Penelope (6 page)

Penelope
gasped, and Lady Radclyff grinned.

“Hear me out. I
then begged and he refused. I finally cried, and before a single
tear drop could travel the length of my cheek, he agreed. He has
even promised to ask you to stay himself.”

Penelope eyed
Lady Radclyff in respect.

“Thank you,”
she said.

“No, don’t
thank me. My brother was a little harsh—”

“My Lady,” a
voice interrupted.

They both
looked up to find a maid blocking their path.

“Mrs Reed wants
you urgently, something about the dinner.”

Lady Radclyff
stamped her foot scaring Penelope a little bit.

“Not again! I
was just in the kitchens but a moment ago. Oh, this new chef we
have! He has trouble producing the meals on time. I have managed to
allay any disasters up until now, but I don’t know how long I can
continue thinking up creative solutions. I am sorry, Miss
Fairweather. We have another fifteen minutes before dinner is
served, and I need to confer with Mrs Reed. Becky, please escort
Miss Fairweather to the dining room. I hope you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,”
Penelope quickly replied. She would have liked Lady Radclyff’s
support while facing the duke and Sir Henry Woodville … Perhaps the
dowager was already downstairs? Pasting a polite smile on her face,
she followed the maid … Becky, Lady Radclyff had called her.

***

Penelope lifted
her left foot and regarded it critically. She then hiked up her
skirts slightly and once again inspected her left foot. It was no
use. Her left foot remained hidden beneath her skirts.

She stared
dolefully down the never-ending, winding oak staircase that was lit
by dozens of twinkling candelabras. The maid who was supposed to
escort her to the dining room had disappeared. She would have to
attempt the stairs unaided. It was better to risk her neck than be
late for the dinner.

Taking a deep
breath, she descended the first step and wobbled. Her hand shot out
and she grabbed onto the railing.

It was a few
moments before she regained her composure. There was no other way
out. She would have to hike up her skirts even further. She peeked
down the staircase to ascertain that she was alone before
attempting any unladylike behaviour and found the duke staring up
at her. She was not surprised. That sort of thing often happened to
her.

He, in turn,
eyed her in annoyance.

She thought
that he looked quite the thing— grim and devilishly handsome. She
forced herself to breathe and arranged her face into something
resembling disdain. She could sneer just as well as he could, she
thought angrily.

Tilting her
chin up and holding a haughty expression she took another step
down. Her foot failed to land on the second step and instead it
hovered over the third step desperately seeking solid ground. She
teetered on the edge, her arms flaying wildly like an owlet testing
its baby wings for the first time. Her mouth popped open, her eyes
grew big, and her facial muscles contracted unflatteringly. Finally
she lost complete momentum and fell, rolling down the stairs until
someone caught her.

She squeezed
her eyes shut in embarrassment.

“Are you all
right?” the duke asked urgently.

“Did you see my
bloomers,” she whispered.

“Excuse me? Did
you hit your head?”

“My bloomers …
did you see them?” she asked, snapping her eyes open.

“Err … no.”

“Thank
goodness. At least these blasted skirts were good for something.
Though, I would not have tripped if it hadn’t been for them in the
first place.”

“You seem to be
unharmed. You have your tongue back. Are you fine?”

Penelope looked
at the duke kneeling in front of her, concern clear in his sharp
gaze. Disconcerted, she pushed his arms away and quickly rose, and
just as quickly tripped again and fell right back into his
arms.

“Stop
squirming. I will let you go in a moment. Lift your right foot. I
think the skirt is stuck under … yes, now hold on to my shoulder
and place your foot back on the ground. That’s it. Now, I am going
to let you go. You are sure you won’t fall again?”

“No… no, I am
all right. I … thank you,” Penelope stammered.

The duke waited
until she had managed a few steps on her own before he let go of
her arm.

“Why did you
wear something so ridiculous? I can see you have no taste or any
sense of practicality. You could have killed yourself, all for the
sake of fashion.”

“Your sister
recommended I wear this, your grace,” she replied bristling.

