XXX
PENELOPE stared at the stationary in front of her, naked save for the "Dear Mother" at the top of the page. She'd agonized over that single line for hours. How did someone write a letter like this? How did you convince the one who loved you most that you were not being abused by the man you loved?
The man she loved.
Penelope was not sure when the realization had struck her. It might've been when the Stones had tried to give her a dressing down about her affair with Harry. Or, perhaps it had been when his lips touched hers for the first time on Berkeley's balcony. Or, maybe it had been when he dueled with Solomon and came back alive. She did not know when this emotion had crawled into her and taken root, such things were so tricky to pinpoint. But now, as she sat at her desk in the withering candlelight, Penelope knew she was in love with Harry, and it had been for longer than she'd cared to admit. It was why her heart bled so profoundly at the strife between the people she cared about the most.
She'd considered summoning Mildred and commanding her to go back to her mother with the correct version of events. The servant might merely explain that she had lied because of the promise of payment. I knew, Mildred might say, that you would only give me a handsome sum if I told you what you wanted to hear. But, Mildred would continue, I cannot have this on my conscience any longer. I did not see him touch your daughter.
Alternatively, Penelope had considered something more intricate. Maybe she sent Mildred to the market with another servant girl with instructions to gossip about the misunderstanding. Maybe she sent them during the time she knew her mother's maids frequented the market as well. And maybe, the gossip made it to her mother's ear.
At least one of these schemes might've worked.
Save for the countess' unbending position on her daughter's nuptials, Penelope knew her mother was a reasonable woman. And while she might not absolve Harry of his other supposed sins, she could be inclined to acknowledge a greedy servant lied for a few pounds. However, that was before the countess informed Penelope of Mildred's accusations. Now, her mother would rightly assume that any intervention was Penelope's doing. Diana was likely closing her eyes and ears to any insinuation opposite to what she thought she knew about Harry's character.
Penelope dipped her pen in the ink and slowly scratched it along her paper. He is not Papa. The sentence—just four words—seemed so cruel. Penelope knew the words would cut straight through her. And yet, they were necessary. He is his opposite, Penelope wrote on. Papa seemed kind and loving but turned out to be a monster. Harry seems to be a monster when he is really kind and loving.
Once, Penelope had been gifted a doll by one of her maternal uncles. The count had not liked that uncle, and once he was gone, he confiscated the doll. At her tender age, Penelope had known tears and tantrums would get her nowhere with him. Instead, she bade enough time until he'd forgotten about it and stole the doll back. She was stupid to know any better, but afterward, she learned.
The count never forgot about anything.
A fortnight later, she was dawdling about, avoiding her governess and cumbersome lessons. She came upon her mother's sitting room door, which was slightly ajar. Penelope stalled at the entrance once she saw her father was there. He would not appreciate her skipping lessons, and anyway, she avoided him as much as possible. He was whispering something into the countess' ear. He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. The countess giggled like a girl. Penelope remembered feeling sick at such an intimate moment and turned to go when the count asked, "What happened to that doll? The one your brother gave to Penelope?"
"I don't know. Didn't you take it?"
"I did, but now it's gone." A pause. "Did you take it back?"
"Of course not, David."
The slap cracked across the countess' cheeks like a clap of thunder. Her mother slumped in her chair. A trail of blood dribbled down her lip.
It was the first time Penelope had ever seen her father touch her mother. Just a second before his lips had been skimming her mother's cheek, hands caressing her arms. Kind. Loving But then his hand, the cry, and the blood. A monster, still.
I know what you've endured. Sometimes, Penelope wished she could go back in time to change how cowardly she'd been. She had not protected or confronted her about the hell he was raining. Instead, she'd watched. She'd seen the bruises underneath her mother's powdered cheeks and turned away. The count had never thought to touch his daughter, maybe it was because she was too young or maybe it was because they shared blood, Penelope would never know. She could've used this to her advantage. Maybe, she could've stopped it. But she hadn't. Words cannot describe how terrible I feel. I should've done more.
Penelope tapped her quill against the page. A dot of ink bled a black hole into the page. You did not pass down a curse. I would never let anyone hurt me. But what did that mean? The countess had not permitted her husband to strike her, it was the casualty of an ill-begotten marriage. Penelope shuddered. The last thing Penelope wanted to be the victim of was that. She scratched out the previous line. He is not hurting me, she wrote instead. You did not pass down a curse.
But why would she believe it? What would possess her to take any of it seriously? Penelope crumpled the letter and held it over the flame. She would write another one tomorrow.
