Chapter 1
“Penelope... we must go inside. Do you try to look interested?” Mama asked, her voice imploring.
Penelope turned towards her, green eyes wide from where her gaze had been locked on the distant greenhouse. She tucked a strand of dark auburn hair back from where it had fallen across her brow.
“It is the finest collection of orchids outside London, Mama. I have to see it.” Her voice was distant and dreamy.
She could think of little else. If she was truthful with herself—something she was not sure she wished to be at that moment—then it was the only thing that she wanted to think about.
She had no desire to contemplate the house party at Thornewood Manor, nor the tense, uncomfortable world of socialising with the local noble families.
Just ahead, her mother turned, disapproval and disbelief etched on her face.
“Penelope! We are not here to stare at orchids! This is important. The Earl of Thornewood is well-connected and well-placed. We must do our utmost to make a good impression.”
Penelope looked away, unsure of what to say.
At twenty years old, she supposed that perhaps she should be worried about the same things her mother worried about.
After all, she was approaching her third Season, and her mother certainly seemed to feel some sense of urgency about crafting her a better reputation in society.
Penelope had stopped caring overly much.
She had to stop caring. If she thought about it—if she allowed herself to worry about it—the pain and humiliation would be too much for her.
She had heard the whispers at parties—that she was dull and awkward, that she had more knowledge than sense.
She could either ignore the rumours and enjoy her life managing her father’s botanical collection, or she could cause herself a great deal of pain and wasted time trying to change herself fundamentally—which would not work, anyway.
She had sufficient sense to know that much.
She turned at the sound of footsteps on the path. Thomas, her brother, older than herself by two years, was just behind. He smiled at her, doing his best to be reassuring.
“We had best go in. The faster we can get to our chambers, the faster we can get out again. And mayhap investigate the greenhouse.” He grinned, hazel eyes twinkling brightly.
Penelope inclined her head. “Perhaps.”
She tried to appear happy and composed, but calm and joy eluded her. The prospect of three weeks at Lord Thornewood’s estate, mingling with twenty other people—none of whom she knew—was tedious at best, and daunting at worst. Her palms sweated just thinking about it.
Her mother ascended the stairs leading to the manor door, and Penelope followed close behind.
Up ahead, a tall man with blond hair streaked with white at the temples and a thin, lined face waited on the steps.
Beside him stood a woman with brown hair that had streaks of grey in it, and a heart-shaped, pretty face.
As Mama approached, the woman dipped into a graceful curtsey.
Penelope hastily followed suit, lowering herself into a deep curtsey, her knees trembling as she straightened.
Society’s rules were senseless and bewildering. In her workroom, surrounded by the plants she and Father collected, she felt at home—reading, painting specimens, and following simple, predictable rules she understood.
“Good evening, Lady Albury. Delighted to have you with us.”
“Good evening,” Mama murmured lightly. “We are grateful to have received an invitation. May I introduce my daughter, Miss Penelope Ainsworth, and my son, Mr Thomas Ainsworth?” Mama smiled, a picture of poise with her greying honey-blonde hair half-hidden beneath a brown bonnet.
Her dark red pelisse complemented her brown velvet gown in fashionable harmony.
Somehow, she always managed to appear elegant and stylish without spending a fortune—which was fortunate, as they had no fortune to spend.
“Good evening,” Penelope said softly. She made herself look at their hosts even though she felt shy. Lady Thornewood smiled at her.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she replied. Her brown eyes sparkled like she genuinely meant it, and Penelope could not help smiling back. She liked the older woman instantly. Lady Thornewood turned to welcome Thomas, and then the three of them entered the manor, escorted by the butler.
“I will show you to your chamber, my lady,” he murmured respectfully.
Mama followed him, while Penelope and Thomas trailed a little behind.
Penelope glanced around, taking in the house.
It was far grander than Albury Manor—which was perhaps older, but nowhere near as large.
That was only to be expected; Papa was a baron, while Lord Thornewood was an earl with far greater landholdings and considerably more profitable estates.
The stairs were faced in marble, and the upper hallway was lined with paintings and tall windows that bathed the corridor in the soft glow of twilight.
