Chapter 17
PENELOPE
Waning afternoon light filters through the huge stained glass window at the end of the hall, a fifteen foot arch stretching high above my head, the point of it reaching up into the ceiling, more spiders carved there too.
Every inch of our part of this monstrous manor is etched with them.
The glass casts rainbows across the well-worn antique carpet, my bare feet pulled up onto the soft leather cushioned bench beneath me.
A book open in my hands, ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’, but I’m not looking at it.
I've read it so many hundreds of times, I could recite the entire thing with my eyes closed. But it’s always Billy’s writing scrawled inside the pages that I spend more time focussing on.
I hear her voice before I see her, my curled up position keeping me hidden behind the high wooden back of my seat.
“She caught us,” Imogen laughs, a fake low chuckle that puts my teeth on edge. “I’m sure Billy punishe-”
“I don’t think you should be speaking about Lady Penelope like that, Imogen,” Delphine says, soft voice quiet. “She’s very kind to us,” she states, making me smile. “I think-”
Imogen scoffs harshly, “She’s just another one of his girls, he gets rid of them all eventually, and if he’s got me warming his bed already, then I’m sure it won’t be long before he kil-”
“Imogen,” Sophie, one of the other housekeeping girls, scolds, cutting her off, “I don’t want to be involved in any part of this conversation.”
Footsteps leave the carpet runner, low heels clicking across the hardwood, a door opening and closing quickly.
Imogen laughs again, more wicked this time, words more cocky, spiteful, “She’s nothing special,” she continues, sparking an insecurity I didn’t know I had in me.
“She looks like a fucking child. Behaves like one too, no tits, no arse, there’s nothing even remotely womanly about her.
Why would anyone choose that over this? Especially a Blackwell. ”
Anger thrums through me, liquid mercury solidifying in my veins, a sliver of something else too, doubt, diffidence, guilt.
I swallow hard, sweat blooming beneath my arms, my oversized sweatshirt making me feel suffocated, I want to tear it off, throw it away from me, march up to Imogen and give her a good slap.
I don’t believe her.
I don’t.
But somewhere deep down, her words hurt because I do.
I worry about Billy, about his attention span, what if he gets bored with me, what if all of those things are true, what will he do when he finds out what I’m hiding? What if he really is sleeping with her. He didn’t exactly say he wasn’t, he alluded to it, but that’s not a no.
Billy Blackwell is a beautiful liar.
Blind rage rips through my head, threatening to tear my skull in two. Thinking of him fucking someone else, anyone else, her.
I feel the weight of the switchblade in my front hoodie pocket like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.
Think of the razorblade tucked into the side of my bra.
How easy it would be to nick her throat with it, let her grab her neck in surprise, cover the bleeding, and as her lips part in shock, a gasp escaping her, I’ll ram it down her fucking throat and force her to swallow.
Leaving her to bleed out all over the hall.
Make sure nobody cleans it up, leave her there as an example.
Not a threat.
A Promise.
Don’t touch my fucking man.
“Imogen,” Delphine says quietly, awkwardly, clearly wanting to stop her but not having the confidence to, it tells me everything else I need to know about Imogen.
“Urgh,” Imogen sighs heavily, “you’re so boring, mouse, run along and-”
“I think that’s quite enough,” I say softly, despite my blood boiling.
I’m a very good liar, too, when I want to be.
Slowly, I set down my old worn book onto the seat beside me, placing my feet on the floor, I push up to stand, turning to face them both.
Delphine’s cheeks are glowing red, her eyes instantly dropping to look at the ground, her hands clasped before her, fingers squeezed tight.
She nods her head in greeting, a polite, “Lady,” in address, a word which makes me feel as uncomfortable as it does bring me pleasure in the moment.
“You may go, Delphine,” I say kindly, a soft expression on my face, she glances up, locking eyes with me, and turns away, disappearing behind a door that leads out into the main house.
When my dark eyes find Imogen’s blues, she doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. She looks thoroughly pissed off.