She had
softened at his concern for her, but his tone was back to being
scathing. She deduced that his concern was not for her safety.
Dealing with the dead bodies of guests who broke their necks
tumbling down his staircase in too long skirts would have disturbed
his schedule. Cleaning up the gore and blood from the expensive
cream carpets would have further disrupted his dinner hour.

“Then your
other dresses must be truly frightening,” the duke muttered.

They reached
the bottom step safely with Penelope racking her brain for an
intelligent retort.

“Perkins, get
me two glasses of brandy. Make it generous please,” the duke
ordered the butler.

Penelope stood
shuffling her feet still thinking about a decent rejoinder.

“Miss
Fairweather? Allow me to escort you to the dining room.”

Penelope gave
up. She couldn’t even remember what she was trying to retort to.
She carefully placed the tips of her fingers on his arm, taking
care to touch him as little as possible.

His mouth
twitched as if he understood.

They entered
the dining room and the duke settled her in a chair at a table long
enough to seat sixteen.

“Here, drink it
in one go,” the duke ordered, handing her a glass of brandy.

She looked at
him questioningly.

“You are going
to go into shock. The tumble down the stairs could have killed you.
It is a delayed reaction. The brandy will help sooth your
nerves.”

“Plummy,” she
muttered and drank the contents.

Spluttering and
coughing, she banged the empty glass down on the table. After she
had stopped hacking, she braced herself for the delayed shock from
the tumble to hit her. It didn’t. She felt perfectly fine. In fact,
the brandy had given her a delicious warm feeling, and now that she
thought about it, she had never had brandy. It was always wine. She
regretted drinking it so fast. She should have tasted it
properly.

“Can I have
another?” she asked.

“Another
what?”

“Brandy or
whiskey … rum?” She might as well try all three while the duke was
being generous.

“Are you sure?”
the duke asked.

“Yes, please,”
she replied primly.

He nodded and
poured some into her glass.

She grasped the
glass and took a dainty sip. It was awful, but she had to drink it
now with the duke staring at her. She took another sip and then
another. The taste seemed to grow on her, and before she knew it,
she loved it.

“It’s
delicious, thank you.”

“You are
welcome. It’s cherry brandy. Go slow, you are drinking it too … Ah,
I see you have finished it.”

“Can I—?”

“No,” he
snapped, cutting her off her mid-sentence.

“I just wanted
a little bit more,” she muttered to herself.

She covertly
watched the duke as he took out his pocket watch and noted the
time. The butler, as if on cue, handed the duke something on a
tray. He picked up a full, dark, dangling moustache and strode over
to the mirror. He had just patted it into place when Sir Henry
Woodville was announced in.

“Who is this
young lady?” A tremulous voice asked.

“This is Miss
Fairweather, Grandfather.”

“Ah yes, our
guest for the season.”

Penelope
watched the frail old man being carried into the room by two burly
footmen.

Sir Henry had
shocking white hair, jet black beady eyes and a bulbous nose upon
which sat a big black mole. The lower half of his face was hidden
behind the most exquisitely groomed moustache in all of England. It
was an aristocratic, powerful, dignified, and above all else a
bushy moustache. It was long, it was white, and the very tips of it
curled upwards giving it an almost menacing feel. A decent
moustache can intimidate a man, while a great moustache can
frighten an army. And Sir Henry’s moustache was great. Lovingly
attached to the lower half of the moustache was a fluffy beard. His
thin lips had understandably disappeared behind all the hair.

Penelope stood
up and curtsied, offering a wobbly smile.

“How do you
like London?” the old man wheezed at her across the table.

“I have only
arrived today and haven’t seen enough to form an opinion yet.”

“You will hate
it. In my day London was green, the men brave and the women
bouncy…” He stopped as a coughing fit overtook over him.

Perkins quickly
slopped wine into a glass and placed it in front of Sir Henry while
the duke half stood up in his seat.

