A Winter Wedding (8 page)

When they returned to Marchford House, the duke went about seeing to the return of the dubious curricle and Penelope went into the house. Despite the cold, she had enjoyed the adventure, though whether it was because she wished to serve king and country or because she simply enjoyed being near a certain duke, she thought best not to examine too closely.

In her room, she found a maid once again removing her older gowns from the closet.

“Sorry, miss. Orders of the duchess. She weren’t happy to find you bought back them gowns and asked me to burn them.”

Pen was hardly surprised. The duchess was adamant in her abhorrence of the old gowns. Penelope handed the maid a coin from her reticule. “I will give you something to burn but leave the rest. I will ensure the duchess never sees them again.”

It was not that Penelope was afraid of the dowager, but she had learned long ago that avoiding unnecessary conflict could only lead to her general peace and contentment. So it was with such felicitous musings that Penelope traipsed up the rickety stairs with an armload of unsuitable garments past the housemaid’s quarters to the attic.

It was as attic-y an attic as could be and had she been a younger girl it would have been the sort of place she would have loved to explore. It was lit only from a few dormer windows and was filled with trunks and bags and bandboxes and mysterious crates. Old furnishings were covered with white sheets against the dust, which along with the cobwebs gave the place a deliciously spooky feel.

Penelope looked around for a suitable place to store her undesirable frocks. It was perhaps recalcitrant to hang on to her old wardrobe, resisting the new ones purchased by the dowager, though with Penelope’s own share of one of Madame X’s triumphs. Trouble was the new garments were so much more stylish, so fashionable, that it was a dramatic shift from her usual drab ensembles.

In her old gowns she could hide, recede into the background. In her new gowns…she was not even sure what she could do. What she did know was that the dowager was serious about sending her gowns to the poorhouse or the burn pile, and if she wanted to keep them, they must be hid.

Besides, the ones she kept had been her mother’s gowns. They still smelled faintly of her perfume. When she wore them, she felt close to her mum, almost as if she had become her mother. Penelope leaned against a trunk, turning over a new thought.

Was this why she was holding on to the gowns? Trying to fill the gaping hole left by the death of her mother by trying to become like her? Even dress like her? She must admit she had taken a rather mothering role with her sisters. Somebody had to be the sensible one to set everything to rights. Just like Mum.

Oh
Lord, I do not know who I am anymore.
She had always been one to take care of people—her sisters, the dowager—but now with them all joining the ranks of matrimony, she was hardly needed. Who was she now?

Trust
in
the
Lord
with
all
thine
heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. Proverbs 3:5
. It was one of her father’s favorite verses and was quoted often in her home. Followed by her grandma Moira’s addition,
It
may
no’ work out the way ye plan, but it may just work out the way He planned
.

Penelope brushed past old chairs and furnishings covered in white sheets to an old forgotten trunk in the corner. By the layer of cobwebs, it was clear the trunk held nothing of current use and should be a successful storage place. Opening the trunk, Penelope found a lovely gown in an older style, complete with an old-fashioned long corset and side panniers folded underneath. Penelope wondered if it had been the dowager’s gown from a bygone era. It was a fancy one, with more ribbons and frills than Penelope would have expected, and in a most shocking color of deep rose pink. How would the dowager have appeared in such a gown?

Penelope continued to explore the contents of the trunk and found another gown of emerald silk. Underneath was an exquisitely painted fan, a bottle of perfume, and an ivory-handled brush and comb. Penelope wondered at these items and decided these things must not have been Antonia’s but from some lady who had died. Why else would one pack away a half-used bottle of perfume?

In a corner of the trunk, Penelope found a little velvet box. Inside was a darling miniature of a young woman. Penelope mentally reviewed the long line of family portraits in the gallery, but she was certain she had never seen her before. The young woman was a raven-haired beauty with large, dark eyes and an olive complexion. Her mouth was alluring with a half smile and full rose lips, as if she wished to share a secret. Her dark eyes held a come-hither look that must have conquered the heart of any young man with the ability to draw breath. She was exquisite.

