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It could be said that with age comes wisdom. So long as regrets can be conflated with wisdom, Penelope would agree with such an adage.
But she knew certainly that time changes all. It could, at once, soften harsh edges and harden gentle curves. Though what could influence these changes, Penelope hesitated to assert.
After the debacle of her debut season—left abandoned, heartbroken, and so very lonely—her only saving grace was the births of her nieces.
Oh, what a beauty the youngest was! In many ways, she resembled her mother, but she carried an affectionate curiosity that Prudence had never held for Penelope. Though her niece’s birth could have inspired envy for the successful marriage and family her eldest sister possessed, Penelope found herself relieved to have her mama’s attention diverted from matchmaking to child-rearing.
Yes, after the astronomically profound failures of her first love, Penelope bore no inclination to milling about society to snatch an unsuspecting man and transfigure him into a husband. No, a man worth her time, patience, and future would hardly be found amongst the ton. She knew that well.
Thus, Penelope had only two concerns: love her nieces beyond any pain that they might sustain, and write. Write constantly and feverishly because it was her purpose. Indeed, her words made her respected and adored, unknowingly, that is, but they conveyed more than single letters on the page could say. She need not be beloved for a false visage, but surely she could demand attention with her indelible passion. In her quiet lonesome, she wrote.
By day, she sat with her dear little Priscilla and Philomena, adoring them with all her energy, present and future. Their parents and grandmother were fond of dressing up their baby princesses in the most doll-like clothing, pinning flowers into their reddish hair, and covering them in jewels. Penelope preferred simpler pursuits.
When the rainy season set in, Penelope spent more time with her nieces. She had told her sisters it was a matter of looking after the children, warding off illness that the children are so susceptible to in their youth, when the weather was wet and cold. In truth, she knew recurring visits would be rare when traveling by carriage or horse through rain.
On such a day, the afternoon rain sequestered darling Priscilla into the creaking study to read, safely away from the chill and damp. Considering the small mass of books in the nursery, she knew her niece was read fables and quaint short stories. Penelope, however, reasoned there was more to stories than fiction. If her nieces were to grow up prepared for the world, they must know more than fairy tales.
“Yes, darling,” Penelope cooed, tapping the babe’s nose. “This isn’t any old book. It is an encyclopedia.”
Priscilla babbled.
“Yes, I know!” she exclaimed. “It is such a big word, but isn’t it such a large book? The binding here is spectacular.” She took Priscilla’s little hand and showed her the craftsmanship of the spine’s sewing. “This will not come undone, no matter how many times we read it. We shall read it plenty, won’t we, lovely Priscilla?” She smiled, lightly tickling her stomach.
She let out a half-laugh, something resembling an undignified, unladylike—though wholly gorgeous—snort.
Penelope’s smile widened as she pulled her sweet thing closer. “Now, what would you like to learn about?”
Priscilla grunted.
“Oh, of course, we’ll read it all! I merely want to know what you’d like to know on this fine day. It is raining, so perhaps snails or frogs. Rather, you may dislike this weather. The thunder can be frightening, can’t it? Perhaps something for better days, like horses. Do you like horses, Priscilla, dear? Or—“ she turned the pages, “—birds.” Penelope froze as she flipped through the encyclopedia.
Certainly, Penelope was not well-versed in the natural world. Her preferences were largely indoors, evident at the very least by a story time by the fireplace away from the storm sprinkling outside. She knew enough of animals and plants to find the content of this book familiar. One entry, more challenging to recall, was the most familiar.
Priscilla made a noise. She’d begun drooling.
“Ah, does this make you salivate?” Penelope giggled, retrieving a handkerchief to wipe her niece’s mouth. “Now, I know a lord who would be so very displeased with you!” she chided. She pulled Priscilla off her thigh and onto her lap, resting the encyclopedia on their knees. “Have you heard of the great auk?” Penelope whispered.
