Penelope (8 page)

The duke turned
puce in rage. His eyes were shooting not daggers, oh no, that would
have been too banal an expression, rather it was thunder and bolts
of lightning that erupted from the blue flaming depths. He took a
deep breath and prepared to launch into a tirade demanding that
justice be served.

He opened his
mouth and the indignant words rose up to meet his lips, and then
fizzed out like cold water dousing a fire for Penelope spoke from
the bed, “No, I will go back to my father’s house.”

Penelope had
emerged from her drunken stupor and overhead some of the
conversation.

The three of
them whirled around to look at her.

“Now you have
woken her,” Lady Radclyff muttered to the duke. She ran to
Penelope’s side and sat on the bed. “How are you feeling? Drink
this. The cook said it works wonders. I know it looks dreadful, but
it will make you feel better.”

The quilt was
forcefully extricated from her fist and the rest of Penelope’s head
finally emerged.

“I am sorry,”
she said miserably. “I agree with the duke. I should go. I am
incapable of handling London.”

“No one is
blaming you. We understand. The circumstances were unusual, and we
really should have taken better care of you,” the dowager
soothed.

Penelope
sniffed and a tear ran down her cheek. Flashes of the night’s
events came and went in her mind. She felt terrible. Her head ached
and her stomach turned, but her brain at least seemed to function
normally once again.

The dowager
came and sat next to her on the bed. She took Penelope’s hand and
stroked it gently.

Penelope could
not believe how good the dowager and Lady Radclyff were being to
her. She knew she had made a mess of things, and her own pride and
embarrassment wouldn’t allow her to stay a minute longer. She
brushed away her tears and flung back the quilt. She avoided
everyone’s eyes as she said, “I want to go ho … leave London.”

“But we don’t
blame you. It wasn’t your fault,” Lady Radclyff soothed.

“Your
stepmother is counting on you,” the dowager added.

Penelope didn’t
answer. She knew her options were limited, but it was better to
leave before she embarrassed the duke and his family in front of
the ton. She was bound to do or say something silly, and she no
longer had any faith in herself. She had been pickled at the dinner
table on the first day in London. A lot more could happen in three
months. She silently slid off the bed and stepped towards the
wardrobe. The moment her right foot touched the ground, she
screamed and fell.

“What is it?”
the duke asked sceptically, looking down at her.

She looked at
him, her eyes full of pain, “My… my ankle.”

His eyes
sparked with anger. He shot her a disbelieving look.

“Let me see,”
the dowager said, rushing to Penelope’s side.

Penelope, in
spite of the pain, was aware of the duke looking on. She blushed,
refusing to pull her dress up. She couldn’t show him her unclad
foot … that was simply scandalous.

Lady Radclyff
glared at the duke, who didn’t want to leave.

“Leave us,
please,” the dowager said, eyeing the duke.

He opened his
mouth to argue, but her steely gaze halted him. He hesitated, his
eyes falling on Penelope’s ashen face.

“Fine, but from
now on everything will go according to my wishes. Mother, you have
always listened to me, and I am warning you that keeping her here
is a big mistake. Anne, don’t you dare shed any more tears. It will
not have any effect on me,” he snapped, turning on his heels.

“Aye, aye,
picaroon,” Lady Radclyff saluted.

The duke
slammed the door shut behind him.

 Penelope
sagged in relief. The dowager gently pushed her dress up and
revealed her ankle. It was red and swollen.

“Oh dear, you
must have twisted it when you fell off the chair,” the dowager
tsked.

“I will be
alright. Just ask someone to carry me to the carriage. I cannot
stay on any longer… not after …”

“Hush, child, I
will not let you go home in such a state. What will your family
think?”

“Please.”

“Stay for a few
days. Let your foot heal. We can discuss your leaving after that.
If you still want to go in a week’s time, I won’t stop you. Your
family is counting on you. Stay for them if nothing else,” the
dowager coaxed.

Penelope nodded
unhappily. She didn’t want to stay, but the pain in her leg was
making it hard for her to argue her case. Perhaps in the morning
she could request the dowager to change her mind and let her go. It
was just one more night. Nothing further could go wrong.

