Discovering the Devil

T h i r t y - f i v e

If not for the poignant note of despair in his voice, Penelope might've pressed on. But she saw the needles, raw and sharp, that were eating into tender, wounded flesh. So, she left her pleas there, bowed her head, and wept silently into her lap. The situation did not better once they reached Hawthore castle. All of their encounters ceased and Harry made a special point of avoiding her.

In an act of desperation, Penelope began to leave notes. She knew they might be read by staff, possibly even copied or taken to gossip mills to be reported in the rags—but she didn't care. The ache was so acute Penelope thought she might be consumed. Predictably, but also painfully, these notes were never reciprocated and the Earl made no move to resume the relationship. Every night, Penelope prayed that the glacier between them would melt. A fortnight passed, followed by its successor, and then another and another with no change. Bit by bit, hope began to seem pointless.

One day, she found both the Earl's valet in her room with a pouch in hand.

"What's this?" Penelope asked sharply. She was trying her best to be kind to her staff, but the heartbreak began to bleed harder with each passing day.

"Three months wages," the valet replied. "It's very generous."

"No."

The valet shook his head. "I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"No." Penelope crossed her arms. "I won't take it."

"Yes, you will."

"I won't," Penelope replied resolutely. "You can't make me. He's a gentleman and he won't turn me out of here kicking and screaming...which is what will happen if you make me take that pouch."

The valet took a step closer to her. "He drinks, you know."

Penelope stared on, tight-lipped.

"He drinks brandy when he's happy." The valet smiled sadly. "But when he's upset...when he's depressed...he drinks gin. Have you noticed that?"

"I have not seen him."

"Every night he's in cups, ma'am. In the morning, his breath is sour with it."

Penelope's shoulders began to tremble. "Stop it."

"And he cries—I've heard it. Many think it is a weakness for a man to shed tears, but I do not believe so. I don't think it is any different from a woman crying. But this sort?" The valet shook his head. "It's guttural—like the moan of a dying animal.

"I—"

"He's in pain, ma'am. On second thought, I don't think pain is the right word. The man you love is in agony."

The sentence cut through Penelope like a blade. Sobs, ugly and unbidden, rose up her throat and cascaded through her lips with the might of a waterfall. "I didn't mean to hurt him," she stammered. "If I could just speak to him...if you would just let me speak to him.."

The valet's face, creased with concern, had never looked so fatherly. In one sweeping motion, she was in his arms. For a man who was no more than a lukewarm acquaintance, Penelope was not proud of how she broke down so completely in his arms. "Oh, my dear," he murmured.

"Please, Winston. You must speak with him."

He brushed away her tears. "This does not have to be the end. In fact, I do not think it is. Yours is a love story I've had the pleasure of viewing from afar, and I tentatively await a happy ending."

"You've been keeping watch over us?" Penelope asked with mock derision.

"We all have," Reginald replied. "I do not think this is the end. But..." He pressed the pouch into her hands. "In order for it to continue, you have to leave."