She traced the drawing in the book, possessed by eyes that were not hers as she regarded its strong form. She blinked. As Priscilla shifted, Penelope took her finger to guide along the sentences, reading aloud.
“‘Of the North Atlantic Ocean, the Great Auk is a bird of remarkable ability. Its talent is not of flight, as is so common amongst birds. Instead, it navigates the frigid ocean with astounding agility; on land, such agility is lost, as it walks slowly and runs awkwardly.
“‘Nevertheless, the birds’ time on land is well spent protecting their to-be offspring in great, dense colonies alongside their lifelong mates. This steadfast protectiveness is evident in their vigilance to noise and actionable fearlessness, using their long bills to ward off various threats.’”
Penelope paused.
“Fascinating…” she gasped. She looked down to discern Priscilla’s reaction.
Penelope squinted. Ah, she feared that her niece’s disgruntled expression indicated only the most unpleasant bodily state.
“Penelope!” Prudence called from the hall. “Is Priscilla with you? Penelope!”
She rose, careful of the book and her niece’s delicate state. “We are in the study, sister!”
No more than three seconds elapsed when the door flung open. “Ah!” Prudence exhaled. “My baby!”
“Careful, sister!” Penelope warned.
Prudence hesitated just as she smelled her. “Oh, dear!” Delicately, she retrieved her daughter and muttered, “Let us sort this out, shall we, Priscilla? Quickly, yes? How uncomfortable it must be…!” She hurried off with a small wave and shut the study doors.
After a moment’s waiting, Penelope flinched as the thunder behind her boomed. She exhaled lightly and took up the encyclopedia. As she put it back into the shelf—after bookmarking that entry—her fingers lingered.
Invariably, her encyclopedic interests were minimal. Yet, a mere iota of knowledge about a beautiful bird filled her with great willingness. She had not recalled feeling this way three years ago, though she was certainly stubborn and preoccupied. Now, she wondered what form such beauty would take if spoken through a man who knew and loved.
Humming to herself, Penelope tidied the study. She knew that the knowledge of the great auk was not stored in just one man, much less one man an ocean away. However, her mind remained unfazed, adhering to old recollections of a studious, kind, patient—anomalous—man she had once known.
Silently, she prayed that, wherever he may be, his travels kept him healthy and satisfied.
She hoped the rain and lighting would let up soon, so that she might know the world a little more.
When the Sun finally showed through receding clouds, Penelope finally made her way to the bookstore.
In truth, she was known as the odd, bookwormish gal who frequented the store without a proper chaperone and in drab dress. She minded, of course, but no more than she minded this particular row of books.
She stared at the empty shelf.
“New shipment next month, miss,” the shopkeeper told her. “Patience ‘til then, ‘right?”
Penelope nodded primly. Silently, she was beyond ecstatic. The short story, “Sister Solitude,” could not stay stocked for very long at all. No matter, because the demand for the story begetted greater supply, deep interest, and flourishing curiosity. Many readers, it appeared, eagerly tore apart each word, urging the anonymous author to write again or—at the very least—reveal themself. Said author, naturally, had not, but a rumor ran rampant that this pensive, intimate, and vulnerable work was penned by a Cassandra Byrd.
She shook her head. Never mind these daydreamings. She would give herself away staring at this shelf. Penelope turned to the shopkeeper. “Do you’ve any new arrivals?”
He shrugged. “Dry spell for business, I’d reckon. Always selling the paper,” he mentioned offhandedly.
Penelope, ever committed to informing the masses with shrewd and acerbic perceptions, knew daily papers were important. Because it would look terribly inappropriate for a young, eligible woman of society to be so bookish, she could never read the paper each day. Instead, buying it was something like a special treat. She plucked out a coin, exchanging it and a smile for that day’s paper.
She sat in the back of the bookstore, content to be alone, surrounded by various books, in honest tranquility. She read the paper thoroughly, pausing from moment to moment to truly consider the words.
