Chapter 8 Penelope
PENELOPE
It is said that a young lady may walk among roses and be unable to tell the flowers that have just bloomed from the ones on the precipice of withering.
That only fate could decide such things and no amount of watering could change this.
Society, of course, insists that such choices are already made long before the flower ever blooms—carved into women with teachings and expectations.
Yet Penelope, with her head bent to the shrubs of roses and her basket balanced lightly against her arm, was beginning to suspect that fate was far less orderly than her father would prefer.
The morning was bright, the garden heavy with the perfume of late autumn.
Her father spoke of duties, of alliances, of the future laid out like the stone path at her feet.
Penelope listened with bowed head, though her mind lingered elsewhere—on the unruly vampire, on large hands gripping her thighs, of fangs piercing her skin.
All the while her father spoke of his plans for the monsters—for Elias.
“Of course,” her father continued, calling her attention from the stems she had been clipping. “One can never place human behaviors on monsters. They are no different than beasts.”
“Yes, Father,” she echoed, clipping another stem.
“One day, I will make sure this world is safe for you.”
Was it not safe? Elias, though a vampire, had not harmed her—not truly. And he had even listened to her as though she held any importance in her words when she was teaching him to play.
It was all so confusing.
Her father had always warned her of the dangers of monsters and yet—well, Elias had not revealed himself to be dangerous.
In fact, the opposite were true. He had given her leave to make a choice.
Her own choice. He delivered upon her no teachings nor force.
He had stopped when she had commanded it. When she had commanded him.
He had conversed with her as though they were equals.
And Eleanor…if she had not been taken, did that mean she had gone willingly? Could she have been happy all along… with a monster? The very thought ought to have insulted Penelope. Yet Elias’ words, the rawness of them, had burrowed deep.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps—
Penelope took in a sharp breath, her finger pulsing. Looking down, she realized she had pricked her finger on a thorn. She watched as the bead of crimson grew until it finally trickled down the curve of her finger.
Was her blood really so good as to earn such a reaction from Elias? So much…pleasure? Because of her?
“Miss Adams?”
She startled, clutching her basket tighter, as a man stooped gracefully before her.
He was tall, though not so tall as Elias, with brown hair combed neatly back, a white tunic beneath a fitted blue jacket, and a bow tie at his throat.
His eyes—brown, earnest, arrestingly steady—fell upon her, and something in their depths struck her as almost familiar.
“You’ve hurt yourself.”
Before she could protest, he caught her wrist with a sure, practiced grip. His thumb skimmed too near the welling drop of blood, and her breath snagged at the impropriety of it.
“Sir!” she gasped, tugging lightly. “It is not—you mustn’t—”
“Hold still.” His tone was easy, teasing, though his touch remained steady as he pulled a folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He wrapped it carefully about her finger, his head bent close, the scent of starch and clean linen clinging to him.
“One mustn’t let a rose steal your blood.
You are already drained of color. Any more, and I fear you might disappear. ”
Penelope’s lips parted, her cheeks hot. She ought to scold him, to call for her father, to remind him sharply of his liberties.
Instead she stammered. “If this is how you make first impressions, might I remind you that before you presume to get close to a Lady, one should first wish to grant her fathers leave, Sir.”
The man looked up then, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “So you don’t remember me.”
Her brows knit, breath catching. “Remember—?”
“Henry Whitlock.” His grin widened, warm as summer. “Though I suppose it has been many years since you last scowled at me.”
Her basket nearly slipped from her arm. “Henry?” she breathed, searching his face anew, and there it was—the boy who used to race her down the lane, now sharpened into a man. A man that was touching her with so much ease.
“You’ve not changed at all,” he teased, though his gaze lingered on her longer than it ought to.
“And you…” Her voice faltered, shy and low as she pulled her hand away—now wrapped tight in his once white handkerchief. “Clearly not much has changed. Your manners still seem the same.”
“You still scowl when you’re flustered,” he cut in, eyes alight with mischief.
She had been so lost in her own dizzying thoughts that she had not noticed he had arrived.
“You look…” she started, her eyes dancing between his.
“Dashing?” he asked, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Different,” she corrected.
“Different can be good,” he said, his grin softening into something steadier, more adult. “After all, we are not children anymore, Penelope Adams.”
She flinched faintly at her name in his mouth. It was familiar, yet made strange by the weight of his tone. Hugging the basket tighter to her arm, she forced a polite smile. “No. We are not.”
Henry’s eyes lingered on her face, searching, as though he might coax some recognition of feeling from her. “I imagine you’ve been made aware why we are here.”
Her chest tightened. She glanced toward her father, who stood with Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, their heads bent in conversation that looked more like negotiation than reunion.
Her lips pressed together.
“I suppose our parents mean to remind us of our… acquaintance,” she said at last.
Henry chuckled. “They mean for us to become more than acquaintances, I believe.”
“That is…very forward of them.” Her throat closed. For a moment, she could not even manage a whisper. Then, because propriety demanded it, she managed to speak over the tightness in her throat. “Is another change that you always accept your parents request without protest”
“Not always.” His smile warmed, unbothered. “Still, for some reason, I cannot find it in me to protest.”
