Chapter Text
Penelope’s index finger edged anxiously toward her mouth, her teeth ready to gnaw at the nail – gently, of course, so that no damage was done – and soothe her through the end of the chapter. Her nerves mirrored Adeline’s, the heroine of the book, as both reader and character uncovered the manuscript of the nameless prisoner. Penelope was there in that dank basement of the ruined abbey, sitting alongside Adeline, reading words written two hundred years before, both wondering if they were to suffer the same terrible fate of dying alone.
Outside, Berkeley Square was full of life: the passing chatter of the ton rose and fell gaily like the spring wind amongst the blossoms; messenger boys ran the paths with rapid, confident steps; a carriage could be heard rounding the corner, horses hooves’ slowing down then slowing further as they stopped at one of the grand townhouses. Parliamentary sittings still held London captive but summer was on its way. Soon, Penelope and the rest of the ton would leave for their country estates, and her husband and the expedition would sail toward the unknown. Until then, she had her mornings in the library. Her beautifully quiet, undisturbed mornings.
‘Penelope?’
She jolted out of the book with a gasp.
Her husband Lord Alfred Debling, golden, resplendent, stood at the threshold with a look between pleasure and pain.
‘Forgive me if I’ve disturbed you.’
Rarely did he interrupt her in the mornings – especially in these last weeks before his departure; there were so many errands to attend to that Penelope had trouble keeping track of the men he referred to, or the places he was going – that her shock at being pulled away from her book swiftly became a growing apprehension.
‘No, not at all,’ she replied, alleviating some of the concern he showed. ‘I daresay I needed rescuing, it was becoming far too exciting.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, and as he did so his eyes roamed her. ‘I can see.’
She put a hand to her cheek and felt the warmth there. He cleared his throat, readying to save her from her mortification, but a gentleman appeared immediately behind him. Much older than Alfred, shorter, with large white sideburns and a belly that pushed against the straining lower buttons of his brown waistcoat, Penelope had never seen him before.
It was Alfred’s turn to redden, and rightly so; he never mentioned to expect visitors this morning! Was he part of the expedition?
‘This is Mr Andrew Plimer,’ he said as the gentleman bowed.
She scoured her mind through their conversations, trying to find where a Mr Andrew Plimer had been mentioned. Surely he wasn’t a seamen, he appeared too aged for that type of work – the ship’s surgeon, perhaps?
Her husband relieved her of her noticeable confusion, which only made her redden more.
‘He’s an artist.’
Penelope’s curtsy was nothing more than good manners, for her mouth remained half-opened in surprise as she dipped her head. An artist?
Mr Plimer’s eyes were analytical and his face genial as he said, ‘A delight to make your acquaintance, Lady Debling.’
She quickly looked to Alfred for explanation, but he did not meet her eyes. This was unlike Alfred to be so coy. It left her grasping for her manners, and inside anger brewed with the feeling that something was occurring about her without her knowledge or consent. She thought she had given that up the moment she left her mother’s house.
‘My apologies, sir,’ she replied, feeling the response was a beat too late, ‘I will give as much delight in return once I understand the nature of this visit.’
‘Why, I’m to paint your miniature, my lady.’ He said it smiling, while next to him Alfred said nothing, eyes now on her with great interest.
It was clear her racing thoughts were racing across her visage, for poor Mr Plimer’s confidence faded quickly. Her reaction was not the one he expected, and forced him to explain himself.
‘His lordship commissioned me three weeks ago. I . . . ’ He hesitated, unsure whether to continue speaking. ‘I’m afraid I have not had the time to come until now.’
Her miniature?
A portrait?
It took all her strength not to immediately touch her hair – which had not, in the least, been prepared – or her dress, which was her preferred choice for days when there was little need to leave the house. It was fine for visitors, to be sure, but not for a portrait sitting!
Her husband was giving little away as to his thinking, and she wasn’t so comfortable to shoot fire at him through her gaze. Indeed, in the two months of marriage there had been nothing to disagree upon. Alfred was genial, thoughtful and supportive; a man of boundless optimism that overcame challenges with ease. At times he became blinkered with his work, this was true, but he also possessed the self-awareness to know when he did.
Where had that man gone?
She remained speechless, her insides twisting in anger and the indignity of no notice, all the while trying to temper it. She did not want to be the first one to upset the balance they had found and silently pleaded with her husband for understanding. Alfred’s attention to his appearance only went so far as withstanding his valet’s ministrations with a patient tolerance, but could he be so blind to think that a woman – even a married one – could afford to treat her own with a similar disinterest?
Oh that she had chosen the brocaded blue dress hemmed in white ribbon this morning!
His eyebrows raised only slightly, but that was enough for her to know he had heard her.
‘Mr Plimer,’ Alfred entreated, turning to the man who intended to capture her in such an unfit state. ‘I confess that I had not yet told her ladyship I had engaged your services. It appears I may need to make . . . some, er, ameliorations.’
A knowing understanding washed across Mr Plimer’s expression.
‘Oh, I see. Well,’ he said, regaining confidence while Penelope continued to flounder, ‘Perhaps I will fetch my things while you . . . yes, I shall return in a moment.’
Mr Plimer bowed out of the room leaving her alone with Alfred, whose cheeks remained pink though the cause of it unknown.
‘Alfred, could you please shut the door,’ she said evenly.
He obeyed with a sheepishly slow hand, and then her boiling insides spilled over.