But who was she? And why was she hidden away in a trunk in the Marchford home?

At the bottom of the trunk was a large rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. Penelope doubted she could remove the package without ripping the paper, so she left it be, curious as she was.

Getting back to the business at hand, she repacked the trunk. She laid out her own gowns, folding them and carefully adding them to the trunk. Fortunately, there was room for her own things, but now her interest was focused on this new mystery.

Penelope flung a white sheet over the trunk and slipped the velvet box in her pocket. She never thought twice about taking the miniature. If pressed, she would be forced to confess she had a shocking propensity toward curiosity. The adage of what had happened to certain cats of similar disposition had been reviewed for her in her younger years on multiple occasions. However, her natural inclination toward solving mysteries and generally poking about in other people’s business had not yet killed her.

But the day was still young.

***

Penelope had just finished changing clothes into something the dowager would consider “suitable” when she received an urgent summons to join the dowager in her sitting room. The carriage of the Comtesse de Marseille had been spotted outside.

The Comtesse de Marseille, notorious society gossip, could ruin almost anyone with the raise of an eyebrow. Penelope could not find a single person who did not secretly loathe and fear the comtesse, yet her word on fashion, art, music, theatre—anything of any substance—was considered authoritative. It was said that when the patronesses of Almack’s disagreed whether or not to grant a particular person a voucher, they inquired of the comtesse.

“Thank goodness you look presentable,” exclaimed Antonia when Penelope entered the room. “Sit there.” The dowager pointed to a wingback chair. “No, no, sit over here on the settee.”

Penelope had not seen the dowager in such a state since Marchford had cut off her extra pocket money. Though the announcement had only just been published, Penelope had no doubt that news of the dowager’s engagement had spread to the outer banks of the Thames before noon and then scurried throughout the countryside by teatime. By the end of a week, the news would no doubt spread to the outer reaches of Scotland and even to Napoleon himself, who if the rumors were to be believed, enjoyed reading a bit of gossip as much as any society matron.

Despite her reassuring words, Penelope was not certain how the
ton
would react. The Dowager Duchess of Marchford herself held much sway in society, though she had been a widow for longer than many had been alive. Marriages in the mature years did happen, but not often. The question on everyone’s mind was why. Why now?

The comtesse was coming for a story. She was looking for gossip. Whether the impending nuptials of the dowager’s would be met with praise or censure depended largely on the opinion of the comtesse. And that depended on the story they were about to tell.

“Forgive me, Antonia,” said Penelope in a soft voice. “But everyone will want to know why you are getting married. Why are you?”

“Do you not know?” Antonia’s sharp, blue eyes softened and she spoke in a whisper. “Because I love him. I always have.”

“The Comtesse de Marseille,” the butler intoned.

“Antonia!” A tall, thin woman swished into the room with an air of elegance. Beneath a stylish hat with a wild plume of ostrich feathers, her silver hair was coiffed so elaborately it reminded Pen of an earlier time, when monstrous wigs were the fashion.

“Cosette,” answered the dowager in an airy voice. The two societal mavens moved together with a swish of silk and kissed the air around each other. “How are you this morning?”

“Very well, thank you, my dear. Now tell me all. Are you so very poor it has come to this?” The face of the comtesse may have appeared sympathetic, but her eyes gleamed with malevolent delight.

Penelope had thought herself accustomed to the bluntness of the comtesse, but this greeting surprised even her.

“Goodness no, my dear. Wherever do you get such notions?” said the dowager with an outward calm Penelope found admirable. Antonia motioned to the tea table and they all sat around it.

“Enlighten me
s’il vous plaît
. Why would you, of all people, consent to be his wife?” The comtesse passed on the cream and sugar; she preferred her tea as black as her soul. “Have you been beguiled by this Madame X for whom you have been acting as agent?”

“I think it wonderfully romantic,” said Penelope, trying a strategy to change the story from the dowager being so impoverished she had to wed to something less incriminating. “Her Grace was engaged to be married to Lord Langley many years ago, but their parents had a feud and intervened, breaking off the engagement.”

