Chapter 3
Penelope slipped out of bed, heading to the windows where the gauzy curtains let in early morning light. She stared out into the garden.
It had rained the previous night, though she had barely heard the rain; too tired to stay awake more than a few seconds after she had got into bed.
The raindrops sparkled in the muted sunshine, the clouds still low on the horizon.
Penelope felt a tremor of excitement run through her.
Though the clock on the mantel showed the eighth hour, it would be another hour at least before breakfast was served, and she was sure that most of the guests would not rise before ten o’clock, the ball having ended at around one o’clock the previous night.
“That gives me plenty of time,” she murmured. She planned to sneak into the greenhouse to study the plants.
She rinsed her face and mouth in the bowl of water on the nightstand and went to the wardrobe, choosing a plain muslin day-dress in white patterned with little sprigs in black.
It was a pretty gown, though not elaborate, well-suited for a morning that would be spent largely away from the public eye.
Penelope was practised in dressing herself—while she had a lady’s maid, named Amy, at home, they did not have a large household staff, and Amy could not always be spared from other duties to assist. Besides, Penelope was an early riser, accustomed to getting ready on her own.
She unbuttoned the gown and stepped into it, then fastened it behind herself and sat down at the dressing table.
A brief comb-through and careful rolling was all she needed to create her usual style.
She tied a ribbon around the bun of hair she had created, then tucked some hairpins in discreetly, holding it in place.
She blinked at her reflection, studying it with some interest. The gentlemen at the ball had looked at her in a particular way; one that made her feel unusually beautiful.
“I still look the same,” she told herself firmly.
She had always regarded herself as plain, and imagining otherwise felt like too great a stretch.
Though Lucy often insisted she had stunningly lovely eyes, Penelope dismissed such comments as friendly flattery, choosing instead to focus on her soft oval face and the shape of her mouth.
It was difficult to fathom what the handsome gentleman had found worth staring at.
“Was he handsome?” she asked herself aloud, surprised that she had even thought of him as attractive. She blushed furiously, admitting that he actually was. With those intense blue eyes, that slim, well-defined face and curling black hair, he was extremely handsome.
“Don’t be silly,” she told herself firmly.
She was certainly not there to meet eligible young lords, no matter what her mother thought.
Penelope already knew no one would find her particularly interesting.
She was here to see the greenhouse and, if the earl permitted, to collect a few cuttings of interesting specimens she might attempt to cultivate at Albury Manor. That was all.
She fastened on some white ankle-length boots, suitable for outdoor wear, and walked briskly down the hallway and down to the garden.
Thomas was in the hallway. He turned around, startled, when he saw her.
“Sister! I did not expect you until another hour, at least.” He smiled at her a little distractedly. He had dark rings around his eyes, and his face was pale, as though he was exhausted.
“I woke early,” Penelope said softly. “Might we go down to the greenhouse now?”
“Now?” Thomas’s gaze widened, but he nodded. “If you wish. Take a pelisse,” he added as they walked down the stairs to the front door.
Penelope nodded, pausing at the door to fasten on her white pelisse that she had been wearing when they arrived the previous day.
She lifted her reticule—a white one with a strap of white ribbon—from the hook and hung it over her shoulder.
Thomas donned a greatcoat, and they went outside into the garden.
It was cold, but not unpleasant, and they crossed the lawn in silence.
The greenhouse loomed ahead of them, and Thomas opened the door, then stood back for Penelope.
She drew a breath, heart soaring as she stepped in.
She had imagined what it would be like to see one of the biggest private collections in England, and stepping into the greenhouse exceeded everything that she had imagined.
“Brother... it is remarkable,” she murmured.
Her gaze moved from the domed ceiling, made entirely of panels of glass, down the glass walls, and to the long rows of benches that lined the well-lit, warm and humid space.
Plants of every description flourished there, their foliage ranging from soft, pale green to the deepest emerald.