So rarely, she always lamented, did these papers report something joyous. As a writer herself, she was guilty of the same such sin. Still, she read each article, wishing there were something less practical and bland in these words.
At the end of it, sequestered in the smallest box, there was a brief statement about the status of the great auk.
In short, the author expressed optimism for the noble endeavor, emphasizing the bird’s anthropological and ecological importance. Equally, the author, in no more than the article’s four-sentence paragraph, conveyed deep pride and gratitude for the native Lord Alfred Debling.
Beyond the few things she had read and fleeting conversations with Lord Debling, Penelope continued to know little of the bird. Regardless, she closed the newspaper and left the bookstore, profoundly wishing that the bird be protected. As an aside, she hoped it might not delay the lord’s return because, though the ton had not thought of him favorably, he was a great comfort in society. Silently apologizing to the great auk, Penelope wished he were loved for his gifts and mind, not shunned as he—and she—had been.
As ostensibly well-intentioned as her prayers were, Penelope chided herself for these starry-eyed thoughts. There were unshakable, profound truths at play.
The first was that no one knew how these birds fared. Prayer, dedication, and effort were invaluable, but they could not predict a future.
Secondly, Lord Debling was a man of great intellect, passion, and practicality. His remaining on his conservation voyage was the result of nothing more than thorough reflection and observation. It would not do to anticipate the return of a man an ocean away, whose mind Penelope did not hold.
Last of all, it would not do to dwell in what was and what could be. The ton had been unkind, her family had been unkind, her friends had been unkind. Yet, life continued. Penelope still lived—that was a fact that neither fantasy nor fiction could erase.
So, she raised her head and lived.
She put all the incorrigible love from her soul into her beautiful nieces. They deserved every bit of adoration, respect, and reverence the world could offer. She knew better than to let it go to their heads, but she would rather Priscilla sure than wavering, and Philomena exuberant than dull. It would be a challenge, undoing whatever harm the ton might do to a Featherington girl, but, as it turned out, for her girls, Auntie Pen carried magnificent power.
She continued her Lady Whistledown columns when she attended the season’s balls. While her mother was significantly preoccupied with her baby granddaughters, she could not turn a blind eye to her youngest daughter’s future. With varying degrees of success, Lady Featherington chaperoned Penelope at every gathering possible. It meant Penelope’s time was most filled; though, by her mother's terms, the time spent continued to be fruitless. Yes, she lacked suitors and danced very few dances, though Penelope appreciated the opportunity to write. She learned less with wary eyes glossing over her, but the heat had died down as each season arrived and drifted. Regardless, she did not pass up these opportunities to let her pen speak to those who would not hear her, let alone tolerate her.
“What’s this?” Philippa asked one afternoon.
“What is what?” Penelope replied. She held Philomena by the shoulders, attempting to get the toddler to hold still after she begged her auntie to braid her hair.
She raised a pamphlet, then set it before Penelope.
She smoothed Philomena’s bangs, eyeing the paper. “Why, it seems to be a piece of Lady Whistledown’s gossip,” she replied lightly. She had written about supposed infidelity and complicated inheritances newly brought to light amongst the ton, though Penelope would not yet be so privy to this news.
“Oh, yes,” Philippa agreed. “And what of this?” She turned the page over.
Penelope narrowed her eyes. She picked it up and inspected it. “It appears to be a recapitulation of this season’s successes.”
“The season’s yet to end, no?” She tied a bow over her squirmy Philomena’s head.
She shook her head. “Her Majesty will host one final ball by month’s end. I suppose these are merely informal congratulations, en masse,” Penelope decided as she skimmed the page.
“Congratulations of what sort?” Philippa leaned in. “Betrothals, marriages, and children?”
She nodded.
“Are you on this list?”
Penelope froze.
Philippa eyed her baby sister. “Has any good suitor thrown his name in your direction?”
She smiled plainly, back stiff. “No, sister.”
