Penelope by Beaton M.C

Author:Beaton, M.C. [Beaton, M. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472101297
Publisher: Constable & Robinson
Published: 1982-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

WYNDHAM COURT, HOME of the Earl of Hestleton, was a great rambling pile of mixed architecture, from Tudor to modern. It stood on a rise, commanding a fine view of the fields and woods of Hertfordshire.

Here was the home Penelope had dreamed of, with its long, spacious rooms and bowls of flowers.

She had at first been intimidated by the army of servants and the rather grim and austere figure of Aunt Matilda who was an extremely tall, thin elderly spinster. But the servants had done all in their power to make the future mistress of Wyndham Court feel at home and Aunt Matilda had turned out to be garrulous and friendly and not at all like her forbidding exterior.

The weather was idyllic, long hot sunny days fading into soft gray and rose evenings and starlit nights.

Penelope had spent her days being driven around the estate by the Earl and her evenings playing the piano for Aunt Matilda who had an insatiable love of music. And then, sometimes, in a quiet corner of the garden there were those stolen, hungry kisses with the Earl. Each time they seemed not enough, and Penelope would toss and turn during the night, feeling strangely restless and unsatisfied.

It was not that Aunt Matilda was a particularly conscientious chaperone. It was just that she had taken a great liking to Penelope, trotting happily after her when Penelope retired for the night and passing half an hour each night in Penelope’s bedroom “having a comfortable coze.”

Early one evening Penelope escaped from Aunt Matilda’s company and went out onto the broad flagged terrace to enjoy the cool, still air. Scarlet roses spilled over the edge of great stone urns on the balustrade of the terrace, and beyond, the wide, green, shaven lawns rolled gently away towards the darkness of the woods.

Penelope heard a step on the terrace behind her and a well-loved voice said, “Dreaming, my dear?”

Penelope turned, her pale skin almost translucent in the soft twilight. “Oh, Roger,” she sighed. “Of all things to think about on this beautiful evening! But I can’t help wondering why Mr. Liwoski painted Aunt Augusta so. He did not seem a particularly malicious man. He made her look evil.”

“It was a caricature, that was all,” said the Earl mildly.

“But it could not be that,” expostulated Penelope. “A caricature dramatises, highlights, qualities that are there. And Aunt is not malicious or evil.”

Her voice rose at the end in a faint question.

“There is no accounting for the whims of artists,” said the Earl lightly.

At that moment they heard Aunt Matilda calling them in to dinner. While she regaled Penelope with a recipe for rose water, the Earl sat buried in thought, remembering the aftermath of the portrait party.

Augusta’s portrait! Charles had been nearly incoherent. “But don’t you see, Roger? Don’t you see the joke of it all,” he had kept saying over and over again. “It’s the pig lady in person.”

The pig-faced lady was one of the absurd reports and ridiculous stories which had swept London during the spring of 1814.

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