XXXII
POLLY licked the icing off her fingertips. "That pastry was divine."
"It was," Penelope agreed. "Our new cook is excellent." The two of them were seated comfortably by the edge of a lake. She turned to her friend guiltily. "I am so sorry, Pol."
"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"It is! I'm the reason that your occasion was ruined. It should've been about you."
Polly shook her head. "The brawl did not ruin the occasion, it was already so late. Nothing happened at the ceremony. That is what is important."
"What is important is the bride and the groom," Penelope insisted. "I ruined that."
"No, our dear duke did that all by himself," Polly replied. "You didn't do a thing."
"Still." Penelope plucked a dandelion and twirled it between her fingers. "Extend my apologies to your man as well. I've already put my apology in writing, but it does not hurt to be diligent." Penelope blew on the weed and watched the feathery white seeds scatter in the air. "I do hope he doesn't hate us."
"Drew?" Polly frowned. "Why would he hate you?"
"I've never been kind to him, Pol."
"You were doing your due diligence as a friend."
"I was nasty. I called him a dwarf."
Polly laughed. "So, now you admit to calling him a dwarf?"
Penelope sighed. "And he has no reason to like Harry. I'm sure Drew was against the idea of his attending the wedding. Look how we've proved him right."
Polly squeezed her friend's shoulder. "You're my sister. My beautiful, prickly, and rather difficult sister."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment."
"Drew doesn't mind you, Pen. He was concerned when rumors of you and Earl started."
Penelope laughed dryly. "I'm sure."
"Not disgust or patriarchal concern about your virginity and such—though we both know that was gone a long time ago."
Penelope rolled her eyes. "Yes, thank you, Pol."
"It was a real, brotherly concern. He's always cared for you more than you cared for him."
Penelope put a hand to her heart. "What a sweetheart."
"There you go mocking him again."
"Mocking? I'm not being sarcastic, I'm being serious."
"It doesn't sound like it. You never call anyone sweetheart."
"I am now," Penelope said. The water glistened temptively. If it was another day Penelope might've gone beneath its depths.
"You are different now, you know."
"Really?"
Polly gestured to Penelope's gown, which was old and rather drab. "You're not as...flashy. You've matured, I think."
Penelope thought of the girl a few months ago who had stamped her feet and fled to Hawthorne's hallowed halls. She didn't think she was that person anymore either. "It's Harry."
"Yes, he's put a light in your eyes too." Penelope turned away sheepishly. "Oh look, you're blushing."
"Like you would know."
"Underneath your dark, beautiful skin, your blood is hotter than the sun. I know it."
Penelope knew it too. "You're sure Drew isn't upset with Harry?"
"It isn't as if Harry started the fight," Polly pointed out. "And anyway, it seems our men have done some bonding right under our noses."
Penelope raised her eyebrows. "Really? When?"
"There was a tavern. And a visit to Hawthorne apparently."
A tavern? "Oh."
"Oh, indeed." Polly sipped her tea. "Recent gossip helps too."
"Recent gossip?" Penelope echoed. Ever since she'd read the rags about her wantonness at Hawthorne, Penelope had quit reading any columns.
"You haven't heard?"
"No."
"A columnist wrote about how Harry graciously gave a loan to a desperate businessman who burned his fields. Apparently, he also paid for the man's groceries." Polly shook her head. "I don't even think Drew would do that."
"Of course he would. Drew is good, just like Harry."
"And you remember that scalding report about Harry from the vicar?" Polly asked.
"Well, the validity of the report has been called into question in light of certain accusations. One of his congregants accused him of taking money straight from the offering baskets and into his pockets."
Penelope shrugged. "I told you 'holy' people could have agendas."
"And you were right." Polly smiled slyly. "Though I suspect your hunch had less to do with the truth and more to do with your burgeoning infatuation.
"No, I'm just more discerning."
"Well, now the columnist calls the reader to wonder how much we know about the vicar is slander or truth." Penelope pulled a paper from her reticule. "Do you want to see it?"
Penelope took the page and skimmed its contents. We should remember that this man completed a good deed in secret, without asking for thanks or looking for public praise. A lot is unknown about this stranger who graced our village only ten odd years ago—but one must wonder: how much more did we get wrong? "Oh my god."
"It won't convince everybody, but it's starting to sway some. That reminds me." Polly fished out two sealed envelopes from her reticule. "Here."
"What's this?"
"These are apologies from Hyacinth and Catherine for how they spoke to you at the modiste."
"You didn't have to make them write me letters, Pol."
"You saw how they insulted you that day—clearly I can't stop them from doing anything. And I can't make them do anything either. They told me they wanted to do it in person but my mother..."
"I understand." Penelope's heart soared. "Do you really think that his reputation can be cleared?"
"If you'd asked me last month, I would've said 'I hope so'."
"And now?"
"I believe it."
Penelope released a bittersweet sigh. All she wanted was for everyone to see Harry for exactly who he was. If that miracle could be accomplished, she could die happy. Her friend was happily married, and Penelope had enough money saved to rent a little cottage on the outskirts of Milford. She was sure that Harry would allow her to do some chores here and there to keep herself afloat. It wouldn't do much to mend her reputation, but Penelope knew repair of that was hopeless. As long as she had Polly and Harry, she would be alright. The only thing that could make her whole was her mother, but that seemed like something Penelope had to learn to live without too.
