Penelope (10 page)

He reeled across the hall, unaware that Penelope was standing on the staircase staring at his distraught face in amazement, and out of the door into the street.

Penelope stood very still. What was wrong with Charles? And why was her aunt laughing in that terrible way?

She went into the drawing room. Augusta had stopped laughing and was adjusting her turban in front of the looking glass. Penelope winced at the violent color combination and then said, “Tell me, dear Aunt, is there anything the matter with Charles? I saw him leaving just now and he looked so very white.”

“No,” said Augusta. “He is in fine fettle and delighted with your engagement, my dear—as are we all.” She came towards the girl and put a plump arm around Penelope’s slender waist and gave her a playful squeeze. “I’ll be sorry to lose my little niece but, after all, Auntie will be staying with you for long, long visits.
Won’t she?
”

“Oh—oh, yes, that is—well, Roger says we should be on our own—together that is—for … for some time so that we can get to know each other,” said Penelope, looking at the floor. The Earl had, in fact, warned Penelope that, despite her improved manners, he could only stand a very, very little of Augusta’s presence.

Augusta took note of Penelope’s downcast eyes and the hesitancy with which she had spoken and became more than ever resolved to depart for France in the morning.

One by one the guests began to arrive until the drawing room was quite crowded. Miss Stride was there, and the Earl. Other members of the
ton
had accepted Miss Harvey’s invitation out of curiosity and because the Earl was one of the highest members of society. Eyes kept turning to the draped easel at the end of the room. Only the artist had failed to put in an appearance.

The door opened and everyone turned. But it was only Charles, his face still very white. The Earl looked at his brother anxiously and then gave a mental shrug. Charles spent such late nights drinking with his cronies that he often looked white and shaken the next day.

At last Augusta could wait no longer. Mr. Liwoski had obviously decided not to attend, which was strange since he had not been paid and had not let Augusta see the portrait, having promised her a glorious surprise on the day of the unveiling.

Augusta gave a loud cough to collect everyone’s attention. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a voice quite squeaky with excitement. “I shall perform the unveiling of the portrait myself.”

She grasped the edge of the cloth which covered the easel and pulled.

There was sudden silence.

Penelope stood rooted to the floor, gazing in horror at the portrait.

The paint had been laid on by the hand of a genius. The figure in the portrait seemed alive. The painted Augusta Harvey stared at the room full of guests, her face a mask of hatred, cunning, and malice.

The real Augusta Harvey looked proudly up at her painted self, seeing nothing amiss. It was, after all, a face that often stared back at her from her looking glass.

Then the silence was hideously shattered. Charles let out a high, thin, screaming, spluttering laugh. With a shaking finger he pointed to the canvas.

“Augusta Harvey to the life,” he screamed. “By God, Augusta, the man has painted your soul!”

The Earl hurried towards his brother and then, taking his arm in a firm grip, led him from the room.

The guests all burst out into noisy speech.

Penelope stood quite still, staring at the portrait. Her own feelings for Augusta had swung back and forth as her still undeveloped personality swung from maturity to immaturity—one minute the woman, the next the child. The woman felt that Augusta should be watched very carefully and not trusted very much. The child longed for Augusta to be a substitute mother and saw in her coarseness a rough diamond. Which was the real Augusta?

Penelope did not know.

But as she continued to stare at the portrait, she began to feel afraid.

W
YNDHAM
C
OURT, HOME
of the Earl of Hestleton, was a great rambling pile of mixed architecture, from Tudor to modern. It stood on a rise, commanding a fine view of the fields and woods of Hertfordshire.

Here was the home Penelope had dreamed of, with its long, spacious rooms and bowls of flowers.

She had at first been intimidated by the army of servants and the rather grim and austere figure of Aunt Matilda who was an extremely tall, thin elderly spinster. But the servants had done all in their power to make the future mistress of Wyndham Court feel at home and Aunt Matilda had turned out to be garrulous and friendly and not at all like her forbidding exterior.

The weather was idyllic, long hot sunny days fading into soft gray and rose evenings and starlit nights.