Penelope was telling a censored version of the story. Truth was Antonia, for all her stature now, had begun life as the daughter of a simple country gentleman. Langley’s parents had not thought Antonia suitable, but this particular truth was not helpful to their current situation.

The comtesse regarded Penelope as if just noticing she existed. “Romance? Bah! How much like a gothic novel. And you know, my dear, how much I despise novels.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said the dowager, flashing her eyes at Penelope. “But Langley did make me an offer many years ago.”

“Indeed, he did,” said Penelope, changing tack. She had made a mistake by trying to appeal to the comtesse’s romantic nature. Clearly the woman had been born without such feeling. “Lord Langley entered into a binding contract. He suffered as a result of breaking it and begged Her Grace to end his misery by consenting to be his wife.”

A slow smile crept on the face of the comtesse. “Why, you are a sly one, Antonia. Even after all these years, you are holding the man accountable. Good for you!”

Penelope and the dowager exchanged a glance. They had successfully achieved the support of the comtesse.

“Now tell me.” The comtesse smiled over her teacup at the dowager. “Who is this mysterious Madame X?” The comtesse stayed only a few minutes more, trying to wheedle out as many clues to the identity of Madame X as possible, yet Antonia remained stoic. Penelope was not sure what would happen if the truth regarding Madame X were discovered, but she was certain it would not end well for her.

They both sighed in relief when the comtesse left, taking with her the biting censure that surrounded her like an aura.

“Thank you, my dear. You have been a true treasure to me.” The duchess paused and regarded her with a critical eye. “I fear I am going to have to let you go.”

Penelope’s heart dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said you are fired!” The dowager rapped her cane on the floor with a loud crack for emphasis.

Penelope’s heart pounded. “Is this because I abandoned you yesterday with your visitor? I am sorry if the duke called me away. Was the conversation very dull?”

“No, this is not because you ran off with James. Yes, I know you two are working on some dark dealings, which is in part why you are officially no longer my companion.”

“I understand.” Penelope stood and brushed out her skirts, focusing on the material and keeping her head down so the dowager would not see the tears that had sprung there. The dowager was a hard woman, but Penelope had thought they had become so much more than an old duchess and her companion.

“Now sit down. Do not get yourself in a pet. I stopped thinking of you as my companion months ago. I consider you my friend.” Antonia’s severe face cracked into something of a warm smile.

Penelope’s head shot up and the tears that had threatened spilled down her cheeks. The warmth of a compliment, particularly one from a lady who rarely bestowed them, curled up happy inside her heart. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She sank back down onto the settee next to her.

The dowager reached out and handed Penelope a lace handkerchief, clasping her hand. “Antonia.”

Penelope blotted her eyes. “Antonia. After losing my family, I could not ask for more than being welcomed here.”

“Oh. Well. Yes, yes of course.” The dowager pulled another handkerchief from the mysterious place old ladies keep handkerchiefs and blotted her own eyes. “Yes, and that is why I need to speak with you. It is time for you to find your own family,” said Antonia firmly. “You have found husbands for everyone but yourself, so I have a business proposition for you.”

“You do?”

“I will contract with Madame X at her usual fee to find a marriage partner for your own self.”

Penelope didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Finding a husband for herself was the one thing she couldn’t do. “I did try once but was unsuccessful, as you see. If I had entertained any offers of marriage, I would not have ended up your companion, forgive me for saying.”

“You were so busy helping your sisters, you did not take the time to help yourself,” accused Antonia, making a valid point. “It is the beginning of a new season. Let this be a new beginning for you too.”

“I have had several seasons already,” said Penelope, trying not to be irritated at reiterating her personal failure.

“No. You never did.” Antonia was adamant. “First you were busy taking care of your elder sisters. Then when your younger sisters made their debut, you in turn took care of them. When was it ever your turn? When did you ever have the new gowns or a maid to devote to your hair?”