“You think I care that you heard what I said?” she asks cockily, a perfectly arched brow lifted on her forehead, arms crossed over her chest, hip popped out to the side.
I move around the bench seat, old, battered high-tops on my feet, tight black leggings and large black hoodie covering me up, a logo on it that’s so worn I can’t even remember what it used to be.
There’s a frayed hole in one ribbed cuff, my thumb poked through it, black painted nail chipped.
The whole look makes me feel inferior compared to her.
Even in her work uniform she looks flawless. Perfect everything. Shapely figure, shiny chestnut hair, bright eyes, clear skin. It’s enough to make anyone shrink around her, feel intimidated.
“No,” I reply calmly, circling the pad of my index finger over my thumb nail, “I know you don’t care.
” I walk closer towards her, eradicating the too large distance between us, tucking one side of my hair behind my ear as I come to a stop mere feet away.
“I think you just enjoy bragging about things that are untrue.”
She smiles sadistically at me, “You’re brainwashed already,” she laughs, a tinkling sound that makes my ears bleed.
“It doesn't take long for any of them to fall for his tricks, and you’re no different. It takes a special sort of desperation to not be able to see through a man like Billy.” She shrugs, dropping her arms by her sides, dropping her gaze at the same time, slowly rolling her eyes up the length of my body like she finds me severely lacking.
“I’m the desperate one?” I smile then too, something soft and relaxed, real, watching her face fall, her eyes narrowing with irritation, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. “Your desperation stinks worse than your perfume.”
A curl to her top lip, a snarl of disgust, like that line really hit a nerve, she lifts her perfectly plucked eyebrows and kisses her teeth, making a sucking sound at me before she licks over her lips.
“You know,” she starts slowly, a wicked smile refinding her face, “it would be an awful shame if someone were to find out what you did to poor Thomas Avery, wouldn’t it?”
I try not to let it show.
The sudden cold wash of panic.
But I’m sweating all the same, swallowing the sudden rush of bile in the back of my throat, burning as it bursts its way up my oesophagus.
“Who?” I ask calmly, my heart thrashing violently behind the walls of my chest cavity, knocking like a repeating death knell.
She laughs again, this time it’s real, a deep satisfied chuckle of knowing.
“Who?” she echoes back to me, mocking in a high pitched voice, laughing again.
She stalks forward, a slow seductive predatory prowl, circling around me, stopping just beside my ear, facing away from me, “The man you buried with One.” Dolly.
“In the Douglas Fir trees.” She turns her face towards me, her nose in my hair, lips brushing my ear, but I don’t look at her, still staring forward unblinking.
“I know you killed him,” she whispers, her breath slicing down my neck forcing goosebumps to smatter over my skin.
“One’s never shy about her kills,” I can feel her smile touching my ear, but I still don’t move, even though I’m thinking about the blade in my pocket, how I want to slam it into her eye.
“Oh,” she giggles, sickly sweet, as though she just remembered her next words, “but she doesn’t have to be because she’s actually important here. ”
She straightens, smoothing down her apron and skirts, taking a large step away from me, my blurred vision still on the bookshelves across from me. Too many scenarios rushing through my head.
“And you, Lady Penelope, are just, not.” I don’t move, but she’s undeterred, her next words coming easily, “But,” she sighs heavily like it’s a chore.
“I do suppose I could keep this to myself.” I glance in her direction from the corner of my eye, not turning to face her, but we lock eyes all the same.
“If you leave me and Billy alone, look the other way when we’re together, so to speak,” she purses her lips, lifting a hand to look down at her fingernails, “I’ll keep your little secret. ”
I do nothing.
I say nothing.
I breathe normally.
In and out.
She raises her brows in a quick lift, a twitching movement like a silent ‘checkmate’ before turning away from me.
She gets two steps from me, pausing to glance back over her shoulder, “Hey, think of it as me doing you a favour,” she smiles with one side of her mouth, running her gaze up my body once more. “If I keep him satisfied, he won’t mind pretending to enjoy himself when he’s with you.”
And then she walks away.
And I, I let her.