Penelope

By

Copyright 2010
Anya Wylde

Smashwords
Edition

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respecting the hard work of this author.

Thank you,
John, for everything

And

Thank you, PG
Wodehouse, for coining the word ‘canoozers’. It’s bloody
brilliant!

It was April in
England. Therefore, it stood to reason that it was raining.

The English, it
also stood to reason, were delighted because the weather was
horrible and they had a reason to complain. But today the
Londoners, specifically, were even more ecstatic because it was not
only raining but also storming. Thunder, lightning and raging wind
swept through the streets of London carrying with it pounds of
garbage, scrawny cats, chimney sweeps, and the unfortunate young
lady in ballooning pink skirts who had decided to sneak out of her
respectable home to canoodle with a not so respectable man.

In the better
parts of the town the plump aristocrats sat on plump cushions
deploring the state of the economy, politics and literature. The
exception to this was the Blackthorne Mansion, a veritable fortress
where the current Duke of Blackthorne, Charles Cornelius Radclyff,
resided. It was said that the history of the Radclyff family could
be traced back hundreds of thousands of years. That is if one kept
an open mind, a trusting mind, or better yet no mind at all.

Sir Henry
Woodville, the oldest living creature in the Blackthorne Mansion,
could not be sure how far back the history could be traced, but if
one tried, he was positive that the ancestors of the Radclyff
family were the original creators of Plato’s Atlantis, and after
bit of drink, he confessed they could possibly have been Adam and
Eve. (It is whispered in expensive drawing rooms that Sir Henry
Woodville could be a teensy weensy bit senile).

So the
Blackthorne Mansion stood bold and proud fighting the onslaught of
stinging rain while within its grey walls the dowager and her
daughter, Lady Anne Radclyff, sat huddled by the fire, wincing ever
so delicately every time the thunder roared. They did not discourse
on appropriate topics but awaited the arrival of our heroine, Miss
Penelope Winifred Rose Spebbington Fairweather, and this is where
we begin our tale.

The dowager
cast a worried glance at the door while Lady Radclyff stared at the
grandfather clock willing its giant needles to move.

“She is late,
Mamma.”

“She will be
here soon enough.”

“Do you think
she is dead?”

“Annie, she is
not
that
late!”

“Yes, but she
is coming all the way from that … that Finny village. It has been
raining all day and she refused our offer of a carriage. The
post-chaise could have lodged itself in a pothole and overturned. I
suppose she is lying in some gully, blood pooling underneath her
awkwardly twisted body and not a soul in sight.”

“It’s Finnshire
not Finny, and she has her maid with her.”

“Well, then the
maid is dead too. The weight of the carriage finished her off well
before her mistress. Poor Miss Fairweather twitched and trembled
for eons fighting for that last breath.”

“I will
seriously contemplate your very vivid scenario if Miss Fairweather
does not arrive in the next five hours. Until then can we converse
like gently bred women? If your brother heard you speaking like
this, he would have you sent to the country for the next three
seasons.”

“I am bored. I
can’t go to the shops, go riding or feel excited about the season.
Do you know that I attended a hundred and five balls last year
alone, and that does not count the dinners and tea parties?”

“Miss
Fairweather would have loved to attend a hundred and five balls
last year. You have had the pleasure of three seasons, while the
poor dear has never been to anything but the village dance.”

“What do you
think she is like? Have you ever met her?”

“I have not met
her, but her mother and I attended the same ladies academy. Her
mother Grace was bright, full of life and laughter, and if her
daughter is anything like her… ”

“Was?”

“She died
giving birth to Miss Penelope Fairweather. Mr Thomas Fairweather,
Penelope’s father, married the vicar’s daughter, Gertrude, within a
year of Grace’s funeral. Gertrude went on to have five more
children. I initiated a correspondence with Gertrude to ensure that
Grace’s daughter was being well looked after—”

“You couldn’t
have the stepmother drowning the child,” Lady Radclyff
interrupted.

“Anne, Miss
Fairweather is not an unwanted kitten. Where was I? Oh yes,
Gertrude writes to me often. Her letters are full of her children’s
antics. I feel as if I know them,” the dowager said dreamily. “I
have imagined them growing up. They used to wail all night and then
they were falling off apple trees ….”

“You are
rambling again, Mamma. I don’t care about Miss Fairweather’s
siblings. I want to know about her.”

“Why? You have
never shown this much interest in any of my other guests
before.”

Lady Radclyff
sucked on a lemon drop, her mouth pursing in thought.

“The other
guests were all the same. They say the same things, they are
brought up the same way, and they all wear the same clothes. It is
as if a single London lady and a London gentleman have been put
into different moulds by God and recreated again and again. I can
predict what the replies to my questions will be. No one is
original. While Miss Fairweather sounds original.”

“Original?”

“I have never
met a country bumpkin before.”

“Annie!”

“Well, it is
true isn't it? How in the world are you going to introduce her to
polite society?”

“Grace, her
mother, was very well mannered. A little enthusiastic but still a
lady. And I expect Gertrude has brought up her stepdaughter
correctly.”

“How many
siblings does she have?”

“Five younger
sisters.”

“Six girls and
not enough money to pay for a season for even one child. I think
your friend would have had more to worry about than teaching the
girls how to curtsy and hold a fan.”

The dowager
sipped her tea and didn't reply.

“So I am
right.”

“No, I am sure
Miss Fairweather knows the basics.”

“I can hear a
but …?”