She frowned. “That is a shame.”
Penelope blinked.
“Philomena would surely enjoy another cousin, I am certain. And you—“ she beamed at her sister, “—are so sweet with her. Should you have a daughter of your own, I know she would be adored. She and our Philomena would be dear friends. You need only find a husband willing to give you a daughter.”
She softened, both surprised and touched by Philippa’s kind remarks. “And if he is long to come?” she tried.
“Philomena will be patient, I’m sure. If you should dote on her so much,” Philippa figured, “she may even be envious should you have a daughter.”
Penelope laughed. “Perhaps, I should request a son from this husband-to-be, instead.”
Philippa considered this seriously, stroking her daughter’s hair as she asserted, “A daughter would carry your smile well.”
“And a son would not?”
“Not if he were as Papa and sported a beard.”
In a sudden burst, Penelope guffawed.
“A beard like that Lord Debling.”
Penelope flinched. “Pardon?”
Philomena rested her hand on the page as her mother explained, “The paper says his return is due. He was a nice man, wasn’t he, Penelope? A bit boring, I thought, but you had thought him…” she pondered, “entertaining, did you not?”
She looked at the page; indeed, it estimated that his return might be in the near weeks to come. It was far closer than Penelope had expected. “Compelling, yes,” she agreeably revealed, “he was perfectly compelling.”
“If he so suits your interests, that is a good thing. Well enough for a husband for you, I believe.” Then she frowned.
“What is it?”
“I can imagine it plainly—a son with a beard would certainly obscure your smile.”
As if to demonstrate, Penelope smiled widely. Privately, yes, but it was honest and proud.
She had numerous dreams of a husband and children who resembled her—a family of her own making and protecting. In these past many years, those dreams had felt like nightmares, making her prone to melancholic moods and bitter beliefs. For her sake and her family’s, Penelope chose to let go of these dreams. Casting them aside had felt like a betrayal of herself, but there too was something to be had in living a life of true pragmatism. It made the idealism sweeter when she could bear it.
On one such day, the weather had been warm and sunny. She took her breakfast outside under the pergola and had her tea in the garden. The Sun’s rays greeted her as she read a poem, one of a hero who chose a path less of war and more of respect. Brief as it was, the poetry had taken her. Alongside the birds ahum and fragrant flowers in bloom, the day had planted a seed inside her chest. There, it found a good home and grew into her.
In turn, the words flew out of her. Inspired by something that rested beneath the surface, Penelope wrote as if possessed. When she looked at her work, thoroughly read it, she worried. It was vulnerable. More honest and hopeful than she was used to conveying. It could have sat in her desk drawer or been tucked into the back pages of a personal diary. If her humiliation arose again, perhaps it would sit at the base of the hearth as ash.
Instead, she breathed. Her hand wobbled, but her mind was resolved—she penned the address and set it into a maid’s hands. What would happen next would be no preoccupation of hers, she decided.
Naturally, life would never look favorably upon her indecisiveness. She had to continue on.
Most honestly, Penelope had yet to give up on finding a partner. She was, however, touched by Philippa’s regard, and that of her eldest sister and their spouses; indeed, if the cards were only in her hands, she would do well to give her little nieces another cousin. For herself and her family, she desired that future.
Thus, despite the tragedies and discomforts, Penelope allowed her mother one final instance of chaperoning as her seventh season dwindled to its end.
“How has your hair become so unruly in so little time?” Lady Featherington chided. She licked her thumb and began to slick down stray locks.
“Mama…” she sighed.
“Do not Mama me, young lady. I do not wish that you, nor any suitor, be disenchanted with you for what appears to be a lack of beauty. Penelope, your time at these balls is not wasted. Patience, yours and your family’s, will not be in vain.”
“The virtue of patience makes no guarantee,” Penelope countered mildly, staring at the bubbles of her champagne flute.
