That vexed Penelope too, of course. Had Vergilius been less considerate, less polite, less outwardly attentive, she could have ripped up at him. After a few porcelain-shattering rows, nobody would question why husband and wife operated in separate spheres.
And had that separation happened five years ago, what she had planned now would have raised a lot fewer eyebrows.
“My mum’s a good sort,” Silforth said. “Raised us to know our Bible and work hard. She doesn’t see so well lately, but I swear that woman can hear halfway to France when one of her grandchildren is being naughty.”
“How many is she up to?” Seventeen, with number eighteen due in two months. All healthy, every one of them, from birth onward.
“Seventeen, my lady. My youngest sister’s confinement should end as summer arrives.”
Silforth’s sister already had four rambunctious boys. “Is she hoping for a girl?”
“Hoping and praying, my lady.”
The true culprit in the whole melodrama of Penelope’s marriage was Penelope’s late mother. She’d built up marriage in Penelope’s mind and sung the praises of the dashing Summerton heir, until no reality could possibly match the expectations created by the advertisements.
The one time Penelope had raised the topic of a marital separation with her mother, Mama had had a tantrum the size of Gibraltar, then lapsed into an injured silence that had been worse than all of her ranting lectures combined.
In the years since Mama’s passing, Summerton had grown more distant—and inexplicably more attractive—while Mama-in-Law had become a hovering, intrusive presence in the London town house. And where Mama-in-Law went, Bella was sure to follow.
That thought put Penelope in a tearing hurry to climb into Lady Stanthorpe’s traveling coach.
“Would you like to attend your sister’s confinement, Silforth?”
“I couldn’t leave you again so soon, my lady. People will think I’m not good at my job.”
People will think… Three of the most useless words ever strung together in English.
“You are quite good at your job, but your sister is dear to you. The offer will remain open, Silforth. You earn your wages without complaining, and family is important.” In fact, Penelope had already written out a character for Silforth and a bearer bank draft that would serve as lavish severance. Silforth could kick her heels at home for the next five years and still have funds on hand.
Looking after Silforth, who had tried hard to look after Penelope, was important.
A husband ought to be important to his wife, too, and conversely. Summerton had taken the news of Penelope’s decision to travel—and at this time of year—with nary a word of protest. He’d been surprised, though—a petty and backhanded consolation when a wife was abandoning her marriage.
“Will you take your jewels, my lady?”
“I won’t need them.” Had never needed them, though Mama had gushed about the Summerton tiaras for the entire four weeks of Penelope’s engagement. Vergilius had called upon her weekly, bringing gifts—a locket containing a curl of his dark hair and a painted miniature of him, a box of French chocolates, a book of Wordsworth’s verse.
Penelope had shelved the book with the rest of the library’s poetry and left the chocolates for her staff.
“What of your Sunday bonnets, ma’am? Just the one, or should I pack several?”
“I will choose from what’s available at the Hall.” A mere dozen, not to mention sun hats, skimmers, toques… The viscountess’s dressing closet had struck a much younger Penelope as a hall of wonders.
I’ll miss you, Pen. What did that mean? What had the look in Summerton’s eyes signified when he’d said those words? Had he been concerned? When would it occur to him that Penelope had hit the end of her tether for the last time?
She must remain firm now, or the rest of her life would not hold a half-penny’s worth of peace or contentment.
She’d given up on joy, but she could still aspire to freedom. Vergilius would be the aggrieved party, and after a suitable period of fuming and brooding—both of which he’d been quite good at as a younger man—he could get on with his life. Eventually, he’d see that Penelope had done him a final, sincere favor by leaving him.
Silforth went to the window and nudged aside the drapes. “Lady Stanthorpe’s carriage is in the mews, ma’am. You’ll soon be on your way.”
Those words should have filled Penelope with relief, but all she felt as she changed into half boots and took a last look around her apartment, was guilt. She was slinking away under false pretenses, abandoning her marriage, and abandoning a good man, though a man who—after ten years—she hardly knew.
I am just too tired to keep trying. She’d been emotionally exhausted for years, and every so often, such as when Vergilius had looked at her this morning at the breakfast table, she suspected he was as weary as she.
She gathered up her reticule and gloves and made her way to the porte cochere. To her surprise and horror, Summerton waited on the steps in all his lordly glory.
“I will see you off,” he said, smiling slightly. “The least I can do.”
Why, oh, why, must he look so serious and dear in the morning sun? When had he traded the insouciance of youth for the gravitas of the mature man?
Two porters loaded the largest of Penelope’s trunks onto the boot.
“I won’t be far,” she said. “Just down at the Hall.” The lie made her bilious. Vergilius did not deserve to be lied to.
“You’ll be back a fortnight hence?”
Why did he ask? “I hope to be.” Penelope would never be back, and if Lady Stanthorpe’s staff continued on to the Stanthorpe estate in Cornwall, Summerton would have no way of knowing precisely where his prodigal wife bided.
“Will you miss me?” he asked, with a ghost of his old devilment, though the look in his eyes was watchful.
What has become of us? Penelope wanted to ask that question aloud, even as a voice that sounded very like Mama clamored in her head that it wasn’t too late to change her mind.
“I will miss you terribly.” She leavened that truth with a smile of her own and went up on her toes to kiss her spouse farewell. God help her, in some corner of her heart, she would miss him terribly.
Summerton ambushed her, turning what should have been a kiss on the cheek into a lover’s kiss, mouth upon mouth, body to body. Penelope hadn’t kissed her husband in that manner for years, but she kissed him back.
Foolishness. Utter, sentimental, wasted, stupid foolishness, but parting foolishness and therefore forgivable.
“When you return to Town,” Summerton said, stepping away as the last trunk was lashed to the boot, “I’d like to talk to you. I’ve been much preoccupied with voting my seat, the renovations at the Hall, and a few other matters. I see no need for us to do as much entertaining this spring as we usually do and wanted to assay your thoughts about a reduced social schedule.”
And that was just like him. To offer her the first real kiss they’d shared in years and then start maundering on about household matters. How did he do that?
“We’ll talk when I return,” Penelope said, though those hours she’d spent planning dinners, musicales, and at homes had been intended to serve Summerton’s political aspirations and to keep her own blue devils at bay.