🌑
The market—as usual—was abuzz with people and activity. It was the perfect place to trade gossip, not that Penelope would know. Besides the clerks at the stores, no one bothered to say anything to her. They were the expected stares and trailing eyes, but nothing beyond. Nevertheless, it was one of Penelope's favorite chores. It was one of the many places that she'd been barred from going as a lady, which had only encouraged her curiosity.
A woman inside the grocer held a crowing baby in her arms. She rocked it gently against her chest, but her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Penelope watched her pick up a jar of honey before shakingly dropping it. Penelope caught it before it dropped to the ground. The woman offered her a watery smile. "Thank you," she murmured.
"It's nothing."
When the woman went to pay, she whispered something to the clerk who shook their head. "No. You must have the money today." The baby, perhaps sensing the tension, began to cry louder.
"Please," the woman muttered. "Please."
"Your credit has not been paid in months."
"Just this once, ma'am. I promise." There was a tremor in her voice that touched Penelope's heart.
"No, I cannot. It had been several times too many."
"Put it on my credit, Mrs. Manville," Penelope chimed in. The clerk glared at Penelope while the woman just stared. There was a tear glimmering in the woman's eye.
"Are you sure?" Mrs. Manville barked.
"You do not have to," the woman whispered, or at least that's what Penelope thought she heard. The baby's cries had escalated to a thundering shrill, rendering any conversation nearly inaudible.
"I want to. I'm sure of it."
"Hmph." The clerk scratched something at her notepad and gestured for the poor woman to leave.
The woman went to Penelope's side and dipped in a modest curtsy. "Thank you so much."
"It was nothing."
"I will send something later to thank you properly," she said.
"Do you like lemon tarts?"
"I love lemon tarts."
"I'll be sure to have some sent. I cannot thank you enough."
"Of course."
🌑
"How do you like it?" Penelope asked. She carefully watched Harry chew his food.
"I need to know what you said to cook," Harry replied. "This was the first delicious meal I've had in months." Harry sliced thoughtfully through a carrot. "Years, actually. I don't think that man has cooked me a decent meal in years."
"No? Not even when he started to work with you?"
"Especially, not then. You know, he might've been worse."
Penelope shook her head. "And you kept him?"
Harry shrugged. "I didn't have much of a choice. At the time I figured it was better than no cook at all. I had to feed everyone somehow."
"What did he feed you first?"
"Trout and peas, I think."
"That's his worst one, Harry."
Harry laughed. "Oh, that's not true. You haven't tried his spinach."
Penelope took the dantiest sip of port. It wasn't so terrible this evening. "Fortunately, I didn't. And, he did not make this."
"Then who did?"
"I've hired a new cook," Penelope grinned.
Harry nearly dropped his fork. "Who? How?"
"A woman. Her name is Deborah. I poached her from a house outside of Milford."
Harry speared another bit of carrot with his salmon.
"This is divine."
"I know."
"Is our old cook already gone?"
"No, not yet. He says he doesn't want to leave, but I think that it's on account of pride."
"I have no trouble believing that. I don't think that he'd take usurping lying down."
"Well, it was less of a usurping and more of a removal. I told him his services were no longer needed as a head cook, but he begged to stay on." Penelope smiled. "I think he might want to show her out."
"Then, our dishes are about to get even better."
"Indeed." Penelope gestured to a basket at the far corner of the kitchen. "Do you fancy lemon tarts for dessert?"
"Lemon tarts?" Harry repeated. "How much did our dear cook prepare for us?"
"These were not made by our dearest cook." Penelope went to retrieve the basket. "There was a woman at the market who could not afford her groceries and I decided to pay for them." She paused, realizing that she'd charged it to the household account. "I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not," Harry said gently. "If I were in your situation I would've done the same."
"Thank you. Anyway, she sent some lemon tarts as thanks." Penelope lifted the card that accompanied the sweets out of the basket. May God bless you, the note read. Sincerely, Mrs. Herschel. Penelope's smile dropped.
"What's wrong?"
"What did you say was the name of the man who burned down your fields?"
"Mr. Herschel."
Penelope set the card distastefully on the table. "I think we've been sent tarts from his wife."
Harry blinked. "God."
"I know."
"He can't afford groceries." Harry tapped his fingers against the table. "He must have felt desperate. to burn my fields if he cannot even provide for his own family."
Penelope winced disapprovingly. "Don't tell me you feel sorry for him."
"Don't you?"
"I feel sorry for wife and child but—"
"—there's a child?" Harry interjected. "How young?"
"No more than an infant," Penelope admitted. "It's sad."
"I must do something."
"You don't have to do anything."
Harry shook his head. "What kind of man would I be if I didn't?"