“No, guarantees are few and far. But do you not wish to retire from these dresses and the pageantry?"
Eyes scanning lazily, she figured, “I had not thought you would allow such a thing."
“I would not,” she agreed, “but I know my daughter—you become hopeless when life is unkind.”
“Is that not the same for any man or lady?”
“Perhaps. I only pray that despair does not settle on you. A husband will find you,” she promised assuredly. “He will be good and wealthy—“
Her daughter rolled her eyes.
“—raise fine children, and be your match.”
Penelope paused. “My match?”
“A man who can accommodate my daughter’s spirit. Though,” she concluded, “neither he nor you shall find one another speaking to your mother. Go, with haste, girl, to make good on Her Majesty’s ball.”
Try as Penelope might, suitors were not called to her like a bee to a flower. Her reputation preceded her, she knew. And, if a man were not influenced by the talk and gossip of the ton, they were dissuaded by her unease in the ballroom. She enjoyed a dance, found the sparkles of the lights and her dress exciting, just as she reveled in the perplexities of the people milling about. These did not inspire infinite confidence, however, because her purpose here was to find a husband—or, more accurately, for a man to acquire her as his wife. Just as Mama anticipated, the dozens of disappointments in prior years did not elicit great feelings of becoming a wife-to-be.
For the men who did approach, she was sweet and likable. More than that, she attempted to be forthcoming. It was her pattern, not because she had found success in the marriage mart, but because it was the only truth she could live by. She informed them that, yes, she yearned for love and a family of her own. She was completely capable of compromise, though far less interested in submission for submission’s sake. At the end of the day, she loved stories. She did not mention her writings because that was too intimate for a stranger, but she repeatedly referenced her preoccupation with literature.
A sure, bookish girl from a lordless house, followed by a trail of rumors, did not make a lovely wife. Still, as yet another man politely and tersely bowed to dismiss himself and another man walked past her, she kept her head held high. If they could not accept her for all her faults, she would grant no man a wife such as herself.
Penelope pushed herself to the walls, hoping for a moment of respite in such a draining place. She had a snack of berries and a glass of juice as she watched princesses-to-be spin like clouds urged on by the leading hand of a prince-to-be’s current.
How darling it was to watch how pairs moved in synchrony, music becoming the air they breathed and the blood that rushed. The words of storybooks not yet written could not exceed the fantasy of this scene unwinding before Penelope.
One day…
She pushed toward the door for a gulp of fresh, night air. She only made it to the periphery of the ballroom, at the staircase’s banister, when someone called her name.
“Miss Featherington.”
She turned. Few approached her. Even fewer sought her out when she was unreachable. When she saw him, she blinked. Had her mind gone sour to such an extent that she imagined him? His voice, too, seemed a memory, a recollection, not a fact. Still, she indulged in the fiction. “Lord Debling?”
Minutely, he smiled. Hand on his stomach, he bowed. “Good evening, Miss Featherington.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “L-Lord Debling! You have returned! Pardon me, my lord!” She attempted to temper her voice. “I had not expected to see you today. No less at a ball.” She laughed awkwardly.
His smile strained, hand slow as it returned to his side. “In truth, neither did I expect to attend.”
She nodded. “It can be rather tiring, can it not?” She looked at the sea of people, glasses clinking, and banal conversations. “Have you just returned, my lord?”
“I returned not three nights prior.”
Her eyes widened. “Should you not be at home, resting? Surely the journey had been laborious and consuming.”
He hummed. “Bright as always, Miss Featherington.”
She tried smothering a satisfied smile—she failed.
“You are kind to consider this. Indeed, it was exhausting, as were the labors to manage the estate upon my return. However—“ his voice quieted.
She leaned in, eager to hear the explanation.
“—a letter awaited me as I arrived home after all these years.”
Penelope blinked. She could feel herself begin to flush, but she subdued it, asking a measured, “Oh?”
