Penelope (5 page)

“I am alright.
It is you I am worried about, Miss. As for the servants’ quarters,
we actually have windows. I can see right into the back garden and
can toss Lady Bathsheba down for her business from the window.”

“So the duke
provides well for his servants?”

“Lady Radclyff
is in charge of the kitchens and the servants. We are not begrudged
some extra tea money now and then, and we can eat all we like. Even
the scullery maid is a plump thing. It seems too good to be true
for the likes of us.”

“That’s
wonderful,” Penelope said quietly. After a moment she added, “That
will be all, Mary, thank you.”

Mary hesitated,
but a silent appeal from Penelope had her bobbing a curtsy and
leaving the room, albeit reluctantly.

Mary had always
wanted a room with a window, Penelope thought fondly. The servants’
rooms in Finnshire had been dark and damp with barely a glimmer of
light. She glanced at the soft, inviting bed and smiled ruefully.
She, too, had been given a room fit for a princess, a far cry from
her small but comfortable room at her father’s house.

Restless, she
got up and went to look out of the window. The scenery was gloomy.
The sun was hiding again, and the black smog sat comfortably
overhead. The rose garden, which her room faced, looked damp,
chilly and miserable. The wind, she noted, was the only thing
happy, running through the trees and bushes like an overexcited
kitten. If she strained, she could vaguely make out the outline of
a fountain in the distance. She focused on the structure atop the
fountain and finally figured that it was a marble statue of a
cherubic, curly-haired baby angel piddling into the lily pond
below. She sighed mournfully and turned away.

She fetched her
mother’s portrait from the cupboard and set it up on the red
sandalwood writing desk. She plonked herself down on the chair and
rested her chin on her hands. Cocking her head from side to side,
she scrutinised the portrait.

The oil
portrait was as big as her hand, perhaps a little larger. It
depicted her mother at the age of twenty one. She peered at it for
a few minutes and then spoke, “Good evening, Mother. You are
looking well. How are things up in heaven? Good, good … Well, I am
in a bit of a bind, and could I beg you to please petition God on
my behalf. It seems my guardian angel has either fled or is on
sabbatical, and the substitute has not yet arrived.”

She paused,
wondering if words took time travelling all the way from earth to
heaven. She let a moment go by just in case, and then looking into
brown eyes that were identical to her own she continued, “I think
you look just like me, though Father disagrees. He always points
out that your chin is sweet, while mine is stubborn. My nose is
round right at the tip, while yours is pointy, and while I have
sixteen freckles, you have none. He used to tell me that you were
so good that God decided to call you up for himself. I am not so
good as you well know, Mamma. Does that mean I shall go to hell? Or
that I will be stuck on earth for eternity? The priest in the
village church seems to think my place next to Mephistopheles is
booked… But I digress. I wanted to tell you all about my day and
about that bit of trouble I am in. The one that needs a guardian
angel’s intervention, or perhaps if you can manage it, a few
guardian angels fluttering down to help me out of this
predicament.”

She looked
around abstractedly, wondering how she could best explain matters.
Her eyes fell on the window once again and she said mistily,
“Mamma, do you recall the cramped window ledge in my room that I
used to sit on as a child? I stayed up late into the night letting
the curtains hide me and my candle while I stared out at the dark
green forest at the back. I was convinced that the fay folk would
come out and play, and that one day I would catch them dancing in
the vegetable patch. I sat still barely breathing for hours it
seemed, and the only exciting thing I ever saw was a naughty fox on
its way to the chicken coup.”

She scowled at
the memory, letting her chin fall back onto her hands.

“I wish I could
sit at one of my favourite spots again, especially the smooth rock
by the stream … the babbling stream that runs by the house and
disappears into the forest, where Mr Duck and Mrs Duck leisurely
dance on the water followed by the frantically paddling little
ducklings. ” She paused, and then continued still lost and dreamy.
“And do you recall that time when I was ten and I had tied all my
clothes in a bundle, wore my nicest frock, and in neat pigtails
decided to set off on an adventure? What I find odd now that I look
back is that instead of following the stream into the dark forest
where I had been so passionately convinced that the fairy folk
dwelled, I wanted to follow the sparkling white path that ran along
the forest away from the village. The path that led to an unknown
land … I wanted to set forth and reach heaven to find you, Mamma …
or perhaps find a home.”