Penelope
gripped her skirts in horror. Sir Henry’s coughing fit seemed to go
on forever. She was convinced she had just heard the old man utter
his last tragic words

Sir Henry
Woodville soon spluttered to a halt. His eyes were closed and
Penelope leaned forward to check if he was still breathing. The
duke, too, seemed to have decided this was it when Sir Henry
snapped open his eyes and said, “I like your dress.”

She jumped in
shock. The duke sat back down and calmly went back to sipping his
brandy.

“Err… thank
you,” she finally managed, hand on her thundering heart.

“Women no
longer have any sense of style. They wear clothes that push their
bosoms up to their necks. They might as well be naked. My wife wore
more underskirts in bed than they do at a ball. Grecian inspiration
they call it. Hmmph, it is more like going to a ball in your
chemise. Deplorable. My dear, do not let these London modistes
change your style. You have the appropriate amount of
underskirts.”

Penelope
grabbed her wine glass and drank the contents in one swig. Her face
was bright red, and she dared not look at the duke. Was it usual
for aristocrats to bring up bosoms and lady’s underskirts at the
dinner table, she wondered? She desperately wished for Lady
Radclyff and the dowager to arrive and save her from dying in utter
mortification.

Her wish was
granted and they entered at that very moment. As soon as they were
seated, Perkins, the butler, entered with a fresh jug of wine.

Perkins had
arrived at the Blackthorne Mansion along with Sir Henry Woodville
seventeen years ago just after the demise of Duke of Blackthorne
VI. Berkins, the butler at the time, was so overwrought upon
hearing of his beloved master’s death that he retired. Perkins had
considered it mighty decent of the fellow to leave the post and
make it conveniently available for him.

At the time
Perkins, who replaced Berkins, was considered the best of butlers
in town. He was often accosted by rival aristocratic family members
with promises of candle stubs, bottles, dripping, extra fat, bones
and tobacco to leave his post and come and work for them. He, out
of deep seated loyalty and pride, refused. The servants downstairs
now wished that someone should have thought of a sufficient amount
to lure the blasted man out. Perkins, with his white hair, stooped
figure, and a face wrinkled like a dried up Baghdad date, was so
old that he should rightfully be dead. But he wasn’t, and while his
brain functioned relatively well, his body had almost given up, for
it complained with every step he took. His eyesight was a little
better than stone blind, and on more than one occasion he had
managed to pour a jug of wine into the bosoms of various attractive
women who dared to wear their gowns too low.

It is
remarkable that it was only attractive women who were thus doused,
and oddly no one in the family noticed this coincidence.

This same
Perkins with his grainy eyesight, aching joints, and shaky hands
inched his way forward on the laborious journey around the table to
fill the glasses with wine.

A maid entered
carrying platters of food. Another servant followed, and then
another until the long table was laden with fruits, meats, cheeses,
nuts and freshly baked bread. Someone placed a bowl of soup in
front of her and Perkins had still not reached her wine glass.

Penelope shot
Perkins an evil look. She wished the blasted man would hurry up and
fill her glass. He was currently hovering over the dowager’s head.
Her eyes slithered to the duke. The duke was whispering something
to a pretty serving maid. His glass was full, she noted irritably.
She wrenched her eyes back to her plate.

 A moment
later, the same pretty maid appeared by her side and filled her
glass with water. Penelope frowned and then glared at the duke in
annoyance. Did he think she had drunk enough wine for the night?
She was not a child. Angrily she waited until Perkins finally
arrived next to her. With a mournful look at her relatively high
neckline, he slopped the wine into her glass. She defiantly picked
it up and took a generous sip.

The duke raised
an eyebrow in amusement and went back to sipping his own
brandy.

“The chef seems
to have produced the dinner on time,” Penelope said to Lady
Radclyff, who was sitting next to her.

“Yes, well he
is temperamental. He is French and the housekeeper English. If you
ever want to witness a battle, venture down to our kitchens
someday.”

Penelope nodded
in understanding and took a generous gulp from her glass. “This
wine is different from what I am used to. It’s delicious and
somehow the taste is … deeper, and the colour darker?”