Lord Debling seemed to hesitate. “Perhaps I misunderstood. I have been rather distanced from society in recent times. Though it is my understanding…”
Penelope nodded, urging.
“It would be terribly improper for a married woman to write an unmarried man, even a bachelor so distant from society. It may be debated, however, that an unmarried woman writing an unmarried man lacked decorum or was simply unconventional.” He found Penelope’s eyes in the dim light. “Might I inquire of your opinion, Miss Featherington?”
She flushed. The implications certainly did not evade her. She did not know what her own intentions were, but this man standing before her flooded her with profound relief. Thus, she stood tall—and embarrassed—replying, “Rather than a lack of decorum or a demonstration of unconventionality, I believe it requires courage to reject a norm. Especially if it is to honestly express good wishes and appreciation, one should not be made to feel ashamed of such writings.”
“Ashamed?” Lord Debling frowned. “I resent that I may have suggested that one should be ashamed of such forthrightness.” Head bowed and hand on his heart, he declared, “I apologize, Miss Featherington.”
Penelope softened. Ah, yes. While his hair may have grown slightly, and his beard had been groomed into an unfamiliar shape, this was the same man she had known—one who valued the truth and respect above all else, plain-speaking, and with clear and bright blue eyes. Oh, how she had missed him in this society. This solace was some undoing in her tangled mind. “You do not know what comfort it brings me to see you are alive and well, Lord Debling. And that you have granted me the knowledge of your countenance and voice within mere days of your return humbles me to tears.”
“I do not intend to be self-congratulatory, but I had come here today with great restraint.”
She tilted her head. “In what such manner?”
“When I received your letter, I eagerly anticipated our reintroduction. I had believed you wrote as an unmarried woman of society. Desire as I might, I could not arrive uninvited to one’s calling hours as a means of reacquaintance. It would be especially improper if I had misunderstood your status and kindness. Thus, though I appear unpracticed, I act the part of a gentleman, complying with these trying norms so that our meeting might be acceptable and respectable.”
She laughed lightly. “A man simply does not reenter an unwelcoming society for a lone maiden. Less of all, one with such a history of mistakes and a present of inadequacies.”
“Society is many terrible things, but the greatest is its sin in urging you, Miss Featherington, to believe you are inadequate. Please, do not think me rash or unwise in my attending this ball. I merely wished to reunite with the good woman who sought me not for riches, play, or gossip, but who purely desired my success and attention. Regardless of how these years may have treated you, I hope to keep your acquaintance because you are brilliant and benevolent.”
“You are kind, Lord Debling,” she countered. “Bright and profound. The greatest sin is that this society did not appreciate you. Though they might not recognize even a modicum of your wonder, do not permit yourself to believe I am blind to you. You need not resort to flattery to possess my interest and keep my acquaintance.”
Lord Debling frowned. “I am remiss that you consider my words flattery, rather than honesty.”
She smiled lopsidedly. “My lord, you possess all my time. You should know that it is rare that a suitor finds me, much less with true ardor or focus. However, I may contend that that is my own fault for becoming disenchanted.”
“Disenchanted in what manner?” he implored, careful yet always curious.
“After our courtship ended—“ she gestured between the two of them, adding, “—most regrettably—another courtship began. I dare not bore you with the details, but we could not tolerate one other for that which we truly were: I wished him to be more patient and accepting, while he hoped me less cruel and more lovable.”
His eyes, ever carrying deep intensity, inquired, “Do you believe yourself cruel? Unlovable?”
Penelope faltered. When her courtship with Colin began to fray and ultimately dissolved, she believed it with all her soul. She had made a mistake—an unkind choice—and her consequences were hers alone. A little older now, she hesitated. “I understand that, as I am, I inspire a need for great patience, lest one experiences great frustration. I am trying,” she concluded with a tight smile.