"She'll come around, Pen," Polly said suddenly, reading her thoughts. "The countess loves you."
"She loves me too much to see the truth."
"She will find it," Polly insisted. "I promise."
Tears began to swell in Penelope's eyes. She hurriedly blinked them back. "How do you know?"
"How did I know you were in lust with Harry?"
Penelope rolled her eyes. "I wasn't then, though."
"You were. I think you were the moment you set eyes on him, whenever that was." Polly set down her teacup and laid down on their blanket. "I was never told that story, by the way."
"Story?"
"How the two of you first met."
Penelope turned from the water to her friend. "It was at this very lake, actually."
"Oh." There was a pause as Polly considered her friend's proclivities with water. "Oh!"
"No, no. It wasn't like that, not at first." Penelope followed Polly's suit, and reclined into the grass. "It was like this."
***
HARRY sat rooted in his carriage, unable to move. He hadn't expected the idea of seeing his childhood home to be so difficult. He'd assumed that the terrible part would be sitting in front of his father but it turned out that a mere glance at his childhood home drove him into stupor. On the lawn, he saw him and his mother strolling hand in hand. He could smell her perfume and hear the tinkle of her laugh. Harry could also see Arthur beating him at one tree or around a bush until he got tired and left his half-brother pulsing with pain. Harry realized that he had merely left his home without looking back but he had never recovered. Was he really strong enough to look his pain in the face?
After a few minutes, or maybe an hour, Harry finally found the strength to exit the carriage and knock on the door. The butler winced when he saw Harry, but he did not turn him away. As he entered, a conversation above him hushed. Against his better judgment, Harry looked up. The Duchess of Fordham and his step-sister stared down at him contemptuously; one smiling and one frowning. Harry tore away his gaze and looked again at the butler. "Is my father in?"
"He is."
Harry was surprised he had been delivered with the truth so readily. "Take me to him, please."
In another breath, Harry was seated directly from the man he despised the most. The Duke of Fordham had the gall to smile. "It's a pleasure to see you. I take it you wanted to say thank you for the portrait in person."
"I've done no such thing, Father." Harry paused and took the opportunity to stare his father in the eye. He took in all the hard lines and creases, the weathered brawn, and the growing gray. He was likely to assume a resemblance to this one day. One of the things Harry had hated most was that he had none of his mother, he'd always been a spitting image of the Duke. Their only difference in physicality was his heart, on that count Harry had inherited his mother's, though he wished he hadn't. The duke had broken his as cruelly and cleanly as he had his wife's. "I came here to say that we are finished."
"Excuse me?"
"I am going to marry Miss Redwood, Papa."
The Duke's eyes gleamed. "That's wonderful news!" he boomed. He rose from his seat to his decanter. "This calls for celebration. Do you like brandy? I obtained mine at a heavy price. My brandy tastes like dreams."
"I'm certain to celebrate, but it won't be with you," Harry said coldly. "I'm sure you're very happy."
"I am!" The duke poured two glasses and set one in front of his son. "I'll wait until the banns are read, but afterwards, you get half of everything your mother had. You can have the rest as a wedding present."
Harry pushed the glass side. "No, Papa. We are done. I don't want anything from you."
"I don't understand."
"When I marry my wife it won't be tainted with any of your sick games. I'm saying, you can have all of it. Keep every last trinket you have of Mama. I don't want it."
The duke sipped his brandy. "You came here all the way to say you don't want any of your mother's things?"
"Yes."
"You don't mean it." His father sighed. "I didn't do any of this to be cruel, Harry. I just wanted to help you make the right decision."
"Whatever you tell yourself so you can sleep is none of my concern." Harry pointed to his chest. "My mother is in my heart...not in her rings, or paintings, or gowns. If she is looking down now on me, and I believe she is, she would not want me to be controlled by you."
The duke blinked slowly. "You can have all of it once the banns are read. Is that better? Will that quiet your tantrum?"
Harry took a deep breath. "And I also came here to say, you can keep it. I suggest you bequeath the duchy to Charlotte in your will, or maybe a nephew. I don't want that either."
"Don't be ridiculous!" His father sputtered. "Charlotte isn't blood, you are!"
"She's more your daughter than I am your son."
"Your mother toiled to have you, you know. It took seven miscarriages, three stillbirths. And then we finally had you." The duke leaned closer. "I kept her dowry too, by the way. That's what you would be giving up—your mother."
"You've already given me the earldom, thank you for that, by the way. I have a thriving business. I don't need the duchy or the estates that come with it."
"You'll get it all the same."
"If you do decide to give me the duchy," Harry continued, "I'll sell the title."
A silence ensued. "You wouldn't."
"I would. I'd sell the estates too. I'd give all your wealth to the needy." Harry smiled. "You shouldn't have let me go off and make my own name. I have all I need and then some, I don't need a drop more."
"You're being childish."
Harry rose. "No, Father. I am going to marry the woman I love and you will have nothing to do with it. For the first time in a long time, I have finally seen sense."