Penelope’s stomach twisted with unease. In just a few hours, she would be in the ballroom—a place she very much wished to avoid.
“Ah! This is pleasant,” Mama exclaimed as the butler opened a door. Penelope stood back until Thomas cleared his throat, reminding her to go in.
Penelope stepped inside and glanced around. The room was a small parlour with a single window, a modest fireplace, and a table surrounded by four chairs. Three doors opened off the space. Mama gestured to one.
“None of the rooms face north, which is a blessing. I will take the west-facing room,” she said, walking toward it. “Our luggage will be delivered shortly.”
“I am happy with the east-facing room,” Penelope replied quickly. She preferred any excuse to avoid spending hours preparing for balls and parties.
Her mother sighed.
“Very well. The sooner we decide, the sooner our gowns can be unpacked. They will need at least half an hour to hang and lose the creases.”
Penelope turned to the room on her left, relieved to escape.
She opened the door and went in, shutting it softly once she was inside.
She looked around, blinking in the half-light.
The room was illuminated with two oil-lamps and a few candles, the muted light augmented by the glow of a fire in the grate.
It was pleasantly warm, and Penelope sat down on the bed, suddenly aware of how tired she was.
She looked around, curious despite her exhaustion.
The bed was draped with a butter-yellow silk coverlet, and the chair by the fire was upholstered in a silky fabric with pale yellow stripes.
The curtains, from what she could see, were a rich golden hue, while the washstand and wardrobe—the only other furnishings—were crafted from dark-stained wood.
It was a comfortable, well-appointed room.
Penelope resisted the urge to lie down and sleep. In an hour, the ball would begin, and her mother would expect her to be dressed and ready.
“Miss Ainsworth?” A female voice called through the door. “Your luggage has been brought up. I will assist you to unpack and to dress for the evening’s event, if you wish?”
Penelope swallowed hard. “Yes, thank you. Please have the luggage brought in.”
A young woman in a dark uniform stepped in, standing aside for an extremely shy-looking youth with Penelope’s heavy box of clothing in his arms. He set it down with as little noise as possible, then shut the door behind him.
Penelope watched as the young woman opened the box and began to unpack it.
She was perhaps a decade older than Penelope herself, with brown curly hair under her spotless white cloth bonnet and a heart-shaped face. She smiled in a friendly manner.
“I am Miss Potts,” she introduced herself. “I’ll be your maid for the evening. What gown shall you wear, miss?”
Penelope looked away. “The blue gown,” she murmured.
“The silk one.” She knew that it was a little too demure, with a higher neckline than was usual for an evening dress, and mid-length sleeves.
Her mother did not approve of it, saying it was not of a fashionable style.
Penelope knew that Mama would argue, but if she could not wear a dress in which she felt comfortable, she could not make herself attend the ball.
“Very good, miss.”
Penelope sat down at the dressing table, not discomforted by the familiar routine of having her hair styled.
While she usually did it herself, drawing it back in a tight bun secured with a ribbon, whenever she had to attend any social gathering, her mother’s lady’s maid would style it for her.
She glanced at herself in the looking glass as the woman began her work.
Her own face gazed back at her, its smooth oval shape pale in the lamplight.
Her nose was a charming little snub, her large green eyes framed by pale lashes.
Her lips, in her opinion, were too full—though she had to admit that thinner lips were hardly in fashion. At the thought, she pulled a wry face.
Her reflection was not something she often studied. She supposed she was not ugly; the evidence before her suggested nothing hideous. But appearances mattered so much to her mother that she preferred not to dwell on her own. Obsessing over it would change nothing.
They had just fastened the buttons of the blue gown when someone knocked on the door.
“Daughter? May I enter?”
Penelope sighed. It was her mother. “Yes, Mama,” she called back.
Mama breezed in wearing a navy-blue dress.
“You cannot wear that! And your hair! Such a plain style will not do. And we barely have time to correct it... the ball is going to begin at eight o’clock!” Her mother sounded distressed.
“Mama...” Penelope began. She was about to argue when Thomas appeared in the doorway.
“Beg your pardon,” he said, his face flushing scarlet with embarrassment. “But has anyone got any idea where I put my coat?”