“You are not,” Lord Debling corrected firmly. “Your presence and mind demand thorough attention and effort. You inspire the challenge of growth, something that can be testing only if unwilling. The failure you perceive was not your doing—it was of a man who could not seize a beautiful opportunity.”
She cracked a small smile. She had never been akin to an opportunity, much less a beautiful one. At a minimum, she had been disregarded; at most, she had been seen as a burden or last resort.
When she considered her courtship failure again, she thought of her first, not her last. Lord Debling had been a faultless man, save for the singular condition of not being Colin Bridgerton. As her heart oft found itself sore when regarding Mister Bridgerton too long, Penelope could now find this lacking condition comforting. Before her, Lord Debling remained impossibly faultless.
“Your honest words are too reminiscent of flattery, Lord Debling,” she teased. “As such, I have good reason to believe I am not the first woman to be made a blushing fool by your words—in England or otherwise.”
“A fool? I disagree. And, to your point about other women, I too must disagree.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes, cataloging every crest and peak of his serene face. “I do not believe you, my lord. Surely, you met graceful and intelligent women once you left the continent.”
He nodded, eyes drifting to the door as he recalled, “I had. However, just as I am, they too were stubborn in their own ways.”
She protested, “I have never found you to be stubborn, my lord. You are only steady and patient. In your ideals, perhaps, but loyalty to one’s values is nothing reproachable. Perhaps those women were similarly tied to their values. If only you had been bold enough to assert your willingness, you would have found yourself a radiant and sagacious wife,” Penelope declared.
Lord Debling’s eyes found hers once again, now glimmering with delicate levity and much interest. “Bold, in the manner of an unmarried woman penning a letter to a bachelor to greet his return to the country?”
Once again, she flushed at the implication but did not rise to meet it. She puffed her chest. “Yes,” she agreed. “Bold, in the manner of a bachelor at a trite ball for the attention of one unmarried woman,” she added.
He smiled. “Perhaps…” He stumbled as people shuffled behind, bumping him. Despite it all, he said, “Pardon me.”
Penelope made room for him beneath the bannister, lightly pulling his sleeve to pull him from the bustling crowd. When things settled, she noticed and rapidly let go. “Pray tell—“
He turned expectantly.
“—has this ball met your every expectation?”
He chuckled. “Exceeded them, really, though it has less to do with the crowd and more to do with good company.”
Penelope hummed, watching the crowd loosen as the music changed. “Yes, well, balls are often reserved for the lively and enthusiastic type, or those eager for love. Unless time with the great auk has changed you so fundamentally, I could not imagine this to be suitable for you.”
Lord Debling paused. “No,” he agreed, “I am not particularly enthusiastic about such gatherings nor concerned with love. Society has often left a sour taste lingering. Too commonly, I become exhausted by niceties. They routinely fail to conceal feelings of greed for greater wealth and pity about a distant family and strange proclivities.” He spoke the last part with an air of wry nonchalance.
“I pity those who do not see your life as admirable, enviable even,” Penelope offered. “You have a purpose that means something. It is lasting, beyond a night’s fraying gown or the aging of a pretty wife on one’s arm.”
Despite the measured harshness, Lord Debling smiled. “I admire your mind, Miss Featherington—how eloquently you share your… concerns.”
She laughed, a sound somewhat harsh and distinctly unrefined. “Criticisms, I am certain you mean. I, too, tire of shallowness, interactions that lack depth and genuine interest. In all these years as a maiden of society, pursuits for love and marriage have been fruitless and unwelcome. Most frequently, my honest attempts at this sordid and fickle game leave me humiliated as a fool.”
For a moment, neither spoke; he only observed her.
“Lord Debling?” she inquired, palms balmy.
“To be honest in an attempt does not make one a fool. Such vulnerability is not humiliating, but admirable, Miss Featherington.”
She lowered her gaze as her hand toyed with her necklace. “Thank you, my lord, for such kind words.”
“Oh, do not thank me. It is your efforts alone that will guarantee you success in all domains in which you pursue.”
