
successfully imagined each and every one of the hundred and fifty
guests present in bright pink bloomers.

A peculiar sort
of detachment had come over her since early that morning. She was
tired, tired of fighting and of trying to please. She no longer
cared if she spoke out of turn or did the wrong thing. All she
wanted was the night to be over with so she could go home, curl up
in bed and go to sleep for the next twelve hours.

She strolled
through the crowd with her chin up and her shoulders pulled back.
The assembled guests mistook her detachment for pride, the sort of
pride that comes from confidence. She sparkled and her charm was
magnified by the mere fact that she did not know it.

After an hour
of gliding through the crowd and two glasses of tepid wine later,
Penelope had reached the spiritual state of being merrily tipsy. It
was that perfect state when everything starts looking wonderful and
every tragedy turns into a comedy. She was suddenly filled with
joy. The lack of sleep and starved diet added to her delirious
state. She felt full of love for her fellow human beings. She
spotted Anne’s sullen face and her heart felt like it would burst
in affection for her dear friend. She wanted to hug Anne, enfold
her in a warm embrace and tell her that things will be alright. But
she was not so foxed yet, and recognizing the slippery slope she
was heading down she put away her glass of wine.

 But she
was tipsy enough to make a vow and act on it. She, Penelope
Fairweather, decided to ensure that Anne got her Poyning and that
too tonight.

“Can you spot
them?” Penelope whispered to Anne.

“They just
arrived. Are you sozzled?” Anne asked.

“Just a touch.
Nothing to worry about,” Penelope said, standing on her tippy toes
to get a look at the entrance. She couldn’t see a blasted
thing.

“Drink the
lemonade. At least you are not slurring,” Anne muttered. She didn’t
have time to scold.

Penelope
drained the sickly sweet drink.

“They are
coming this way. How do I look,” Anne asked nervously.

“Beautiful,”
Penelope said loyally. The blue silk that Anne wore was not doing
much for her complexion, but it did show her figure to an
advantage.

A minute later
Anne shifted positions so that they purposely bumped into Lord
Rivers and Lord Poyning.

“Miss
Fairweather,” exclaimed Lord Poyning, his face lighting up in
delight.

Penelope
frowned and then forced a smile. She would have liked the man to
keep his enthusiasm for Anne.

“Miss
Fairweather,” Lord Rivers greeted her with a good deal less
fervour.

“Miss
Fairweather,” Lydia Snowly said, coming up to join them.

Penelope
rapidly inclined her head to all three, beginning to feeling a
little uncomfortable at all the staring eyes. She felt the words
rise up her throat and tickle her tongue, and she quickly sipped
her lemonade. Madame’s solution to her little babbling problem was
to keep her mouth busy drinking water or lemonade every time she
felt rattled. She realised it was working. The words had been
washed away. She smiled more confidently and took another big
gulp.

“Anne, Mother
sent me to dance with you,” the duke said coming up to join the
party.

“Mother sent
you to dance with Miss Fairweather,” Anne hissed at her
brother.

The duke’s
mouth twisted in distaste, but he kept his tone polite when he
said, “Come along then,” to Penelope.

“Come along?”
Penelope asked.

“If you would
rather not?” the duke suggested hopefully.

“Oh, don’t be
silly, Charles. Miss Fairweather is too shy, and I doubt she will
be able to dance in such a gathering. Didn’t you tell me she is
from some small uncultured village? Don’t be unkind. I will partner
you. It is so rare that we get a chance to dance together,” Lady
Snowly said smiling sweetly up at the duke.

Anne raised her
foot to stomp on Lady Snowly’s feet when Penelope’s voice halted
her.

“If by ‘come
along’ you were asking me to dance, then, your grace, I would be
delighted to accompany you,” Penelope said. Her colour was high,
but her voice was rock steady.

The duke shot
his fiancée an apologetic glance and led Penelope to the floor.

The musicians
struck the first note. It was a melancholy twang. An echo of love
lost.

He touched her
waist and she, keeping her face averted, stepped forward to meet
him.

“Are you
alright?” he asked gently.

Her eyes leaped
to his face. She was surprised that he had remembered. It felt like
it had happened so long ago.

“Yes,” she said
a little breathlessly.

“I was talking
about …”

“The man in the
lane. I know.”

“Are you sure?
Anything I can do?”

“Find the man
and finish what I started? Murder him? No, I am alright. I think
what happened … almost happened, was for the best.”

“You learnt a
valuable lesson,” he stated simply.

Her hand
briefly tightened on his shoulder. She did not need to say it. He
understood.

He lifted her
off the floor, and when he set her back down on her feet, she was
closer to him than strictly necessary.

The music
changed becoming quicker. Fingers flew over piano keys, and
violinists shook their shaggy heads, furiously moving their bows
over strings.

Penelope felt
as light as a feather as the duke led her around the floor. His
firm hand guided her leaving no room for mistakes. She looked at
him shyly, her face alight with happiness. This was her first dance
of the season and he had begun it by being kind. In spite of all
the mistakes she had made, he was truly worried about how she was
faring. She gripped his hand tighter, letting her eyes show how
grateful she was. Perhaps Madame had worked a miracle in the last
two days. The duke was softening towards her.

He smiled down
at her and her stomach flipped. His next words seemed to echo her
feelings.

“I have changed
my opinion of you,” he said, whirling her around.

“You have?” she
asked, her face flushing with pleasure.

“Yes, I thought
you were a fruit fly.”

“A fruit fly?”
Her rosy bubble deflated a little.

“Yes, a
harmless little creature. I misjudged you. Now, I am convinced that
you are in fact a mosquito.”

“Pardon?”

“A mosquito, a
female mosquito. They are the only kind that suck blood, and some
of them can be outright dangerous to a man’s health.”

Her feet
stopped moving. The rosy bubble was now non-existent.

His hand on her
waist forced her to move.

“You are
exactly like a mosquito,” he continued as the music soared to a
crescendo, “an annoying little bug, and I wish I could bring my
hands together and splat! Squish you in an instant.”