Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
B efore the carriage rolled away, there was the sound of clopping hooves against the cobblestone outside the townhouse. Vaun, sleek and ebony in the distant light, burst out from around the house, leaving behind the stables he had once been confined to. On his back, with red hair as fiery as the sun peering over the horizon, Penelope held onto the reins, a cloak flying out behind her. If she wished to turn around, take one final look at the home she left behind, she didn’t show it. Not once did she look back.
George could not move from the window, even after Penelope was long gone, the carriage carrying her things and the pack disappearing along with her. Every memory, every moment of joy he had alongside her, felt stripped from his hands, taken down the street till he could no longer see it.
While he wasn’t surprised Penelope hadn’t come to say goodbye, George felt the pain as though he had been struck across the face. After their dinner last night, he had considered going to her room long after they had parted, eager to take a look at her face one last time, to hear her voice out of fear of quickly forgetting it. Even then, as he stood by the window, George tried to imagine her speaking to him and heard nothing. How soon till he forgot her face, forgot her words, forgot the very manner in which she held herself? Like a paranoid man, he felt his heartbeat rise, the panic settling deep beneath his skin.
Inside, he was tormented and afraid. Outside, George was as rigid as a statue, his expression unreadable.
Regret tainted him, and it was quickly followed by guilt. How could he dare feel the slightest bit of regret, when he had allowed her to leave without saying goodbye? If he was certain she wouldn’t have done it herself, why hadn’t he put his foot down? Respect and propriety be damned. George just lost the best thing about his life, and he didn’t even make an effort to try and stop it from happening.
Before the sun pulled itself over the horizon, George poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, a bottle Fred had gifted him upon his arrival. The ragged taste burnt against his throat, but he gladly took it. None of the brandy or wine he had in the townhouse was strong enough. He would take anything that could take away the sting that clung to him from Penelope’s departure.
Everywhere he turned, there was something left behind that reminded him of Penelope’s ever lasting touch upon his life. Every piece of clothing he had tucked away in drawers or the wardrobe were littered with cat hair, bunched up and crumpled into a cozy nest.The dog bed that had been in his study for the animals remained there, still warm to the touch. Hair clung to every bit of it. The bed’s pillow had been pushed in a way that an animal had to have been poking and prodding at till it was entirely comfortable.
George had finished his glass before breakfast had been served, already beginning to pour himself another one. The image of Penelope was still so present in his mind, as if she had been standing in front of him the entire time. He swatted a hand through the air, insistent on having her out of his head but only wishing he could caress the side of her face once more.
A knock came from the study door. After pouring himself another glass, George went back to the window, staring down the street as if Penelope would come galloping back towards him. The door to the study opened when he didn’t respond to the second knock.
“Georgie,” Winnie said from the threshold, her hands impatiently pressed against her hips. “You promised to take Freddie and me to the stud farm.”
“Not today.”
Winnie sighed as she crept into the study. “You know very well why today is the best day. No more wallowin’ now.” She waded further into the room, pushing the chair into the desk and absentmindedly tidying up. “George Houston,” she suddenly snapped, snatching onto the half empty whiskey bottle. “Don’ tell me you’ve been drinkin’ this early!”
George could not pull himself from the window. “Have you ever seen a man as tormented as I?”
“I’ve seen drunker ones,” she murmured.
Finally, George turned, feeling as though he ripped himself away from the window, no longer succumbing to the childish hope that Penelope would soon return over the hill.
“Golly, Georgie,” Winnie breathed, her eyes wide. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of your daddy.”
“Worse.”
Winnie stared till the reality of the situation seemed to hit her square in the face. “Mary and Joseph,” she murmured because ripping the door open, and sticking her head out to yell, “Freddie! Get your behind over here!” When she turned back to George, her face was softened. “Did you say goodbye, Georgie?”
“No,” he snapped. “Did you?”
“‘Course not,” she replied. “I knew it two days ago, when she announced it, that she wouldn’t dare to say goodbye.”
“How?”
Winnie shook her head as thundering footsteps came from down the hall, her husband twisting his way past the doorframe. “Love keeps us from doin’ even the simplest of things, George. Now,” she reached, taking the glass out of his hand, “Why don’t we talk about this?”
“There isn’t anything to say.”
Fred huffed from the door. “C’mon, now, Georgie. Don’t close up on us.”
“I believe you’ve made a mistake,” Winnie said. “And soon, you won’t have any time left to fix it.”
George glared at her. “ She was the one who left, Winnie. She left. I did not tell her to leave, she -”
“Did you tell her not to?”
“What?”
Winnie shook her head. “You two,” she muttered. “Two of the most lovesick fools.”
For the next few days, George was unable to remove himself from the study. Not only was he flooded with letters and business proposals dealing with the stud farm, but he found that whenever he stepped outside of the room, he was reminded of the reality of his situation. While he expected a dog to be in his way, or to hear Penelope’s loud laughter outside, it was never truly there. George did not wish to come face-to-face with his sadness, and decided to hide instead, ignoring the pleas from his American companions.
He had made them plenty of promises that he was now failing to keep, through no one’s fault but his own. Winnie wished for him to show her around London, but he refused. Fred insisted upon going to the stud farm before it was open to the public, but George couldn’t bring himself to leave his study.
As the guilt of his situation settled within him, George restedhis back against a bookcase one morning, remembering how the mastiff Antony used to sleep across his lap as the sun filtered in through the windows.
Suddenly, there were a rumbling of footsteps outside the study. Within a moment, Fred ripped the door open without a single knock.