Penelope only pursed her lips, staring at Mama, who insistently chatted away.
“Miss Featherington?” He leaned in.
“Pardon.” She blinked.
“Have I said something to offend you?” Lord Debling carefully asked.
“No, I think not.” She shook her head, eyes focusing once again. She smiled. “I am merely considering your words.”
“Which words, might I ask, have consumed your attention?”
“Guarantee,” she revealed without reprieve. “I do not know that the world makes guarantees.” She thought of her baby nieces once again, banishing the thought of a future of hardships for the little Featherington daughters. In the same breath, Penelope saw her mother begin to make her way over. “Rather than beautiful, fantastical things like guarantees and destiny, I now prefer to rely on my effort and my sincerity.”
Lord Debling nodded seriously. “It is true. I have never been one to believe in destiny and fantastical guarantees, yet I look upon you, Miss Featherington, and believe your efforts and sincerity can only lead to such goodness.”
Her smile arrived once again, this time, warbled and unsteady. “You, my lord, are too good.” She locked eyes with her mother. “I apologize.”
“Whatever for?”
She held his bright blue eyes, informing him, “I had promised my darling nieces I would arrive home early to bid them goodnight. While they are young and prone to forgetting, I do not wish to leave such a promise unfulfilled. At present—“ she looked at the dripping wax accumulated at a nearby candle’s base, “—I have become too consumed in my dialoguing with you, my lord.”
“Please, do not apologize for upholding a promise and being with your family. I thank you, instead, for speaking so genuinely. You have spoken today, not as strangers from years past, but as dear acquaintances never forgotten.”
“Well—“ she laughed lightly, “—I, too, hope to keep your acquaintance. At another date, I shall be a better conversational partner and inquire about your journeys and studies.”
“Perhaps another day, say, at calling hours,” Lord Debling suggested.
Penenlipe blinked. “Oh.” She blushed. “Oh! Why, of course, my lord!” She placed her hand over her mouth, surprised at her uncontrolled volume. “Pardon my eagerness.”
He shook his head. “I welcome it. I prefer you as you are, Miss Featherington.” He gently touched her hand, pulling it from her mouth. Lord Debling readjusted his grasp and, with a head bowed, planted a light kiss on her hand. “Thank you for speaking to me tonight. I wish you a safe journey home.”
Her rogue intensified, but her voice was deceptively mellow as she replied, "Thank you, Lord Debling. It is so very good that you have finally returned.” Penelope curtsied and, hand lingering with slight pressure, pulled away.
Albeit reluctantly, she made her way through the mass of people to her mother. Once, when her hand continued to tingle through her glove, she turned around to find Lord Debling still regarding her—hands planted behind his back, eyes persistent and tender, smile regal and serene. Penelope’s smile grew, yet she forced herself to turn around.
Without a moment’s rest, her mother’s arm looped through her own. “Good evening, dear. Have you any successes tonight? Surely, we would want to go home to the girls with good news.”
She smiled wryly. “We shall return home to our angels because I promised a tuck-in and kiss.”
“Yes, yes,” Mama agreed. As they arrived outside, she put her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “Are you certain there were no successes? You are radiant like a woman who has been attended to, if not adored.” She glanced back at the ball. “Which men were entranced by you? I had seen you speaking to a suitor just before this. Who is he?”
Penelope shook her head. “My dance card remained empty all night,” she reported, yet her faint smile never slipped. She urged her mother into the carriage, feet sore but heart light.
Truly, she had not been asked for a dance. However, it was a dance of words, not limbs, that had kept her bewitched, never interested in awaiting a suitor’s interruption for her hand to dance. Penelope wondered if conversation had ever been so enthralling. If it had been, the younger her—preoccupied by too many other things—had committed an extreme misstep.
Yet, she had never been so grateful for her age and all these passing years because, at last, Penelope knew the joy of anticipation and the splendor of a sincere soul.