Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“We might be late already, Penelope.”
The garden party three days later was in full swing by the time Penelope arrived with her friend Violet Richards, the daughter of the Earl of Giltbury, alongside Penelope’s aunt Amelia Osmond, her mother’s young half-sister. Amelia was only two years older than Penelope herself.
It was Aunt Amelia who had worried over their late arrival, but Violet had immediately spotted Penelope and pulled them both over to the thick of the guests, immersing them.
The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the meticulously manicured lawns of Lord and Lady Giltbury’s estate, creating an illusion of tranquility.
But for Penelope, who had walked into this gathering with a knot of apprehension in her stomach, the beauty of the surroundings was a mere backdrop to the drama that unfolded every time she stepped into society’s gaze.
It had been three days the Duke had ordered her off his grounds, and Nicholas had not disappeared despite his question of whether he really could return if he was quieter. Ever since that night, she had not quite relaxed, and the ladies around her only made that tension worse.
The women of the ton had never been kind to her, and though she had learned to smile through the snide remarks, their whispers and glances always seemed to cut deeper than she wanted to admit.
As she moved with Violet and Amelia through the gathering of guests on the lawn, she could feel the eyes of the other ladies lingering on her. Their whispers were low but sharp, like daggers veiled in pleasantries.
“I do believe that Lady Romwich is the village widow, is she not?” one lady whispered not so quietly behind her fan. “Yes, she is the one with the son, but no husband to look after her. Such a pitiful life.”
“Indeed,” the lady’s friend said, their arms linked. “She is practically a recluse now, ever since Lord Romwich… well, we must not speak of such humiliating tragedy.”
Penelope tightened her jaw even as she kept the smile on her face. Still, Amelia’s hand securely held her elbow, as if reminding her that she was not alone. On Penelope’s other side, Violet smiled graciously, as if her social status could protect Penelope further.
Truthfully, Penelope was grateful.
A humiliating tragedy, she repeated the words to herself.
Of course, that was all she was to the ton. Just another Dowager Countess with a deceased husband, left in the ruins of a life she had not chosen.
“One must ask,” the first lady said, “what is she doing out here? Is she on the hunt? Lady Violet ought to be careful who she befriends and invites to her mother’s events. It will start to taint her own reputation.”
Penelope kept her head high, but Violet, who always seemed to thrive in social situations, shot a scathing look at the assuming woman who had questioned her choice of company.
She hurriedly pulled Penelope and Amelia past those gossiping ladies, but there were more. There were always more. Younger, prettier, freshly debuted and full of judgement.
“I am quite sure I have never seen anyone so utterly disinterested in life as Lady Romwich,” another woman from near the drinks table muttered.
“I find myself craving a glass of wine,” Amelia bit out, her hair swaying in the light breeze. Her eyes were narrowed fiercely, her eyes fixed on the newest lady to gossip, thinking herself unheard.
“Aunt Amelia, you always crave a glass of wine,” Penelope said, trying to make herself laugh, to feel her spirits rise a bit higher.
“Yes, but this time the side dish to come with such a glass could be worth it.” Her aunt’s eyes remained on the woman.
And though Penelope did try to let the words go over her head, there was nothing any lady could say that would change the fact that she was, indeed, alone.
No matter how many sideways glances they gave her or how many barbed comments they threw her way, it would never change the reality of her life.
She had been through a lot—too much—even when her husband had been alive. And now…
The Duke’s hard gaze lingered in her mind, just another problem to have arisen that Penelope had shouldered alone.
“Ignore them,” Violet said softly, leaning in so only Penelope could hear, tugging her from her thoughts. “We both know they have nothing better to do with their lives than whisper about you. In no time at all, they will move onto somebody else, as unfortunate as the cycle is.”
Amelia gave Penelope’s arm a gentle squeeze even as she subtly guided her toward the wine table. “They forget their own miseries, my dear. Let them gossip. It means they have nothing else to talk about. It merely shows the state of their own lives.”
Penelope’s lips twitched into a smile. “Yes, they seem to think that because I have lost my husband, I have also lost my dignity.”
“And all know you have not,” Violet huffed. “They’re jealous.” Violet cast another icy glance at the group of women who were no longer even trying to pretend they weren’t staring. “They’re all jealous.”