The dowager and
Lady Radclyff departed leaving Penelope to her thoughts. A steaming
cup of tea fragrant with herbs lay by her bed side. She gratefully
cradled it and thought back to the dowager’s last words. What had
she said? Oh yes, that her family was counting on her. She scowled.
Her family was counting on her, were they? She looked at Lady
Bathsheba warming herself in front of the fire.

“Lady
Bathsheba, the dowager thinks my family is counting on me. Why, I
swear by my rosy buttocks ….”She stopped, glancing guiltily at the
cupboard where her mother’s portrait lay. She started again, “What
I mean to say is that the guardian angel has not arrived. Mother
has been busy tossing her halo for heavenly wolfhounds to fetch.
That is if dogs are allowed in heaven. Lady Bathsheba, where do you
think you will go when you die?”

She paused to
collect her thoughts. Well, there was some truth to the dowager’s
words. Her family did not solely consist of the harridan but also
her younger stepsisters and her father. If she married well, then
she could help them in some small way. Maybe help launch Celine
into London society. Celine was just a year younger than her, and
in spite of Gertrude, they were close to each other. They met
secretly away from her stepmother’s watching eyes and shared their
deepest darkest secrets, if young girls could be said to have any
deep, dark secrets. Besides, Finnshire did not offer much in terms
of available men. It was possible that one of her five sisters
could end up being shackled to Lord Weevil. She shuddered at the
thought and pulled the quilts closer.

Should she stay
and forget the drunken debacle? Take the new day as a new
beginning? She drained her cup and set it aside and snuggled down
deeper into the bed. Mary would be around soon enough to collect it
and take the goat down to the servants’ rooms. She yawned, too
sleepy to decide on a proper course of action. Perhaps things would
be clearer in the morning. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The clock
struck a late hour and Penelope, along with the other inhabitants
of the Blackthorne Mansion, slumbered.

Lady Bathsheba
eyed her mistress thoughtfully. She blinked her long lashes twice,
and then as if making up her mind on some grave matter, baaed. She
baaed loudly and clearly and kept it up until Penelope sat up with
a jerk.

She blinked her
bleary eyes open.

“Lady
Bathsheba? You should be sleeping with Mary in the servants’
quarters. She must have forgotten … Shhh, be quiet. Someone will
hear you. Oh no, you are bamming me. You want to do your business
now? Alright … alright, I will let you out. I am not sure of the
way … a moment, I need to put on my robe. Fine, I am coming. I
can’t see a blasted thing in this dark anyway.”

Penelope
staggered towards the door and opened it slightly. Perhaps a candle
burned outside that she could use?

Unfortunately,
Lady Bathsheba had other ideas. She nudged the door open with her
peachy nose and ran out.

Horrified,
Penelope rushed out after her into the hallway.

“Stop, Lady
Bathsheba, stop. You come back here now or I won’t give you a
single carrot ever again,” Penelope whispered, hobbling after the
goat. The shooting pain in her leg was making it difficult for her
to walk, let alone run.

Lady Bathsheba
took no notice and raced onwards. She ran down the long corridor,
galloped up a flight of stairs, hurried down the hallway, scurried
up a second flight of stairs, and arrived at her destination. She
disappeared into a room on the right.

Penelope stared
at the door which was slightly ajar. It was a massive door, and if
a door could look manly, then this one did. She felt an urge to
giggle and shoved a fist into her mouth. If anyone found her
lurking in the corridor in the middle of the night laughing
hysterically to herself because she thought a door looked manly,
she would be off to a madhouse before she could say picaroon ever
again. She bit down on her hand and forced herself to calm
down.

 A minute
went by, and when Lady Bathsheba did not emerge, Penelope
cautiously approached the door and stuck her ear to the crack. She
strained to hear a single sound that could enlighten her as to who
or what was behind the door. She heard nothing and her piteous
calls to Lady Bathsheba were ignored.

She took a deep
breath and dropped down on all fours. She nudged the door open and
peeked in.