“George,” he called out. “You gotta come now.”
“Where?”
“To the stables.”
George’s head shot up. There was only one mount in the stables for the past few days, and it wasn’t Vaun. Fiona was left behind when Penelope took Vaun to the cottage, but that was how he planned it. Eventually, he would return the horse to the cottage, and take Vaun back instead, once the stud farm was ready for him. That wasn’t going to be for another week or so, and the idea of Fiona being hurt or sick while in his care struck a nerve deep within his heart. Without needing to hear a single word, George felt as though a fire had been lit beneath him, and he leapt to the door. Side by side, the pair shotthrough the hall, George’s coat flying out behind him like a cloak.
“What is it?” George asked when they crashed out the back door. His eyes immediately landed on Mr. Busch, the veterinarian that George had been enlisting since returning to London. Mr. Busch was renowned in all of London, known for tending to the finest of horses at all the popular racetracks. He quickened his pace at the sight of the doctor, suddenly drowning in the fear of something truly bad happening to Fiona when he was too beaten down to notice.
“I called him when I noticed a change in Fiona’s behavior,” Fred said as they met the doctor in the middle. “I told him what I saw and the man came right away.” He shook the vet’s hand. “Mighty grateful for you, doc.”
“Well, I’m proud to look after such well-cared for steeds,” Mr. Busch said, turning his attention quickly to George. “Not to worry, your Grace. In fact, if you were saving a bottle of something nice, now might be the time to pop it open!”
George frowned. Sliding past him, he pushed open the stable door, where the stablehand dragged a brush along Fiona’s coat. The mare didn’t look sick at all, but rather low-energy, which wasn’t her usual condition. George reached, grasping onto her snout. Fiona neighed at him, nuzzling her snout against the crook of his neck.
“Tell me, Mr. Busch,” George called out over his shoulder.
Mr. Busch smiled. “The steed is pregnant, your Grace.”
He jumped around. “Pregnant?”
“Pretty recently, I’d say. Everyone’s looking healthy and happy so far,” Mrs. Busch explained, “But I would like to arrange consistent visits for the rest of the year. This steed was a racehorse, and I want to make sure she is well cared for, as well as the foal.”
George was stuck in place, focused in on Fiona. “Pregnant,” he repeated in a murmur, the horse’s warm gaze holding onto him. “It must’ve been Vaun. He was the only stallion around.”
“The American breed you told me about?” Mr. Busch asked before letting out a whistle. “That’ll be a mighty fine foal, your Grace.”
“Penelope,” he murmured, the horse snorting at the sound of her owner’s name. He turned, his gaze landing heavily on Fred. Behind him, Winnie was coming down the hill, hoisting up her skirts to see what all the commotion was for. “Do you know how happy she’d be to hear such news?”
“ That,” Winnie suddenly exclaimed, rounding around her husband and the vet, “Is it, George Houston!”
Fred reached for his wife. “Winnie -”
“No, no,” she snapped, sliding around her husband’s outstretched arm. “Pardon my interruption, doc, but you ,” her finger thrusted towards George, “are gonna listen to me, and you’re gonna listen to me real good!”
George, slightly taken aback by the petite woman’s stamina, remained silent.
“I just about had it up to here,” her arm shot in the air, “With you and Penny ignorin’ whats really goin’ on between you two!”
“Winnie,” he muttered, “There isn’t anything -”
“Whaddya take me for, Georgie? I ain’t quiet, but that don’t mean I ain’t privy to the world around me, you hear?”
He looked away. What more could she say to rewrite what had happened? Neither one of them had said a word to each other, and George felt that it was incredibly final. Penelope had no intentions of remaining there alongside him, so why would he try to force her? He avoided meeting Winnie’s persistent stare, only trying to search for an argument but coming up empty handed.
“You can go on and on ‘bout how your marriage ain’t nothin’ but a plot, ain’t nothin’ but a phony deal,” Winnie snapped, “But Freddie and I, we ain’t blind, Georgie! You love that girl, and you just let her walk right outta your life, as if she wasn’t even there in the first place.”
George glanced at Fred, but his friend wouldn’t dare try to come to his aid.
“Better yet,” Winnie continued, “Darlin’ Pen is just as much in love with you, but you chose to ignore it! Whatever for, Georgie? Why fight the happiness that has been laid out for you?”
“She doesn’t,” he paused, looking away. “She never once said -”
Winnie threw her hands in the air. “Did you really think true love was that easy? As simple as a walk in the park? Signing a paper and wearin’ a ring? Spellin’ out what it is you truly mean?” She took a step to close the distance between them, her voice becoming soft. “Georgie, you ain’t ever gonna know that girls true heart if you don’t give yours over first. You know that, don’ you?”
George watched his friends face. “I…I am a fool.”
“There you go,” Winnie said, clapping him the shoulder.
For the first time since Penelope left, George felt a fire be lit beneath his feet. Winnifred was right, even if he didn’t much care to admit it. How could he wallow and moan about how she left without a word when he never once made an effort to admit how he felt? How could Penelope had ever known?
Suddenly, he felt as though there was nothing left for him to lose. There was no point in continuing on in the stud farm, when it had all come to life because of Penelope and Penelope alone. There was no point in any of it. George grasped onto a saddle, hoisting it over Fiona’s back gently. Within a few minutes, he was riding upon the steed, racing out of the city, following in the path Penelope had once left him on.
There was one thing on his mind, one thing that he was entirely sure of.
George was in love with Penelope, and he had no intentions of letting her go.