Penelope (5 page)

“Very well, my lord,” she said mildly.

The Earl bowed and returned to his seat.

Penelope ran her fingers lightly over the keys. She suddenly remembered a vulgar ballad her father’s debauched friends used to sing when they were in their cups—so far gone they had forgotten there was a small girl in the room. What was it called? Ah… “The Harlot’s Progress.” Now, if that did not give my lord a disgust of her, then nothing would.

She began to play the deceptively simple and jaunty introduction and then to sing the words in a clear, sweet voice.

Penelope rose quietly from the pianoforte, fully aware of the electric silence in the room behind her.

For once Augusta was at a loss for words. The Earl’s face was a polite mask, and only Charles seemed to have trouble in concealing his emotions which eventually burst out in the form of a snigger which he quickly changed to a sneeze, burying his scarlet face in his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” said the Earl coldly. “A most interesting choice of ballad. I hate to end our congenial party but the hour is late….”

“Of course. Of course,” said Augusta, desperate to escape. Drat the girl. She should be out in the street this very night. Baggage!

“Thank you for your company,” said the Earl, bowing slightly over Augusta’s trembling hand. He turned punctiliously to Penelope. “And, Miss Vesey, thank you for your performance. I regret I shall be very busy this Season so it is unlikely we shall meet again.”

A small mischievous light danced somewhere in the back of Penelope’s blue eyes and she said, “I am most certain we shall not meet again, my lord.”

The Earl looked quickly down at her in sudden speculation. She had wanted him to take her in dislike. He was suddenly sure of it. He took her hand in his and looked down into her eyes, holding her gaze. “Of course, Miss Vesey, I should be loathe to lose the charming company of such an expert musician. Perhaps Miss Harvey would allow me to escort you this Thursday? A drive in the park, perhaps? You agree, Miss Harvey? Good. Until then, Miss Vesey.”

He stood back and surveyed with satisfaction the look of alarm and dismay on Penelope’s face while Augusta was still enthusiastically accepting the invitation on her behalf, over and over again. He had been right! It would be interesting to find out more about this Miss Vesey who could play like an angel, sing like a fallen one, and who was the only female in London who did not pine for the rich Earl of Hestleton’s company!

“N
OW,” SAID
M
ISS
S
TRIDE
in governess accents, “I am the Earl of Hestleton come to take Penelope driving. ‘Good morning, Miss Harvey. I trust I find you well?’ Now, you reply. Close your eyes and imagine I am Hestleton.”

Augusta screwed up her eyes. “I’m doing very nicely, my lord,” she said, “although I have a twinge of the old rheumatics in my hip. I take after my poor father what was a martyr to the rheumatics. I…”

“
Stop
!” Miss Stride held up her hand. “Miss Harvey. When someone asks you how you are, ‘tis not necessary to tell them so with anatomical descriptions. Simply reply
on all occasions
that you are very well, thank you, and leave it at that. You will then offer him some refreshment—which he will decline—and after a genteel five minutes, you, Penelope, will make your entrance.”

I wonder if I can go through with this, thought Miss Stride, looking at Augusta’s fat and sulky features. Then she smoothed down her new gray velvet walking dress with a complacent hand. Augusta had indeed been generous. “
And
, Miss Harvey,” pursued Miss Stride, “you must not wear so many bright colors and feathers. Outside of the ballroom, the
line
of an outfit is the thing, not the color. Now, shall we begin again? I am the Earl of Hestleton…”

Penelope sat at the window seat with her tambour frame and watched the comedy going on before her eyes with some amusement. It was the evening before the day on which she was to go driving with the Earl. Penelope had forgotten her fears of that gentleman and although she still felt he was a rather unnerving man, she decided that it was only a drive after all and she would probably not see him much after that.

She had forgotten the strange effect the Earl had had on her when he had smiled down at her when she sat on the piano stool. She had come to the conclusion that her own inexperience had overset her nerves that evening and that she had read sinister meanings and undertones into what had been probably quite innocent conversations.