Penelope had spent her days being driven around the estate by the Earl and her evenings playing the piano for Aunt Matilda who had an insatiable love of music. And then, sometimes, in a quiet corner of the garden there were those stolen, hungry kisses with the Earl. Each time they seemed not enough, and Penelope would toss and turn during the night, feeling strangely restless and unsatisfied.

It was not that Aunt Matilda was a particularly conscientious chaperone. It was just that she had taken a great liking to Penelope, trotting happily after her when Penelope retired for the night and passing half an hour each night in Penelope’s bedroom “having a comfortable coze.”

Early one evening Penelope escaped from Aunt Matilda’s company and went out onto the broad flagged terrace to enjoy the cool, still air. Scarlet roses spilled over the edge of great stone urns on the balustrade of the terrace, and beyond, the wide, green, shaven lawns rolled gently away towards the darkness of the woods.

Penelope heard a step on the terrace behind her and a well-loved voice said, “Dreaming, my dear?”

Penelope turned, her pale skin almost translucent in the soft twilight. “Oh, Roger,” she sighed. “Of all things to think about on this beautiful evening! But I can’t help wondering why Mr. Liwoski painted Aunt Augusta
so
. He did not seem a particularly malicious man. He made her look
evil
.”

“It was a caricature, that was all,” said the Earl mildly.

“But it could not be that,” expostulated Penelope. “A caricature dramatises,
highlights
, qualities that are
there
. And Aunt is not malicious or evil.”

Her voice rose at the end in a faint question.

“There is no accounting for the whims of artists,” said the Earl lightly.

At that moment they heard Aunt Matilda calling them in to dinner. While she regaled Penelope with a recipe for rose water, the Earl sat buried in thought, remembering the aftermath of the portrait party.

Augusta’s portrait! Charles had been nearly incoherent. “But don’t you see, Roger? Don’t you see the joke of it all,” he had kept saying over and over again. “It’s the pig lady in person.”

The pig-faced lady was one of the absurd reports and ridiculous stories which had swept London during the spring of 1814. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had seen the pig-faced lady. The shops were full of caricatures of her wearing a poke bonnet with a large veil, with “A pig in a poke” written underneath. A timid young baronet, Sir William Elliot, claimed that the pig-faced lady lived in Grosvenor Square. He had met her when he had called at a certain mansion and had been unable to restrain his cry of horror when what he thought was a fashionably dressed young person turned to reveal the monstrous and horrible face of a pig. He claimed that the pig-faced lady, incensed at his cry of horror, had rushed towards him with great grunts and had bitten him in the neck. The wound had been dressed by Hawkins, the surgeon, in St. Audley Street and Mr. Hawkins had said the wound was a severe one.

Sir William, however, claimed to have forgotten the exact address in Grosvenor Square.

For days after, several bucks and bloods had hung around the confines of Grosvenor Square hoping for a glance at this lady, but in vain. The story spread all over London. The pig-faced lady had been seen at the Tower, at Gunter’s eating ices, even at Almack’s!

The Earl realised that if Charles continued in this hysterical vein, most of London would be flooding to Brook Street for a glimpse of Augusta Harvey.

He finally seemed to have driven some sense into Charles’s head, and when his young brother appeared calmer, had asked him the meaning of the outburst. Charles had looked slightly furtive and had claimed that he had been foxed and the Earl remembered that his brother
had
smelled of brandy.

The Earl turned his thoughts to the more pleasant prospect of the present. He looked down the long table to where Penelope sat at the other end and could not help comparing her with her aunt. The girl radiated innocence and sweetness. Her manners were well-bred and refined and her voice, soft and gentle.

He considered himself very lucky indeed as he watched the soft candlelight playing on her delicate features, and he forgot all his worries about Charles and Augusta. London seemed very far away with its noise and bustle and dirt.

“My dear,
do
try this buttered crab,” Aunt Matilda was saying as she helped herself to another plateful. Penelope shook her head. Aunt Matilda seemed to be able to eat a vast amount of food for such a thin lady.