It had been like this for years, since her marriage, really, and she’d never grown accustomed to it. She could feel everyone sizing her up, judging her every word, every movement. It wasn’t as though she expected anyone to embrace her.
Who would, after all?
She wasn’t a wealthy widow; she wasn’t a beautiful debutante. She was just Penelope Cadden, a woman who had been left to pick up the pieces.
As Penelope, Violet, and Amelia finally got to the drinks table, through the seemingly endless sea of gossiping ladies, the sound of footsteps behind them became unmistakable.
A group of ladies from the ton, those who made their little rounds of polite, whispered cruelty, approached. Penelope’s heart sank, her senses immediately attuned to the sharpness in the air.
Lady Worthington, the leader of the little pack, was unmistakably at the front. Her eyes, calculating and cold, slid over Penelope’s form, lingering just a moment too long before she spoke in a voice that was syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweetness that made the air thicker with every word.
“Lady Romwich, how delightful to see you out,” she said, her smile too forced and false. “And Amelia, I see you are still managing to fit into those gowns.”
Her gaze flicked over Amelia with a look of subtle distaste, before turning back to Penelope.
Still, Penelope noticed Amelia’s smile sharpened with a wicked curve.
Sadly, she had long been used to such comments on her stature.
“Dowager Countess, I do hope you’re not feeling too isolated, with all your acquaintances missing today. ”
Penelope’s fingers curled into the fabric of her gloves, the familiar sting of insults wrapped in faux kindness. Yet, she kept her posture straight, her face a picture of graciousness, as though her pulse wasn’t racing with indignation.
“I am never quite isolated when in the company of my friends, Lady Worthington,” Penelope replied smoothly, offering a tight, controlled smile.
“And as for Amelia,” Her voice dipped with the slightest edge of steel, her gaze shifting to Amelia, who stood by her side, unflinching.
“She is lovely as ever, no?. I do think she bears the mark of a woman who’s truly indulged in life’s pleasures, would you not agree? ”
“I would agree,” Amelia piped up haughtily, picking up a filled glass of wine with an indulgent, unfazed smile. “Besides, one will fit into her dresses when properly tailored. I see that you cannot quite say the same with your corset struggling to close any gaps in your frame.”
It was an insult reversed, and Penelope coughed behind her smile.
But Lady Worthington pressed on.
“You are terribly kind, Lady Romwich,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity. “But I must say, it does seem that Lady Amelia’s… shall we say, extra fullness… might be a bit of a burden in these summer months.”
Lady Worthington looked at Amelia’s rounded figure with exaggerated concern, the thinly veiled mockery evident.
Amelia’s smile widened, but Penelope could feel her friend’s shoulders stiffen beside her, though she didn’t look at her.
“Your concern is unwarranted, Lady Worthington,” she bit back.
“I am sure you must think so,” the other lady sniffed, looking to her gaggle of ladies with a sly smirk. “I suppose one must tell herself what she must to endure her… spinster life. That is why you are not married, is it not?”
Before Amelia could speak through her haze of wine, for a glass did plenty quite quickly, Penelope spoke.
“It is a pity that some of us are too busy with other matters to worry about trivialities like appearance. We have far more important things to concern ourselves with than conforming to the ridiculous expectations of society. I imagine we agree?”
Lady Worthington’s smile faltered just a fraction, the sharpness in Penelope’s response cutting through the polite charade. But she recovered quickly, her tone light and airy, as though nothing had transpired.
“Indeed,” she said, casting a fleeting glance at Amelia before her eyes shifted back to Penelope. “It seems you have both become quite good at ignoring the realities of our world.”
Penelope’s heart gave a sharp twist at the implications of her words.
The realities, as Lady Worthington put it, were that Penelope was still a widow, her reputation as shattered as the life she had once lived.
The realities of the ton always came with weight, with whispers about her marriage, her widowhood, and the son she was raising alone.
Even Amelia, as true as the rumors claimed, was the punchline of their little jokes. Amelia had lucked out on the marriage mart due to not having the willowy, thin frame often expected of a lady.
A lady expected not to indulge.
A lady expected to stay silent and poised and pretty. A mere wife to obey—and that was why Amelia had chosen not to take a suitor.