Miss Nilsson exchanged resigned looks with the housekeeper, then stepped forward. “I’m Miss Nilsson, Mrs. . . .
“Flint, ma’am.” She edged toward the door, a harried expression settling on her face.
“Perhaps I may lend a hand, Mrs. Flint? I know how it can be when unexpected guests arrive on the scene.” Actually, Miss Nilsson had had little to do with guests, but she sensed the poor housekeeper would be grateful for any help she might get. Nilsson picked up Muffin’s basket and followed Mrs. Flint from the room.
As the door closed behind the older women, Lettice frowned again. “I have never heard that accent before. Is it Swedish? I believe it rather charming. I am surprised you have not caught it from her.”
“I doubt you can catch an accent, Lettice, even a Swedish one,” Penelope said, a smile lighting her eyes.
“I suppose not,” Lettice replied with obvious regret in her voice. “Now,” she went on, “I should like to know all the details not in your letter and omitted to this point. Like, what sort of husband do you seek? I suppose he must be wildly handsome and sinfully rich.”
“Not at all,” Penelope said with a hint of laughter lurking in her words. “All I require is a man who will marry me, then take himself off to wherever it is that men enjoy spending their days. As long as he does not bother me, I shall be glad.”
“Goodness! What a peculiar way of looking at marriage. Not very romantic, I must say. It offends the poet in my soul.” Lettice gave Penelope a thoughtful stare, then nodded for her cousin to continue.
“If you must know, I have never believed in love,” Penelope confessed. “I suppose my parents were examples of such. However, since I rarely saw them, I had little chance to judge for myself. I think it to be simpler and far less trouble to find a gentleman—for I must marry someone equal to my station, I suppose—and make it clear he is free to go as he pleases. I hope he will take himself off to the Continent, as my parents did, and never be seen again.”
“Pity, that,” Lettice murmured. “You might feel differently had your parents been home instead of forever traipsing about the world. But I still do not understand why you wish to select a husband in such a cold-blooded manner. No poetry in the least.”
“No interference, either. I like my life as it is. Herbs and medicine fascinate me. I enjoy cooking as well. Can you imagine a gentleman permitting me to indulge my fancy in the kitchen?” She gave a toss of her head, revealing the pure line of her cheek, an errant blond curl.
“Take off that bonnet, please.” When Penelope complied, Lettice rubbed the end of her nose while she studied her cousin, then said, “I should think your husband would indulge your fancy anywhere you took a notion to indulge, if you catch my meaning.”
“I am not certain I do, but let it pass. What I need is someone to take me about, help me with a mantua-maker, and point out the man most likely to agree to my proposal.”
“Sounds wicked to me, tricking a man into marriage not intended to be a real one.”
“Even in the wilds of Kent, tales reach my ears of the London gentlemen. They gamble, wench, and generally enjoy their life of debauchery. I suspect that somewhere there is a man of acceptable birth who is in need of money, enough so he will not quibble at my proposal.”
At these firm words from her cousin, Lettice placed a hand on her heart, a dismayed gasp revealing her reaction all too well. “I can see you are determined to find such a man. I daresay there are enough of them around.” Giving her cousin a thoughtful stare, Lettice rose. “Come, you must be longing for a rest and change. I truly do not know what help I may be in your quest. However, we shall muddle along the best we can.”
Misgivings fluttering about Penelope like butterflies around a flowerbed, she followed her cousin from the room and up the stairs. At the door to a pretty little bedroom, they paused.
“This is a nice place in which to think. I believe you are in need of some serious thinking, Penelope. And call me Letty. It would be ever so much easier.” Taking Penelope’s silence as agreement, she continued, “I shall go out in the garden and commune with nature. Do you like to take walks? I hope so. I do not have enough nature in the garden here.” With those strange words, Letty turned away, bustled along
the hall, then marched down the stairs with a firm tread. Left alone, Penelope tested the bed, and finding it to be
quite comfortable, leaned back against her pillow. Her plans had definitely taken a twist for the worse. Her memories of Cousin Letty had been those of a vague but sweet woman some five years her senior who liked to pen poems and paint watercolors. It seemed a lot had happened in the intervening years to change Letty into a rather eccentric person. What help she might be was clearly debatable.
A gentle rap at the door brought Miss Nilsson.
“A fine pickle this is!” Penelope declared, sitting up. “My cousin is a sweet person, but slightly bird-witted, if you ask me.” Penelope rose from the bed, then crossed to assist in unpacking a trunk that had been carried up from the coach in which they had traveled from Kent to London.
“Now, do not get yourself in a pucker, my dear,” Nilsson urged. “Perhaps she will be more help than you expect. Have a little patience. I feel certain it will all work out in the end.”
Penelope gave her closest friend and mentor a fond smile. “Dear Miss Nilsson, what would I do without you, I wonder.”
“Become a savage, what else?” came the immediate reply in the familiar accent.
Chuckling, they both set
