Prologue
PROLOGUE
A CLOUDY DAY IN MARCH 1815
P enelope Sutton pushed against the kitchen door with all her weight. “How far along are we Mrs. Booth?”
“Not much longer, Lady Pen,” the cook called out over her shoulder.
“Splendid.” Penelope smiled, breathing in the delicious aromas one more time, she turned on her heels to check on the rest of the staff.
As she trotted up the stairs, the maids were already coming down them, affirming that the guest room was ready.
Upon thanking them, she inspected the aforementioned room herself, ensuring that everything was perfect. Once satisfied, she carried out a similar inspection of the drawing room, entryway, and dining room.
Thankfully, everything appeared to be in order. Well, almost everything.
Penelope heavy-heartedly made her way to Mother’s room and knocked three times.
No response.
She knocked again.
Still no response.
With a sigh, she gently called out, “Mother, I’m coming in.”
It was already a quarter to noon, but one would hardly be able to believe so given the suffocating darkness in which the room was steeped. Mother lay on her side facing away from the door with not an inch of movement acknowledging Penelope’s presence.
“Mother...” Penelope whispered, “Uncle Winston will be arriving shortly. I thought perhaps—if you felt up to it—you could help welcome him.”
No response.
“I can send your luncheon up here when it’s ready if you prefer,” Penelope fidgeted with her hands. “But I’m sure it would make all the difference if you could manage just a few minutes of light conversation. Such exercises are often said to be good for the soul.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” came Mother’s murmured response. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“I understand.” Penelope smiled weakly, reaching for the door. “Rest well, Mother.”
“M-mm.”
Alone in the hallway once again, Penelope wiped her tears on the back of her hand.
“Lady Penelope!” Ruth emerged from the stairs. “He’s here!”
Straightening her skirt, Penelope followed the maid downstairs once more, checking her hair as they passed by the hanging mirrors along the way.
As she awaited Uncle Winston in the drawing room, Penelope wasn’t as nervous as she anticipated—after all, she had already done everything possible to ensure he felt welcome.
In fact, Penelope realized she deserved to hold her head up with pride because despite Father’s death last week, despite Mother’s grief—and indeed despite Penelope’s own grief—she held the house together and managed its affairs quite successfully.
Once Uncle Winston’s fully settled in, I’ll be able to focus on helping Mother recover, she assured herself. We’ll be fine. Everything is going to be fine.
At last, her father’s distant cousin entered, his cane striking the floors with every step.
Penelope curtsied a greeting and explained what a pleasure it was to finally meet him.
He acknowledged her with a polite nod before examining his surroundings.
“So, this is Punton Manor!”
Penelope straightened up. “Yes, Uncle. Mother isn’t feeling too well, so she sends her apologies for not being able to welcome you just yet. But we both hope you’ll find the house to your liking.”
“Quite!” He lumbered towards her, causing Penelope to take a step back in surprise.
“My, you’re even prettier up close, little sweet,” he grinned.
Penelope’s stomach churned as her palms suddenly began to sweat.
“Er, you must be starving after your travels, Uncle Winston.” She stepped backward and gestured toward the dining room. “If you would please have a seat, luncheon will be served shor-”
She gasped as he suddenly lifted his cane to her chin.
“That’ll be quite enough of that ‘Uncle’ business, sweet thing,” he snarled, “ I am now the Earl of Punton, and you will address me as such. Do you understand?”
Penelope blinked at him, remaining frozen in her spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the staff similarly paralyzed.
“Y-Yes, Lord Punton,” she finally managed to choke out.
Even after he had lowered his cane and brushed past her into the dining room, Penelope found herself unable to move her feet at all for several moments.
But when she thought about how such a vile man could inherit her father’s title, her anger spurred her feet forward.
She clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling.
It’s just luncheon, she repeatedly reminded herself as she took her place at the opposite end of the dining table. But as the agonizing meal dragged on, she realized that no amount of goodwill or tongue-biting would enable her to endure this.
As she nodded politely at whatever it was that Uncle Winston was rambling about now, she swore to get her mother as far away from here as possible.