A tear trickled
down her cheek and she dashed it away angrily.

“That horrible
harridan … Alright, alright, Mother, don’t get your wings in a
twist.” She continued in a more respectful tone, “My stepmother,
Gertrude, as you well know, has always abhorred the sight of me. As
a child I was filled with constant dread, a dread that only a child
can feel, because of her. I tried my best to stay away from her,
and I tried to please … You know I did. Sitting up in heaven you
probably have a good view of all that goes on down here. Well, the
usurper has now demanded, I will let you know in case you missed
this bit of information, demanded that I never return. That wily
witch, good for nothing… Oh, let my tongue run, Mamma. Don’t prick
your wand in my conscience. She deserves it. She told me to never
come back to my father’s house. Notice how I never call it a home.
It is always Father’s house. Well, she never made it a home, and
now my prior abode has also been snatched away from me. I didn’t
even get a chance to bid everyone a proper goodbye.” She wailed at
the last bit.

Sniffing, she
wiped her runny nose. Anguish did not wait for handkerchiefs to be
found and used.

“She told me
that I must never return to Father’s house. She said that Father
has squandered away all his wealth. He can no longer afford to
clothe or keep me. I knew he was terrible with his accounts, but …
but I didn’t realise that things had become so dreadful. She said
that since I had no fortune, accomplishments, looks or marriage
prospects in the offing, that I should grab this opportunity that
the dowager has given me and attach myself to a man … any man who
will have me, even if it means becoming his mistress, or I should
find some suitable work. Mother, I am no longer that weak, helpless
child. I refused to be bullied. And I told her as much… and then
she changed her tactics. She reminded me of my younger stepsisters;
Janet, still in her frocks and Celine, only a year younger than me
and not yet out. She asked me how I could be so heartless and
continue to be a burden on my father who had to care for five young
girls. I admit I dithered a little, but she could see that I was
still undecided, and that was when she pulled out her trump
card.”

Penelope
straightened her back and clenched the chair in a deathly grip.

“Mother,
Gertrude informed me that she knew of Lord Weevil’s proposal. The
same ancient Lord Weevil who looks like a ginormous, sleazy rat
with buck teeth and a single eye that constantly leers at anything
in skirts. He has accosted me on several occasions and I have
always rebuffed his propositions. It appears that he approached
Gertrude after learning of my impending season in London and
spurred on by circumstances asked her for my hand. Perhaps he knew
that Father would refuse. Well, she did not refuse but asked him
for time in the hope, I think, that the dowager may help matters
and find a better catch for me. If I marry someone well situated,
then she can hang her daughters’ responsibilities around my neck.
She told me that if I dared to return unwed or unemployed, she will
take matters into her own hand and make sure that I marry that
awful, awful Lord Weevil.”

She stopped
here to take deep calming breaths.

“So you see,
Mamma, I am desperate. I have to marry or else find employment. I
cannot return. That Lord Weevil makes my skin crawl. When I left
for London this morning, he stopped the carriage just outside the
village and ordered me to climb down. He was convinced that with
Gertrude’s permission, I was now his betrothed. I popped my head
out and politely asked him to let me depart. He refused and got
ready to pull the door of the carriage open. Oh, Mamma, I truly
didn’t mean to, but you see, I had no choice. I had to sock him in
the good eye.”

She paused
respectfully, thinking perhaps that her mother, perched atop a
fluffy cloud, was having a mini apoplectic fit at this last bit of
news.

“Well, I am
sorry now that I socked him. It wasn’t very hard, just hard enough
to have him collapse on the ground and give us time to get
away.”

