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The portrait sitting on the easel in the parlour is exquisite. Hundreds, if not thousands of carefully-placed brushstrokes, together forming the visage of one of Penelope’s dearest schoolfriends, Caterina. Bright green eyes and dark, curly hair. The ghost of a smile. Breathtaking.
The painter more than earnt his commission. He really did get every detail right. All the painting needs is a good frame, and then it’s ready to be wrapped and transported to Caterina’s soon-to-be marital home. Some small part of Penelope is jealous, she must admit. Marrying the love of one’s life sounds delightful. Especially when they look as beautiful when they laugh as Caterina does.
“Lord ‘Opkins called again, Milady,” Parker’s voice echoes through the room. Penelope glances up: he’s shuffling through the doorway, a tray with a new pot of tea in hand.
“Oh, dear…” Penny murmurs, as Parker replaces the pot on the coffee table. She had rather hoped that Lord Hopkins wouldn’t.
“'E wants to know whether you would like to attend Miss Caterina’s wedding with 'im,” Parker adds.
Would like to? Certainly not.
Would? Perhaps. She hasn’t decided yet.
Lord Hopkins is not a bad man, not at all. Actually, Penelope is rather fond of him. He’s a rather excellent potential suitor: the oldest son of the Duke of Winchester, having recently returned to England after several years working for the Crown in East Asia.
According to much of Penelope’s social circle, Hopkins is handsome. He’s intelligent and surprisingly humble for a man of his station. Conversation with him is stimulating, and he always treats her with appropriate respect. He would probably make a good husband.
A pity that she cannot reciprocate his affections. Life would be so much easier if she could.
Penelope pours more tea into her cup. It’s still hot, steaming as it mixes with the remains of her last measure. She picks up a new slice of lemon, gently dropping it into the brew.
Even if Lord Hopkins did make a good husband, she can’t imagine that she’d be able to keep on with her current lifestyle. Few men enjoy seeing their wives posing for cameras and fashion moguls. Fewer still would be happy to hear about her International Rescue work– it’s doubtful she’d be able to hide it forever, especially once children came along. And along they must come, eventually.
The Creighton-Ward family needs heirs, and Penelope is an only child. Mother and Father have been rather patient with her thus far, but doubtless they’ll start worrying if she hits thirty without any sign of courtship.
Penelope raises her cup to her mouth, sipping cautiously at the tea. It’s still a little too hot to drink, so she sets it down and busies herself stirring, watching the lemon slice swirl through the steaming Darjeeling.
Perhaps she could find herself a like-minded husband instead. There must surely be any number of young aristocratic men who prefer the company of gentlemen. It would be more pleasant to have a husband who understands and shares her feelings than one that does not.
Perhaps she ought to ask Jeff for help. If she explains her predicament, he might help her arrange something with one of his boys. She could marry one for a few years, produce a suitable number of Creighton-Ward-Tracy heirs, and then amicably divorce.
Perhaps she could simply not marry at all, disappoint her parents, and let her distant cousins squabble over the manor and the heirlooms once she passes.
“H’is everything h’all right, Milady?” Parker asks, jerking Penelope out of her thoughts. She blinks up at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. He’s starting to frown, in the way he often does when he’s worried. And he does so often worry about her.
“Yes, there’s no need to fret,” she says. “I was just thinking…”
“About the h’invitation?” Parker asks. “Should h’I call the ‘Opkins Manor?”
“No,” Penelope says, quickly. “I won’t be going with him. I’m afraid he’s not suitable.”
Parker looks at her, his eyebrows rising oh-so-slightly in a silent question.
Why?
It is a rather good question, and one that perhaps she ought to answer.
Parker is possibly the only person in the world she completely trusts. She ought to tell him. At least then she won’t have to keep coming up with excuses for her lack of courting.
“We have too much in common,” she explains. The tight knot in her stomach is almost painful. “We…” She clears her throat. “We both hold interest in the fairer sex.”
Parker blinks once, then twice. His eyebrows rise imperceptibly.
“H’I see, Milady,” he says. “H’in that case, shall h’I decline?”
“Please do.”
“Right away, Milady,” Parker turns heel and heads for the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses and turns back to face her. "H'in the meantime, h'I shall keep my ears open for any rumours that might be h'of interest to you, given your tastes.”
Penelope smiles, the tension in her body evaporating in a rush of relief. How silly of her to have even felt anxious at all.
"I can always count on you, Parker."
Parker returns her smile with one of his own: discreet, accompanied by a small nod.
"That you can, Milady."
Parker leaves with the empty teapot, and Penelope stretches. Somehow the air feels lighter, even though nothing has really changed. Even her impending courtship conundrum feels less overwhelming now than it had just a few minutes ago.
Penelope Creighton-Ward may not have a solution to her problems, but at least she is not – and will never be – alone.