XII
THE Earl had said that there was a difference between having an invisible hand cleaning up after you and being the invisible hand cleaning up. Penelope had shrugged off this comment. Housekeepers delegate. How hard could that be?
It had turned out to be harder than she imagined.
It was early hours and late nights, constant strain and sweeping and scrubbing, always something to correct and always something to begin. Penelope thought the work might actually kill her the first two weeks. It almost did. After that, the weight settled in her bones. She would even say it agreed with her if not for one particular morning. Two maids came to her—one scullery and the other stillroom.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but we need you to settle a dispute," said one.
"What is it?" asked Penelope.
"The lavatory is clogged and the chambermaid is sick. The butler said one of us needs to clean it," said the other.
They both glared at each other. "It can't be me," one finally said. "I'm not a chamber maid, and anyway, as a scullery girl, she's the one who cleans."
"Not that sort of cleaning," sniped the other.
"Show me to the lavatory," Penelope said. It was the servant's toilet in the basement quarters. The stench of the lavatory melted through the cracks of the door, it was no wonder none of them wanted to touch it.
"The butler says that you should decide who cleans it," said the stillroom maid. "Though, it is important to be clear that if we're going in terms of rank—"
"—I do not rank as low as a chambermaid!" interjected the scullery girl, and the two began to bicker. Penelope looked sorrily at the toilet. If she was being spiteful, she would've told the two of them to clean it together but she had a feeling no work would get done.
"Get me a clothespin," Penelope ordered. They both rushed to fetch it, and returned with two. Penelope took the closest proffered hand and squeezed the clothespin over her nose. "And a bucket." It took one hour to fix the toilet, and another half hour to get the lavatory spotless. When she was finished, the maids still stood outside the door whispering. Curious eyes brushed over the room and looked at her in awe. "See? All done. Next time, don't bother me with something so trivial. Get it done yourselves."
"Ma'am," the girls said in unison.
The day did not get better. She had to resolve an argument between the cook and a kitchen maid. One of the stableboys was injured by Cerberus and had to be talked out of quitting. Penelope's bones wailed for rest, but she wasn't able to retire until midnight. In the shivering glow of a candle, the invisible hand examined their fingers. They were no longer smooth. In fact, her thumb had a callous.
***
"HOW is Miss Redwood getting on?" Harry asked his valet. He couldn't erase the vision of her tears in the kitchen from his mind. Since then, he'd wondered if she ever cried alone, and if so, how often. The possibility of her unhappiness ate at him.
"Quite well, Sir." Of course, his valet was referring to her performance and not her state of mind. However, the remark produced raised brows. Every time Harry posed the question, his valet said Miss Redwood was "doing her best"---a very polite way of saying her best wasn't good enough. For the first time, his housekeeper had earned a compliment.
"Really?"
"She's become efficient in handling the house, there were several matters that required attention yesterday, and she completed them with ease." His valet was smiling. Harry tried not to gape. Reginald never smiled. "She fixed a broken toilet, Sir."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Not even the maids wanted to, they were begging her to choose which one should. Miss Redwood did it without a second thought."
He thought of the simpering girl he'd met at the lake on her knees cleaning excrement at her own volition. "No. It must be conjecture."
"She did it, Sir. The scullery and stillroom maids saw it with their own eyes. They couldn't believe it."
Harry had to smile too. "Christ."
"I know you've left Miss Redwood out of the serious managerial work on account of her inexperience. However---if you like---I think she's ready to start handling accounts. I can teach her."
"No, no." Harry had been looking for another excuse to see her. "I'll do it myself."
***
WHEN the Earl called Penelope into his study in the afternoon, Penelope had the most ridiculous case of nerves. The last time she'd been in his study, she hadn't been able to breathe. She entered with a short curtsy.
"You wanted to see me, Sir."
"I wanted to talk about your recent performance."
Penelope's cheeks burned. "I'm trying very hard. Don't dismiss me yet, I know I can do better."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have began like that. I've given you a fright." Lord Hawthorne smiled. "I'm congratulating you, Miss Redwood. You're doing very well."
His smile made her want to melt, until she remembered her tears in the kitchen. She was still embarrassed by them. "You don't have to give me false commendation, Sir. I don't need more comfort."
"It's not false. I was told about how you fixed the lavatory...among other things." His lips stretched wider. Damn that smile, Penelope thought. "I'm impressed."
"Thank you, Sir," she breathed.
"In light of your progress, I thought I might extend your duties. Is that all right?"
Penelope didn't know if she could handle more than she already had. Still, she didn't want to disappoint him. "Of course."
He gestured for her to come closer to his desk and Penelope obeyed. "I'm going to show you how to balance accounts."
He opened a black ledger and began to explain the length of it. Penelope wasn't listening. She was close enough to smell deep sandalwood and the remnants of shaving foam. It was intoxicating. She was watching his jaw, his lips, the way his muscles strained out of his overcoat. Anytime Penelope wanted a man, she got him within the space of a couple hours. This was the first time she longed for a man she could not have. The pain was acute. His eyes shifted dangerously in her direction and Penelope immediately directed her gaze to the book. "Do you understand? I know it can be a bit complicated at first."