The Viscount had called earlier in the day, very much the worse for wine, and had paid her vulgar and extravagant compliments which could have come from Augusta herself. Somehow his behavior had seemed to make the Hestletons less formidable and Augusta less outrageous by comparison.

Watching her aunt’s struggles with the etiquette of receiving a call, Penelope could not help but be touched. She did not know of Augusta’s plans to rise on the social ladder through her marriage and therefore thought that her aunt, despite her distressingly common ways, was showing a great degree of commendable and selfless generosity. That Augusta should try to turn herself into a lady, all for Penelope’s sake, warmed that young girl’s heart, and she felt guilty for all the hard thoughts she had previously nursed toward her aunt.

I must be a snob, after all, thought Penelope. How could I be so hard on poor Aunt simply because of her
gauche
behavior. Her heart is in the right place.

Augusta’s heart at that moment was suffering under the humiliation of Miss Stride’s lecture. It had taken a lot of bribery and pleading to get her to accept the job. Augusta eyed the plain, angular spinster sourly, wondering at the injustice of society. Miss Stride had hardly a penny to her name and yet was accepted everywhere, whereas she herself was wealthy and so far—apart from her visits to Hestleton and the Courtlands—had been unable to get a foot over any other aristocratic doorstep.

But she had her feeling of power to comfort her, power over the Earl’s brother. And what was the name of that Frenchie Charles had been passing the papers to? The Comte de Chernier, that was it. One of the Courtlands’ footmen had supplied her with the information. “When I have what I want out of the Viscount,” thought Augusta, “I shall perhaps pay a visit to the Comte.”

As she listened with half an ear to Miss Stride’s lecture on correct topics for genteel conversation, Augusta looked thoughtfully across the room at her niece. Soft candlelight flickered over the gold curls of Penelope’s hair. She looked as beautiful and as fragile as a piece of fine porcelain. Would her niece succeed in capturing the Earl’s heart when so many others had failed?

She’d
better
, thought Augusta grimly, or out she goes.

Augusta suddenly realised that Miss Stride had changed the topic and had turned her hard gaze on the portraits of Augusta’s “ancestors” lining the walls. “And those,” Miss Stride was saying with a wave of her gloved hand, “must be put in the attic.”

“My ancestors!” said Augusta in horror.

“Not
your
ancestors,” said Miss Stride sweetly. “You bought those when young Emmens’ home went under the hammer. I know it, and so will everyone else. You must replace them with some good landscapes and” she added hurriedly, seeing the look of fury on Augusta’s face, “perhaps have your portrait painted. Yes, that’s it, Miss Harvey. An elegant portrait of yourself above the fireplace would give the room tone.”

That appealed immensely to Augusta’s vanity, and she nodded her wigged head enthusiastically.

“And while we are on the subject of this room,” went on Miss Stride. “Those glaring stripes do not go with the carpet. We cannot do anything about the stripes before tomorrow but
plain
curtains at the window, Miss Harvey, and do get rid of those cheap, tawdry, china ornaments. Haven’t you anything else?”

“I’ve some nasty old China stuff in the attics,” said Agusta sulkily. The Chinese vases and screens had belonged to her late employer and she had always found them depressing. “Probably Ming,” said Miss Stride with a titter. “Really, Miss Harvey, it is just as well you have me to advise you.”

“Is it?” said Augusta rudely. “I hope so. I like my money’s worth and I don’t like to be cheated.”

Penelope looked up quickly in surprise, and Augusta gave her a wide smile. Penelope smiled back. Of course, Aunt meant she hoped the vases were Ming, she thought, bending her head over her sewing again, and does not want to think she has been cheated with imitations. But for one awful moment, I actually thought she meant Miss Stride!

She then wondered what on earth the haughty Earl would think if he could see this frantic dress rehearsal for his call tomorrow.

As he prepared to ride over to Brook Street next day, the Earl wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. Miss Harvey’s visit to the Courtlands’ ball had left a wave of gossip washing about the clubs and salons of London, and, although she had not been seen at any function since then, society still mocked and talked.

The house in Brook Street, he had to admit as he rolled up in his high-sprung chaise, seemed very respectable. The brass knocker was well polished and the steps gleamed white.