“As I was saying,” Aunt Matilda droned on, “it is most necessary to call on sick tenants
in person
. Of course one can go too far. Now, Lady Barbara Desmond over at Suthers carried it to extremes and
would
go even if they had the smallpox and, of course, she died. Not of smallpox, dear, cholera it was. An excess of zeal.
An excess of zeal!
Do have some more buttered crab. Oh, I have already asked you that. Then I had better finish it myself. It is
too rich
for the servants, you know, and might give them ideas above their station. And it is
very bad
for people to get ideas above their station. I trust, my dear, you would have escaped the contagion emanating from Godwin, Wollstonecraft, Holcroft, Thelwell, and the writers of that
pestilential
school. But then the servants do not read much—if they can read
at all
—and, believe me, buttered crab is famous for arousing radical notions in the palates of those unaccustomed to it!”

“Really,” teased Penelope, “it is the first time I have heard of anyone’s palate having radical notions.”

“But it sends
the message to the brain
,” said Aunt Matilda earnestly. “It says ‘Arise! Lead the
aristos
to the
lanterne
, bring out
la guillotine
, you too can dine on buttered crab!’ You
do
understand now, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Penelope faintly. A choked sound came from the Earl.

“Of course, there are other messages from food. Quite pleasant ones,” went on Aunt Matilda. “I was once in love, my dear. Hard to believe, when you look at me now,” she added sadly, tucking a wisp of gray hair under her lace cap. “But I was. Yes, indeed. And with the curate, too. Most unsuitable and of course Papa was
quite right
although naturally I did not think so at the time. When he came to tea, Mama always served macaroon cakes. Macaroon cakes and tea. Now every time I taste a macaroon, I still feel very young and lost and sort of trembly, you know.” Aunt Matilda fell silent as she stared back down the years.

Penelope looked down the table and found her gaze held by the Earl. She began to feel very young and lost and trembly as well. How long could the Earl, who was used to experienced liaisons with experienced women, be content with mere kisses? How long could she?

Penelope sighed and became aware that Aunt Matilda had roused herself from her reverie.

“What a monstrous amount of food I have consumed,” said that lady. “Now, shall we go into the drawing room, Penelope, and leave Roger to his port. And you shall play something for me.”

The Earl rose as well and grasped the decanter. “You are not having Penelope’s beautiful music all to yourself tonight, Aunt,” he said. “I shall join you.”

Soon the rippling notes of Vivaldi echoed round the drawing room, and the Earl stretched out his long legs and admired his fiancée and wished they could be married by special license that very night.

Suddenly a loud snore interrupted the music and Penelope stopped and swung round. Aunt Matilda had fallen fast asleep, her cap tipped over one eye and her mouth open.

The Earl moved slowly towards Penelope, his face lit with a mischievous smile. “Our chaperone has gone to sleep,” he whispered, “and I have been longing to kiss you all day.”

He drew Penelope to her feet and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her long and hard until they were both dizzy. “I can’t stand much more of this frustration,” muttered the Earl finally with his mouth against hers. “I….

“
Roger!
” Aunt Matilda was awake, her face suffused with a delicate pink. “You are to be married quite soon, dear boy, so you should curb your … well, till … well never mind. ‘Tis not genteel to talk of such things in company. Come, Penelope, I shall see you to your bedchamber and we shall have a comfortable coze.

“In fact, I think we should
go now
. It must have been the duckling!” she said triumphantly, pausing in the doorway. “Duckling is inflamatory! Very. Good night, Roger. Come, my dear, what was I saying. Dear me, I do forget things these days. A sad sign of getting old. Oh, yes, chaperone. Roger. Watch that step, my dear, it wobbles so and I have told the servants to fix it and they say they have, but there, it wobbles just the same and one could so easily get a turned ankle.

“As I was saying, has your aunt discussed the Delicate Side of Marriage with you? No? Then … ah here we are.” She sat down heavily on a chair. “Put my candle on the mantelpiece, my dear. Don’t ring for the maid yet. I must tell you, you see. There are certain things that are Right after marriage and Wrong before marriage. Now, ‘twas most embarrassing for the Wiltons over at Hadley Hall when Sally was married to young Brothers and her wedding gown stuck out in front in
such
a fashion. Of course, they claimed she was wearing a
pad
but no one has worn them since I was a girl when it was fashionable to look six months pregnant. And she
was
! So there. I am glad we have had this little coze. You see, someone has to tell you, and I am so very fond of you.”