Discovering the Devil

T h i r t y - s i x

Harry gazed back at her. "How did you know?

"Penelope has always had an unhealthy aversion to it. She said it had something to do with marrying without love but...I always suspected it was deeper."

'"She thinks the worst rumors about me might have merit," Harry said coldly. He couldn't help himself.

Polly shook her head. "Oh, that's not true. Whatever you heard, you must've misinterpreted it. She never would've given herself to you so completely if she suspected any of it was true." She paused. "Might I tell you something in confidence?" Harry nodded. "Penelope never talked to me about it...but my mother suspected that...well, she thought the Count might've been violent. I never knew what to believe, but I do know Penelope hated him. She didn't shed a tear when he died."

"I know," Harry replied flatly. "She told me."

"So, you understand why she might be hesitant?"

"The only thing I understand is that I would never hurt her." Harry's voice quavered. "I would never hurt her."

"It isn't about you, Harry. It's about trauma." Polly extended a hand to cover his own. "If she could help it she would."

"You are her best friend. If anyone can convince her that I am not capable of doing her harm, it's you."

"Harry..."

"I always thought it was melodrama," Harry said. "All of those poems and books quoting the woes of heartbreak, I thought it was just theater." He cradled a cheek in his hand. "I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I can do is think about her."

"I'm sure she feels the same," Polly said soothingly.

"You'll forgive me for not sharing your confidence."

"I promise to speak to her. It's not the end of anything—she's just afraid," Polly assured.

Despite Harry's best efforts, a tear fell from his eye. "So am I."

***

PENELOPE and the countess did not speak much for the next week. Or when they did speak, it was banal and unimportant. It was enough for the two of them to be in the same room for hours on end, a luxury the two of them had not enjoyed for months. Of course, their reasons for not wanting to speak were polar—Diana did not want to reflect on her daughter's alleged abuse and Penelope did not want to think about how her heart had been broken. It was strange for Penelope to find herself back in familiar splendor. It was not so much that she missed the early hours and late nights, but Penelope did miss having a purpose. On more than one occasion, she attempted to assist Geraldine with some chore or other, but her maid wouldn't stand for it. When this news traveled back to her mother it made her deeply unhappy, and she said so, so Penelope dropped the matter altogether.

One morning it seemed that their tentative armistice might end. The two of them were sitting on the terrace sipping tea. "I understand that marriage is something that you do not want to pursue," the countess began.

"It is such a beautiful day," Penelope remarked. Please do not ruin it, is what she wanted to add, but the younger Redwood refrained from doing so.

"I understand that forcing your hand was a grave error," Diana said quietly. "I won't do it again." Diana smiled ruefully. "Anyway, in light of everything it would be too much work to find someone who would have you."

"I second that," Penelope said dryly.

"Once I pass, everything will go to you."

Penelope covered her mother's hand with her own. "Let's not speak of your demise."