“I am certain I can cope with a special diet, mademoiselle,” Henri replied suavely, making a most proper bow.
“I have an alternative solution,” Jonathan inserted, sensing that Miss Winthrop was unlikely to weaken. “As I am yet without a chef, why does he not join my household?” In his experience, poets were never the logical sort, and at this hour of the night it was best to solve matters quickly.
Penelope looked to Miss Nilsson, a silent exchange between them bringing a reluctant nod of both heads.
“That may be the best thing for all,” Penelope agreed, taking a step from Letty’s side toward Lord Harford. “Thank you, Cousin, for once again coming to my aid.”
“We do seem to have a way of assisting each other, do we not?” He meant to tease her, to remind her of those few moments they had shared so intimately, and it amused him to see how her cheeks pinkened.
Penelope hoped her cheeks did not flame with the memory of that kiss in the library. She slid a hand up to lightly touch her face, as though to test. “I hope I should always be ready to lend a hand to a cousin in need of help. One way or the other,” she added, thinking again of the kiss. How complicated things had become. She had learned of his debt and sought his help in exchange for her rescue the day of his dinner. So much had happened since.
Jonathan motioned to his mother and sister, then Henri. ‘Perhaps we had better be on our way. The hour grows late.”
Letty remained in the morning room while Penelope followed the others into the hall. Miss Nilsson still sat where she had plumped down when first appraised of Henri’s intentions.
Drawing Lord Harford aside as the others headed out the door, Penelope said in a low voice, “I shall see that you do not lose financially by this, Cousin. I have not forgotten that I offered to compensate you for your help.” She suspected that Oglethorpe did not know the half of Lord Harford’s difficulties.
Jonathan drew an angry breath. Really, the chit was impossible. “I am well able to manage, thank you,” he replied in frosty accents. Then he recalled that she believed he had lost a large sum of money and wondered what he ought to do. He had thought it amusing at first to see how a young woman treated him when she believed him to be in dire straits. Now it was proving to be a problem.
Penelope patted his arm in a reassuring gesture, believing that he felt embarrassed about his financial reverses. She could respect his not wanting to reveal to his mother the extent of his losses. Although it was certainly silly, for how could his mother curb her spending if she thought he still possessed deep pockets?
Muffin came forward to inspect the open door, and Penelope swiftly scooped the cat into her arms, not wanting it to dash out the door to certain peril. “I shall discuss this with you some other time, if you prefer,” she said to Harford. “Your family awaits.”
Disgusted with his inability to set her straight in a few well-chosen words, Jonathan marched out the door and into the coach. Henri had joined the coachman up front, to Jonathan’s dismay. Now he would have to endure his mother’s less-than-gentle probing about The Plan all the way to Harford House. The only good thing was that their destination was close by.
When Penelope returned to the morning room, she found Miss Nilsson sipping a cup of tea while Letty examined the dainty biscuits on the plate offered by Mrs. Flint.
Ignoring Letty, Penelope sank onto the chair close to Eva Nilsson. “Do you believe he will actually leave us?”
Miss Nilsson mutely shook her head, looking as though she was about to attend the funeral of a beloved relative.
Feeling as though her world had just received a bad shaking, Penelope reached out for Nilsson’s free hand, drawing comfort from the contact.
* * * *
The following afternoon brought Andrew Oglethorpe to the house once again. Penelope would have left the drawing room had she not fancied her cousin in need of a chaperon. Miss Nilsson had sent word that she was prostrated with a megrim, so someone had to do the proper.
Letty sat facing the window, while Mr. Oglethorpe paced back and forth before the fireplace.
“I fail to see how you believe that your latest work is ready to be presented to the world, Lettice,” Mr. Oglethorpe declared, looking greatly torn.
Penelope took this opening to satisfy her own curiosity about her cousin’s poetry. “I should like to have you read me some of your work, Letty. Please?” Penelope ignored the dark look from Mr. Oglethorpe.
“Very well.” Letty nodded graciously. She picked up a sheet of paper from the folder on her lap, cleared her throat, then commenced reading.
“Ode to an Inchworm:
Small, my little creature.
Climb, climb without ceasing
To the top of the hickory tree.”
Penelope waited for a moment, then gave Letty a blank look. “That is all? I mean, it seems rather short.” In Penelope’s experience, poets flattered on and on about any topic that had caught their interest. Poems usually dragged on for pages of sprawling script.
Letty sniffed. “You have no more vision than Mr. Oglethorpe. This is a mode of poetry from the Far East. It requires appreciative ears.” She rose and marched toward the door. “I can see my creative efforts are to be met with scorn. So be it. My genius will most likely not be valued until after I have gone aloft.” With that final remark snapped at her guests, she swished from the room.
“I warned you,” began Mr. Oglethorpe. “At least, I think I did.”
“I did not say I believe it to be bad, it is merely confusing. It of a certainty is quite different. When you consider her words, they do make sense of a sort. .