She hadn't heard a word he said. "It is a little complicated, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it."
He leaned closer to her. Penelope felt a flutter of heat. "I would be happy to explain the particulars again if you like."
She felt herself smile. "Please."
Hunger is a funny thing. It makes you do things you know you shouldn't. It makes you mad. Yearning's fat fingers squeezed against Penelope.
Lord Hawthorne was so close. He had been the one to hold his hand against her palm. To trace his fingers across its ridges. Why shouldn't she return the favor? Penelope leaned closer to him. Heady, manly musk grew stronger. Her gaze wandered again to his neck. She wondered what it tasted like.
"Miss Redwood." His voice was sultry silk. Penelope's heart beat faster.
"Sir."
"Are you paying attention?"
"Yes."
"To my tutorial, I mean."
She blinked once. Then twice. "I'm afraid not."
"What's so distracting?"
"You." Her hand floated up to his cheek and stroked it. He put a hand to the offending wrist, presumably to stop her, but he did not swat it away. Instead, he drew closer. Too close. His lips were only a breath away from her own when he whispered—"We can't."
"Why not?" Her whisper vibrated between them. "I know you must have some rule against bedding ladies but I must remind you that, at the moment, I don't count."
The tip of his thumb grazed down the middle of her wrist. "Precisely. You're a woman under my employ. And, despite popular opinion, I refuse to ruin you."
"I stand before you ruined, my lord. One kiss will not change that."
The Earl extricated himself. "Still, I cannot."
Penelope felt a childish swell of annoyance. "You prig."
He raised a brow. "Don't tell me you're going to throw a tantrum because I did not kiss you." His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth.
Penelope suppressed a sharp retort. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Forgive me, Sir, you're right. That was inappropriate. It won't happen again." His eyebrows lowered at her clipped tone. If Penelope didn't know any better, she would say he looked disappointed. "Thank you for showing me how to balance your books. If you don't mind, there's something else I must attend to."
"So soon?" There was a taunt in his voice.
"Unless you require me further." A short stand-off. A foggy look entered her master's eye.
"No, that won't be necessary," he replied briskly. "You're excused."
Penelope curtsied before leaving the room.
🌑
"DO you need anything else, ma'am?" Geraldine asked. There was a pitying look in her eye. It had appeared the day Penelope left and refused to go away. Diana had thought a little ice would chase away her maid's sympathy, but it only made it grow.
"No, Geraldine," Diana replied. Her voice sounded drawn and tired. "Thank you." Geraldine gave a lingering curtsy before going away. Diana blinked at her dinner with distaste. It would probably go uneaten. It wouldn't be the first dinner and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Fat tears burned in her eyes. Diana did not try to stop them. They tumbled down her cheeks, and dripped onto her food. "Penelope," she sobbed. How she missed her daughter.
Penelope had been born between winter's frozen claw and springtime's first kiss. She was very little, blue, and hardly cried. Her husband did not even see her when she was born, and Diana had not blamed him. Three others had died before her, each within hours of their birth. They did not think she would survive.
But she did.
Diana did not name her until she was three weeks old. By then she was enraptured. This baby was her miracle; her gift. Her flower. She cherished Penelope in every way she knew how. Her husband didn't like it, but by then, Diana did not let him stop her. Her daughter would have everything she could not. Penelope would have the world.
She had watched other mothers shake their heads at her leniency but Diana didn't pay them any mind. She was determined that her daughter be given the choices and opportunities girls could only dream of. It had worked, of course. She had built a confident, talented, and clever woman who took exactly what she deserved. When Penelope turned down her first proposals, Diana hadn't thought twice. The first three had been at the green age of sixteen and sixteen was still so young. Diana thought of herself at that age. She wished she hadn't been forced to marry her husband. Things might've been so much different if she'd been given a choice. And as Penelope grew older, and unmarried still, Diana did not blink. She inherited her good looks and wit. One day, Penelope would meet her match and fall in love.
And then Diana learned Penelope didn't have the first intention of marrying at all. It had shocked Diana to her core. It would not be the two of them together forever. One day, Diana would be no more. Who would take care of her flower when she was gone? Diana desperately wished she'd had a harder hand. Penelope had never learned to obey, and these were the consequences. She'd briefly considered disinheritance, but shrugged off the thought as quickly as it had come. Diana couldn't bear for her daughter---disgraced or otherwise---to feel more abandoned than she already did.
Besides, she did not share all of the blame. Diana's mind turned to the Earl. Her hand trembled with rage. It was hard to believe that he was born a gentleman. No self-respecting man she knew would ever take such liberties. Then again, none of these gentlemen were murderers. Her daughter could not have picked worse. The thought of Penelope in that man's arms made her physically sick. Diana swallowed an attack of bile and took a deep breath. She would have to figure out a way to appeal to that Satan.
It was the only way to get her daughter back.