A candle burned
somewhere in the room and the light was dim. It was a bedroom with
a large bed at the centre. A lump on the bed indicated that someone
was asleep. Penelope smothered a squeal and got ready to back up
out of the room when she noticed Lady Bathsheba’s white tail
sticking out of the wardrobe.

Penelope
hesitated. Should she wait outside or drag the goat out? What if
Lady Bathsheba started baaing? She could wait outside, but she had
no idea what the time was and when the occupant of the room arose.
What if the person found Lady Bathsheba before she did? She
couldn’t afford to upset anyone in the household any further.

What if the
occupant was Sir Henry Woodville and he ordered the chef to cook
her goat?

This last
thought decided her and she entered the room. She crawled on
account of her painful ankle. Besides, it was easier to be sneaky
on all fours. She made her way towards the wardrobe, grateful that
the floor was thickly carpeted. Her heart thundered as she neared
her goal.

She stared at
the goat’s behind. The white stubby tail swished back and forth.
She could lunge at the goat and pick her up and run, except her
foot may give way and the noise would definitely wake the unknown
person. She had no choice but to coax the blasted animal out. She
softly patted the goat on the back.

Lady Bathsheba
poked her head out and glanced at Penelope inquiringly. She held a
piece of cloth in her mouth.

Penelope lunged
and grasped the end of the cloth. Thereafter, a silent tug of war
ensued. Lady Bathsheba held on to the cloth with her teeth and
tugged while Penelope, using all her might, pulled.

Penelope
finally won, but before she could grab the goat by the neck, Lady
Bathsheba had disappeared into the wardrobe again and emerged with
another piece of cloth.

Penelope
emitted a soft moan of frustration. She glared at the goat and then
glanced at the cloth she had managed to save. Her eyes grew large
in horror. For the first time in her life she beheld, good lord… a
man’s underthing.

She flung it
away, and then stared first at her hand and then at the cloth. Had
she just held Sir Henry’s … She squeezed her eyes shut and scrubbed
her palms on her skirts.

She eyed Lady
Bathsheba reproachfully while the goat sat chewing contently. She
had a curious feeling that the other cloth hanging out of the
goat’s mouth was also of the same type.

“Lady Bathsheba
that is … that is very undignified. You cannot be chewing on a
man’s underclothing. Please be a good lady and drop it at once. I
truly cannot touch it again,” she whispered pleadingly.

Lady Bathsheba
ignored her whispered plea and continued chewing blissfully.

Finally, tired
of waiting, Penelope bravely closed her eyes and grabbed the cloth
and tugged.

“Let go… Lady
Bathsheba, I am warning you, no carrots. A refined woman does not
behave this way. Please, just give it to me. You are a good goat,
aren’t you?”

Penelope gave
up. She would drag the silly goat out, underthing and all. She
could always wrestle it off in the hallway and shove it in a potted
plant. She could think of no other solution. She grabbed Lady
Bathsheba by the neck and started crawling backwards.

Halfway through
her buttocks hit a wall. She didn’t remember any obstacles on the
way in. Had she moved too far behind? Confused, she glanced back
and let out a small scream.

The duke, with
his arms crossed, stood in his robes watching her.

Penelope sprang
up, wincing as her foot complained and swayed.

The duke didn’t
help steady her. He stared at her, anger etched in every line of
his face.

“Miss
Fairweather …,” he said sarcastically and then paused. He had
spotted his undercloth still held in her hand.

Penelope
blushed and hastily dropped it. She then gripped her night gown and
curtsied.

“I am sorry,
Lady Bathsheba escaped—”

“And out of two
hundred and fifty rooms in the Blackthorne house, she happened to
find mine to hide in. By complete coincidence, I suppose?” he
asked, raising a disbelieving brow.

“Yes,” she
replied in a small voice.

“It is well
past midnight, Miss Fairweather, but I still have my wits about me.
You are here to warm my bed.”

“Is your bed
cold?” At his thunderous expression, she hurriedly continued, “I
did not know this was your room. How was I to know? I just
arrived.”

“A coin to the
maids would have told you.”

“Well, I did
not ask a mopsqueezer … maid,” she clarified at his baffled
expression. “Lady Bathsheba escaped and I ran after her …”