A very correct butler ushered him into the hall and took his driving coat. Miss Harvey was modern enough to have her drawing room on the ground floor instead of the first, and the Earl was quickly announced.

At first he did not recognise Augusta in the respectable stout matron dressed in plum-colored silk of a discreet cut and wearing a large velvet turban. He asked her how she went on and waited cynically for a long and vulgar outburst. To his surprise, she only replied, “very well, thank you,” and then went on to talk in subdued tones—pausing occasionally to correct her lapses in grammar—about the weather.

The peremptory little clock briskly snapped up five minutes of time and Penelope appeared. She was wearing a white muslin dress, high-waisted, with little puff sleeves edged with artifical honeysuckle which also decorated the deep flounces at the hem of her gown. Her sunny hair fell to her white shoulders in ringlets from under a bergère straw hat which framed her delicate features. She carried a fine Norfolk shawl over her shoulders and a pretty little chicken skin fan with ivory sticks in one gloved hand.

The Earl, decided Penelope, looked much more formidable than she had remembered, and her heart sank right down to the toes of her bronze kid Roman sandals.

He was wearing a blue coat with brass buttons worn wide open over a transparent cambric shirt, rose waistcoat, and intricate cravat. Leather breeches and Hessian boots with jaunty little gold tassels completed the ensemble. His copper curls were intricately dressed in the Windswept, and one hard silver eye stared at her, horribly magnified, through the eye of his quizzing glass.

He let the glass fall and bent over her hand. “You are a vision of loveliness, Miss Vesey,” he said with a slight mocking edge to his voice.

“I
am
?” declared Penelope, startled. She knew her blond good looks were decidedly unfashionable in a world which favored dark beauties. Then she realised the compliment was probably no more than a meaningless gallantry, and her face fell.

The Earl watched the various emotions chasing each other across her expressive face as he courteously held the door open for her. He was suddenly quite glad that he had decided to keep this appointment after all.

The Earl gave his full attention to his horses until he had maneuvered through the press of traffic and had entered the gates of Hyde Park. All at once it seemed as if the noise and bustle of London were left behind, and Penelope stared about her with delight at the cool stretches of green grass, the grazing cows and deer, and the huge old trees.

The Earl slowed his horses to a leisurely amble and then, turning to his companion asked, “And how are you enjoying your Season, Miss Vesey?”

“I am not really having a Season,” said Penelope thoughtfully. “It seems that we are not considered quite fashionable enough. But I am enjoying the novelty of having pretty clothes and… oh… every sort of comfort.”

“Are you not used to comfort?” asked the Earl, reining the carriage to a halt under the broad shade of an oak tree.

“Not really,” said Penelope slowly. “Until recently I was an articled pupil at a seminary in Bath and, no, it was vastly
un
comfortable. But I would rather talk of pleasanter things. You must tell me about Almack’s since it is highly unlikely that I shall ever be allowed past its hallowed portals.”

The Earl looked down at her, quickly masking his surprise. Miss Vesey appeared to have no interest at all in attaching his affections. It was a novelty which should have been pleasant, but he felt strangely piqued.

He collected himself in order to reply to her question. “Almack’s, Miss Vesey, would not be rated above half were it not so exclusive. Everyone fights to get in and when they are there, they are blessed if they can see what all the fuss is about.

“The balls at Almack’s are, as you no doubt know, held on Wednesdays. The lady patronesses are the Ladies Castlereigh, Jersey, Cowper, and Sefton, Mrs. Drummond Burrell, the Princess Esterhazy, and the Countess Lieven. Let me see—the most popular is Lady Cowper. Lady Jersey, on the contrary, goes on like a tragedy queen and while attempting the sublime, she frequently makes herself simply ridiculous. She is very rude and often illbred. Lady Sefton is kind, the Countess Lieven is haughty and exclusive, Princess Esterhazy is amiable, and Lady Castlereigh and Mrs. Burrell are very
grandes dames
. The female government of Almack’s is sheer despotism, and they rule their gossiping, dancing world with a rod of iron.”