She looked away quickly, her lashes lowering to hide the sharp twist in her chest. He was kind—he had always been kind—yet no flicker of anticipation stirred within her. Instead, trepidation spread through her like weeds choking a garden, curling tight until there was little room for breath.
She forced a nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then I am glad for you, Henry.”
But her hands trembled as they gripped the basket’s handle.
Would she even make a good wife? The question rose unbidden, sharp and merciless. No—no. She would not let her thoughts be toyed with, not by the memory of that bastard vampire, nor by the dangerous way his touch still lingered in her mind.
This was good. This was right. Henry was eligible, steady, known to be respectable and gentle, not to mention his good name.
He would give her comfort, and he was not the sort of man to raise his hand against a woman, at least his father was not.
Which alone spoke to the character he was raised with.
That ought to have been enough. That must be enough.
Right?
And in any case, she told herself, pressing her lips tight, of course she would make a good wife. It was her duty. Her purpose.
“And what about you?” Henry asked suddenly.
Her lashes fluttered and she lifted her eyes to his. “Pardon?”
“I do hope,” he said gently, “that this… arrangement would make you glad for yourself as well. Not only for your father.”
Penelope blinked, words lodging in her throat. For herself? The notion seemed almost laughable. Her happiness had never been something to be weighed against duty, against the pressing will of others.
“I…” She faltered, lowering her gaze to the basket in her hands. The roses within seemed mocking in their sweetness. “It is not often a young lady is asked what makes her glad, Henry.”
Something in his expression softened, though his smile dimmed at the edges. “Then perhaps I shall ask more often.”
“Perhaps,” she repeated.
Her father approached then, his laugh booming across the garden path, pride etched into the lines of his weathered face. “I see you two have had a chance to catch up,” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming.
Henry straightened, offering a respectful bow to her father just as his mother stepped forward.
Lady Whitlock’s hands, adorned with too many rings, cupped Penelope’s face with an intimacy that made her stiffen.
The touch was gentle in action yet cool in its weight, her eyes roaming Penelope’s features with a scrutiny that stripped more than it bestowed.
“You ought to let her out of the house more often, Barnaby,” Lady Whitlock remarked, her lips curving though no true warmth reached her gaze. “She has the complexion of a ghost. For heavens sake, I can see the veins in her arms.”
Barnaby chuckled low, but Penelope did not miss the way his shoulders stiffened. “Well, with the recent happenings—those vile monsters crawling out of their burrows—I thought it safer to keep her behind lock. As you’ll find in our town, our new curfew has done wonders for our women.”
He glanced at Penelope only briefly, a perfunctory flicker, before returning his full attention to the Whitlocks.
Mr. Whitlock, a broad man with a chest like a barrel, gave his wife’s sleeve a tug, drawing her back to his side with an easy authority.
He nodded along with Barnaby’s words, the lines of his face deepening as his lips split into a wide grin.
“Well,” he started, tilting his chin at Penelope, “you’ve done a fine job with this one.
I only hope some of her poise might rub off on my boy here.
” He punctuated the remark with a guttural laugh, the sound rolling through the air like a drumbeat.
The words landed heavy in Penelope’s chest, that strange, bitter pride men seemed to carry when speaking of women. She was raised to take such remarks with pride, to glow beneath such praise. And yet…
“I hear,” Mr. Whitlock went on, waving his hand vaguely, “that your town’s women still undergo… training? Lessons on how to best serve their husbands?”
“Finishing school,” her father corrected at once, his voice puffed with pride.
“Yes, well—family is the marrow of this place. We are not like the larger cities, cut off and diluted. Here, we keep to tradition. Our women take such pride in their role, in learning obedience, that we see it our duty to teach them once they come of age.”
Penelope’s lashes lowered, her hands folding at her waist in perfect imitation of that obedience, the basket still resting on her arm. But inside—inside there was a stirring, a question she hadn’t let herself ask before.
Pride? Was it pride to bend, to be trained into silence? To be subservient? Or was it simply control?
She used to believe it. Truly, she had. That obedience was honor, that punishment was love. That men acted with such violence to only correct improper behavior. But now… now, with Elias’s voice in her head, with his hands and his hunger and his strange restraint, the certainty no longer held.
The chains her father called tradition felt less and less like safety.
A vampire had offered her a deal not born out of a wish to control her. Had fully given her the freedom of choice. But he was a monster. Wasn’t he?
Her father shifted, his lips quirking with polite amusement. “Perhaps, we may discuss the town in greater detail”—he started, gesturing to the house—“allow the children time to reacquaint themselves after so long apart?”
Henry inclined his head, his smile never faltering. “I should like that very much, Sir.”
“Well, I suppose there is much to discuss,” Mr. Whitlock agreed, nodding along. “If you show my wife the kitchen she can fetch us tea while we converse, won’t you dear?”
Mrs. Whitlock offered a tight smile. “Of course, anything you wish.”