“Gertrude
sounds as if she dotes on Miss Fairweather, yet when I asked if I
could sponsor Penelope’s season in London, her reply was a little
damp. She cautioned me against the idea …”

“Is the girl
dim?”

“No, Annie, the
girl is not dim.” The dowager paused and then added, “At least I
hope not.”

Lady Radclyff
smiled in triumph. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

“You will be
disappointed. The girl will be frightened and will probably utter
not a word on her first day here. Besides, I am not sure if
Gertrude is not biased. She is the stepmother, and I think she was
reluctant to send Grace’s child to me. I had the feeling she would
rather I took responsibility for one of her own. I can’t fault her
for it, but I am worried that Penelope has been denied her
place.”

“Miss Penelope
Fairweather,” said Lady Radclyff, testing the name aloud. “She will
have red hair and black sparkling eyes, a witch with a beauty that
shall enthral the ton.”

“She will be
mousy with brown hair and brown eyes, a veritable wallflower,” the
dowager replied.

“In any case,
she is dead now.”

“It is not even
two hours since her intended arrival.”

“I hope she is
not dead. She is my only hope of survival during the season.”

The dowager
rolled her eyes and picked up her knitting. They sat in silence,
eyes straying every now and then to the ticking grandfather clock.
As the minutes went by the dowager became worried and Lady Radclyff
more impatient.

“Shall I ring
for some more tea?” Lady Radclyff finally asked.

“As you wish,”
the dowager replied, tossing aside her knitting.

Lady Radclyff
reached for the bell, but before she could ring it the butler
entered.

“Miss
Fairweather,” he announced.

“Send her in,”
Lady Radclyff said, dropping the bell back in its place.

A hesitant
finger nudged the door open, and then the rest of Miss Fairweather
entered the room. The dowager and Lady Radclyff inspected the
newcomer with interest.

Miss
Fairweather was not pretty, nor could she ever be a wallflower. She
was rustic, a woodland creature with an aura of something fay. She
had brought the mist, rain and storm with her into the drawing room
of the Blackthorne Mansion.

She had brown
hair and brown eyes, but that was the only thing that matched the
dowager’s prediction. Her dark wild hair defied the multitude of
pins stuck here and there. Her bonnet was askew and sat
precariously on her head, threatening to topple at any moment. Her
nose was delicate, the very tip round and pink. Her chin was
stubborn and her mouth sensitive. Rebellious freckles dusted her
flushed cheeks. Her alert, bright eyes darted curiously about the
room, the hand gripping her skirt the only indication of her
nervousness.

She wore a
shapeless, mud splattered dress, which made both the women wince,
but it was not the dress or the young lady’s appearance that made
Lady Radclyff squeal or the dowager scream in terror.

It was the goat
that did it.

Miss Penelope
Fairweather had bounded into the room followed by a goat; a medium
sized white goat with black hooves and a bright peachy nose. It
stared around the room through long lashes, its hooves digging into
the plush blue carpet.

Miss
Fairweather curtsied, aiming her elegant dip not at the dowager or
Lady Radclyff but at the butler.

“Thank you,
Perkins, that will be all,” the dowager hastily interrupted just as
Miss Fairweather opened her mouth to ask the butler his name.

Perkins
scuttled out in relief, carefully manoeuvring himself away from the
goat.

The dowager
composed herself. “Miss Fairweather, I am delighted to have you
here. We were getting worried, the rain and the storm ... You
brought a goat,” she finished abruptly.

Miss Penelope
Fairweather stood dripping water, a tiny puddle forming at her
feet. Her eyes took in the luxury of the blue drawing room, the
burning fire beckoning her. Her leather slippers squelched loudly
as she hurried forward and bobbed a curtsy aimed in the general
direction of the two women.

“Yes, this is
my pet Lady Bathsheba. Lady Bathsheba, this is … err … the dowager
and …?”

“Lady
Radclyff,” Lady Radclyff supplied helpfully.

“… Lady
Radclyff and we are to stay with them for a while.” She turned to
the dowager, “I had heard that some ladies in London keep tigers
and elephants, so I did not think my onliest loneliest goat would
cause any trouble.”

The dowager’s
right eyebrow shot up at the ‘onliest loneliest’ bit.

Lady Radclyff
grinned. She had never been introduced to a goat before.

Penelope
continued speaking unaware of the sensation she was causing, “Mary
was to take her to the kitchens, but the poor thing was distraught
over making the wrong sort of impression downstairs. I mean, a
lady’s maid arriving with a goat is not impressive. Among servants
you have to appear assertive from the very beginning or you end up
with the worst of tasks. Mary told me that. She wants to be liked
and perhaps find a stablehand to marry. She loves babies … You have
to marry to have babies, but Lilly our neighbour was shipped off to
Dublin because she had a baby without a husband … which was odd …
so err … Mary said that a maid with a goat is not desirable. I
agreed to keep the goat until she impresses them downstairs and …”
Penelope faltered at the disapproving look in the dowager’s
eye.

The dowager
sank back in her seat. She eyed the nervous girl with a mixture of
amusement and exasperation. Miss Fairweather’s thoughtfulness
towards her maid was commendable, yet her disregard for the
impression she herself would make upon arriving with the goat was
another matter. Unmarried women having babies … The dowager
shuddered. She wanted to clamp a hand over her avidly listening
daughter’s ears.

She wanted to
scold Penelope but she couldn't, not when the girl had just
arrived. She needed to go slow. This one fault could be overlooked.
A kind heart was not such a bad thing, and appropriate topics of
conversations could be taught.