She studied them in wonder, her heart swelling with delight and admiration.
The air was rich with the loamy scent of damp soil, mingled with the exotic sweetness of wild, unfamiliar blooms. The fragrance stirred her imagination—intoxicating, alluring.
“Oh, Thomas,” she murmured. “I barely even know where to start.”
“Start over there,” Thomas said, gesturing to a corner randomly. Penelope glared at him.
“You know what I mean,” she said a little crossly, but she was already grinning. That was typical of her brother, who was always practical—all the more so if she was overwhelmed by something. It was a trait she deeply valued since it balanced her own romantic nature.
Not that Thomas is not rather romantic himself, she thought with a smile. He was sensitive, sometimes imaginative and dreamy, and she could not fail to notice the new way he looked at Lucy. She smiled, confused and pleased by the new depth between the two of them.
She went over to the corner that Thomas had indicated, intending to begin her studies there.
The corner in question was populated by small tropical fern-like plants.
She gazed at them, mentally cataloguing species.
The orchids occupied the two main benches that stretched from the front to the back of the space; a length of perhaps ten yards.
It was vast. She itched to begin there; the beautiful blooms with their wild, alluring fragrance beckoning to her.
All the same, she knew she had to be systematic, and so she stayed where she was, studying the ferns.
She reached into her reticule for a notebook and a pencil and began taking notes.
A particular fern held her interest. She was sure that she had never seen anything like it—not that, she reminded herself smilingly, ferns were her particular interest. There were few enough species that she had seen with her own eyes, some known to her only from illustrations in books.
She squinted at it, then decided to make her own sketch to assist her so that she could learn more about it later.
The fern was labelled with its genus and species name, as were all the plants in the collection, and she wrote it down on the page and began to sketch.
She frowned, biting her lip in concentration as she focused.
Making a botanical sketch was something she had learned from her father, who had always shared her interest and supported it.
He had been delighted to discover her skill in sketching, and he had taught her how to use it to record plant species, focusing on which details would be important to record.
Sometimes she made paintings with watercolour to record the hues, but those were less important than the small structural differences when classifying a specimen.
The sound of a footfall interrupted her concentration, and she looked up, quickly taking stock of her surroundings.
Thomas had crossed the room and now stood by the window, watching with quiet fascination as a groom led a horse across the grounds.
She smiled to herself. His interest in plants was not quite as consuming as her own; for Thomas, it was their usefulness in preserving health that captured his attention.
She bent over the page, frowning in concentration.
Then, a soft voice broke the stillness.
“Good morning, Miss Ainsworth.”
Startled, Penelope looked up sharply—and found herself staring in amazement. Standing just inside the doorway was Lord Redfield, the blue-eyed gentleman from the ball the evening before. Her cheeks heated instantly, her pulse quickening for reasons she could not entirely explain.
She opened her mouth to respond but caught herself staring, and hastily dropped her gaze.
“Good morning, my lord,” she managed at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
His blue eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer, his gaze clear and steady.
Though his complexion was pale, he appeared well-rested, as composed as he had been the previous evening.
His dark hair had been neatly brushed, and he wore a plain shirt with a high collar and a simply tied cravat.
Without a tailcoat, dressed in long riding breeches that fit snugly over his muscled legs, he looked far less formal than the man she had first encountered.
Seeing him so informally attired felt oddly intimate. In the quiet, secluded atmosphere of the greenhouse, the effect was even more pronounced, making her heart thud in a way she would have struggled to explain.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Lord Redfield continued in a softer tone. “I thought that I might take the opportunity to revisit my cousin’s collection. Our discussion yesterday reminded me of it.”
“I was desperate to see it,” Penelope said quickly, beaming at him.
“I decided to come down early, before the rest of the house party awakens. I trust that your cousin… that the earl won’t mind?
” she blushed. She had not considered that perhaps the earl did not wish just any guest to wander about his private collection. She gazed at Lord Redfield worriedly.