She caressed
her mother’s portrait, “Now that I am in London, I wish I was back
in Finnshire. I know I am being contrary, but apart from Gertrude’s
presence, I was happy. I know I wanted to set out on that white
path to adventure, yet I will miss kind old Mrs Buttersmith, my
childhood accomplices— Susey and Clair, the crackling old woman who
lives in the forest, Mr Duck and Mrs Duck and all the little
ducklings. But mostly I will miss Father and my stepsisters. That
white path does not lead to anywhere pleasant, Mamma. I feel
peculiar in this strange home. At least Father’s house contains my
own familiar room, which is exactly that, if not mine, then
familiar.”

She blubbered a
bit, this time heaving herself off the chair to locate the
handkerchief and have a good blow.

 “Gertrude
hates me because she says Father always loved you, Mamma, and you
occupy a special place in his heart. She believes that place is
hers by right. She knows he married her simply to provide a mother
for me, but then why did he have to go produce five other little
ones right after? She thinks Father is partial to me and neglects
my stepsisters. My face constantly reminds her of your presence; a
ghost, she says, who should stay cold and dead in the grave. Her
eyes when she bid me goodbye were almost manic in expression, her
face etched with hatred and a passion so deep it frightened
me.”

She sobbed
convulsively and after a good long weep felt better.

“Your wand is
pricking my conscience again. I shouldn’t have fallen into an abyss
of self-pity like this. And yes, yes, I hear you. I cannot go down
to dine with the duke sporting gooseberry eyes. There, I have
washed my face with cold water. That should do the trick.”

She dried her
face with a muslin cloth which was whiter than her whitest
dress.

“Now let me
look at the positive side of things. I have always wanted to
travel, to discover the world outside Finnshire and to escape
ghastly Gertrude. Well, here I am with an opportunity straight out
of a fairy tale, deposited right into a duke’s home, with a
prospect of new dresses, dancing, edible dinners and maybe just
maybe my … my first kiss. I could in a few months have a husband,
and if only an ogre would have me, then so what? The little ogres
that I would produce would at least be lovable, and I might finally
have my own home. I have months to consider what to do if I fail to
trap a man. Besides, Mamma, you would have sent the guardian back
down to me with strict instructions to stick by my side like butter
to toast.”

She kissed the
portrait and wrapping it in tissue placed it back in the cupboard.
Smoothing her skirts, she sat on the bed and prepared to wait for
the arrival of Lady Radclyff, who was to take her down to
dinner.

 She had
three months to win the dowager’s affections, three months to find
a man, and if all else failed, then three months to find an
alternate solution. She tried whistling something merry to cheer
herself up, but as the minutes ticked by, her tune trailed off into
a mournful dirge.

“Are you ready,
Miss Fairweather?”

“Coming, Lady
Radclyff,” Penelope called out. She grabbed her shawl and raced to
the door. She tripped and steadied herself. The blasted dress was
too long and had too many underskirts.

Lady Radclyff
was waiting in the corridor, her light blue eyes sparkling in
impatience. She wore an elegant sea-green gown that floated about
her like a dream. A little bit of flour dusted her flushed cheeks,
and wisps of inky black hair had escaped the intricate knot at her
nape. She flashed a quick smile in welcome, and Penelope felt
decidedly frumpy in her old fashioned garb.

“I hope you
were able to occupy yourself these last two hours, Miss
Fairweather. A little debacle in the kitchens detained me and I
couldn’t come to you sooner. I know how difficult it is to adjust
to new surroundings, especially on the first day. I apologise for
being a negligent host, but I promise to make it up to you.”

“Oh no, Lady
Radclyff, you have no need to apologise. It took me a while to get
dressed. Thereafter, I had a long chat with my mother. I was fine,
honestly.”

“You had a chat
with your mother? Oh, you mean you wrote to your stepmother.”

“No, I was
talking to my mother’s portrait. The one who is dead … lying cold
in the grave dead,” she explained.

Lady Radclyff
paused midstep, and then continued walking with a smile that
stretched from ear to ear.

“How was your
meeting with the duke?” Penelope asked, finding the smile a little
unnerving.

Lady Radclyff
tucked her hand under Penelope’s arm. “I asked him and he
refused.”