He was out the door and striding up the path in the next instant, though she did not understand his explanation. At that moment, Penelope understood little except that Vergilius was leaving, her great freedom was at hand, and all she felt was devastating loss.
Penelope watched her husband until he disappeared into the elm grove, and still she stood on the cold stones, staring at the morning mist. When she stepped back inside the cottage, she was shivering, but she could not bestir herself to put the kettle on, or to do much of anything.
A marriage long over had just ended in truth, and only in the past week had she realized the magnitude of the defeat that represented. Penelope returned to the bedroom, struck by the disarray she and Gill had created the previous night.
Her dress was in a heap, one slipper peeked from beneath the bed skirt, the indent of Gill’s head still shaped the pillow. Penelope moved forward, intent on smoothing her hand over that pillow, when something solid bumped against her thigh.
Something in the pocket of her dressing gown. She did not recall that weight being there when she’d put the dressing gown on, but then, her powers of perception were not at their most acute. Gill had found the strength to leave her, and she must be grateful to him for that consideration.
She withdrew a perfect, iridescently beautiful ormer shell from the dressing gown’s pocket. This specimen was smaller than the first one Vergilius had given her, though it gleamed even more brightly.
He must have slipped the shell into her pocket as they’d parted. A memento, a treasure. Penelope climbed beneath the quilts, the shell clutched in her hand, and curled up on her husband’s side of the bed.
She held firm against all the voices clamoring in her head—the commands to soldier on, to put the past aside, to consider her blessings. On and on the lectures and sermons would go, if she allowed them to.
Instead, Penelope gripped her green ormer, clung to her pillow, and cried like a childless mother.
Chapter Seven
Gill could not ride like the demons of hell were after him, because he valued his horse. He also needed time to think, to start this new phase of grieving, and to plan. He made the journey to London in reasonable stages, and all the while, he considered options.
I’ve always wondered why you never wrote back to me. One small, passing admission, upon which his whole marriage might well have turned.
Disowning Mama would not do. That would compound the scandal of the annulment, but then, in for a penny… And he could disown Tommie and Bella, too, though Tommie would still be heir to the title. The unentailed wealth could go to Penelope’s charities, or to Penelope herself…
A packet of old letters—if they still existed—could not make much difference at this late date, but he wanted Penelope to have them, just the same. Such thoughts saw him through one turnpike after another, and by late afternoon, he was passing his hat to MacMillan.
“Where are they?” Gill asked.
“Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first, my lord. I believe the ladies have company. They are entertaining in the formal parlor.”
The formal parlor, where Penelope alone had authority to receive guests as the lady of the house. “Of course they are. How have you not tossed them bodily into the street?”
“Certain privileges are uniquely yours, my lord, though I would give a fortnight’s wages to watch the eviction, as would the entire staff. The week has been trying, especially for Cook.” MacMillan’s gaze held a hint of humor, but only a hint.
“I will make use of soap and water. The instant the guests leave, please let me know, and do not warn the ladies that I have returned.”
“Very good, sir.” MacMillan’s smile would have done a border reiver proud.
Gill used the next quarter hour to bring some order to his appearance, and to his thoughts. Something about the past week, as difficult as it had been, had fortified him. What had Penelope told him?
Be ruthless. He’d manage that much easily, but ruthless did not mean uncivilized. A tap on the bedroom door was followed by MacMillan’s soft voice.
“The guests are gone, sir. The ladies are alone in the formal parlor.”
Alone, finishing off a lavish tea tray and planning their next raid on Gill’s finances and his consequence. Before he went downstairs, he crossed the hallway into Penelope’s suite. Her presence permeated her apartment, in the soft colors and pretty seascapes, in the scent of fresh flowers, and in the perfect balance between order and comfort. A portrait of the Summerton bride and groom hung in her sitting room, a pair of innocents who’d deserved much more loyalty from family than they’d had.
Well, Gill could still be loyal to his wife. He owed her that much and more.
He bowed to the image of his bride, then took himself down to the formal parlor at a dignified, businesslike pace. When he opened the door, he caught Bella stuffing a tea cake into her mouth and Mama reaching for the plate of sandwiches.
Gill had left the door open and had left MacMillan at the ready in the corridor.
“All I want to know,” he said, “is which one of you stole the letters?”
Mama and Bella traded a look thieves exchanged when the constable came upon them dividing up their loot.
“Summerton, how dare you greet us in all your dirt?” Mama began. “Where have you been, by the way? A thoughtful man leaves word of his whereabouts when others are depending upon him, and we have been worried—”
“Which one of you stole my letters to Penelope and hers to me? You either give me the truth now, or the pair of you will never set foot in London again. You will not be received, the shops will not accept your custom, you will be as ignored as if you were in deepest, perpetual mourning.”
Which was exactly what they deserved—nine years of it, without respite or comfort.
Bella chewed with the dispatch of a rodent before launching her volley. “Summerton, have you taken a fall from your horse? I tear myself away from my children and husband and travel all the way from Lychmont to ensure Penelope is not overwhelmed by the duties that come with the Season, and you strut in here making wild accusations. One worries for your sanity.”
“One does,” Mama added. “But then, you always were a difficult boy.”
“While you, my lady,” he retorted, “are insufferable.”
The old Gill, the Gill who’d kept the peace and remained above the affray, would have turned her insult into a joke, or announced a pressing appointment at the club.
The Gill who’d been advised to be ruthless had more to say. “The pair of you are no longer welcome in this house. I don’t care which of you took those letters. You have both overstepped often enough, with me and with Penelope, that you are to pack your things and leave. You will be gone in the next hour and can make the twenty miles to Lychmont easily before nightfall. I would bid you good day, except you don’t deserve a good day. You deserve nine years of despair and bewilderment and misery, and I hope they befall you starting now.”
He spun on his heel and was halfway to the door before Mama spoke.
“I never tampered with any letters from Penelope, Summerton. You insult me to suggest as much.”
Gill studied his mother, whose righteous bearing would make the queen look like a trembling lackey by comparison. Mama was prevaricating or bluffing. She wasn’t quite lying.