Page 1 of Fairest of Heart

Prologue

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

SPRING 1892

Keep your eyes down and head bowed,” Edith instructed. “Do nothing to draw attention. A woman like Narcissa LaBelle lives for the spotlight, so you must make yourself dim in comparison. I won’t be able to help you once her troupe leaves town.”

Penelope Snow bit her lip and nodded, doing her best to stave off the tears misting her eyes as she smoothed the brown calico apron she wore over a shapeless, mud-colored dress. She and Edith had selected her wardrobe with care—opting for functional, drab pieces that would hide the figure that had caused so much trouble in her last position.

You’re going on an adventure, Pen. A chance to see new places. Meet new people. Don’t dwell on what you’re leaving behind. The Lord has provided a fresh start. Make the most of it.

“Ah, my lamb.” Edith clutched Penelope to her breast in an unexpected embrace. “I’m going to miss you so.”

The cook from Wyndham’s School for Girls rarely showed emotion and seemed to regret her outburst a heartbeat after it happened. Stiffening, she set Penelope away from her with a sniff and paced to the window of Madame LaBelle’s sitting room, where they’d been asked to wait.

Penelope followed and placed her hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you, too. Miss Wyndham might have taught me grammar, literature, and history, but the lessons I learned at your knee are the ones I carry in my heart.”

Edith reached across her chest to cover Penelope’s hand with gnarled fingers. Knuckles swollen and arthritic from years of hard work. Skin rough and calloused. Yet those same hands had cradled Penelope as a baby, lifting her from the basket a stranger had abandoned on the school’s back stoop in the middle of a winter storm. Those hands had taught her to knead bread and sew a fine stitch. They’d folded over hers while she learned to pray to a God who loved all his children, no matter how humble their beginnings.

The sitting room door opened, and Penelope jerked her hand away from Edith’s shoulder. She turned to face whoever entered, ducking her chin as she’d been coached. The maid who had shown them into the small parlor upon their arrival now held the door wide as a striking woman swept inside.

Penelope stole a quick glance at the woman who would be her employer and had to lock her jaw to keep from gaping like a fish. Madame LaBelle was the most beautiful woman Penelope had ever seen. So elegant and sophisticated. She moved with such grace, her skirt didn’t even rustle. And what a skirt it was! Bright red silk patterned with delicate black flowers that danced like blooms in a breeze, silhouetted against a sunset. Black lace fanned out along the hem with matching lace accents hugging the actress’s waist to emphasize her hourglass figure. The squared-off neckline dipped lower than the current high-necked style, setting her apart as a woman of boldness and confidence. Her presence demanded attention.

“Ah! Here you are, my dears.” Madame LaBelle’s face lit up as if she’d been searching for them for hours. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Her arm moved in an artful flourish as she gestured for Penelope and Edith to precede her into the seating area located in front of the small hearth.

“Have a seat on the settee,” she invited as she alit on the longer, pale green sofa. “You’ll have to excuse my ragged appearance.” She lifted a hand to her perfectly coifed chestnut locks. “I’ve been packing all day. It’s quite fatiguing.” She smiled at Penelope. “Which is why I’m so grateful to have you joining our merry band of travelers.”

Madame LaBelle arched one brow as she examined Penelope from head to toe. Her smile flattened into something much more assessing and calculated. Too late to hide now. Though the idea of this glamorous woman with her rich olive skin, sculpted cheekbones, and worldly air finding anything the least bit threatening in Penelope’s appearance was laughable. Like comparing a queen to a milkmaid.

Although, if the papers were correct, Madame LaBelle’s last-minute decision to leave Chicago and join a troupe touring the West stemmed from a review in the Tribune that dared to suggest she had grown too old to play a convincing ingenue on stage. Penelope imagined such harsh criticism could make even the most beautiful woman insecure. Her heart stirred. How difficult it must be to have others constantly scrutinizing and picking apart one’s appearance and talent.

“Your appearance is far from ragged, Madame.” Honest admiration colored Penelope’s tone. “You’re the most compelling woman I’ve ever seen.”

Madame LaBelle stopped her perusal of Penelope and blinked, a hint of vulnerability visible in her brown eyes for half a second before her polished poise slipped back into place.

“Well, aren’t you a delightful girl?” A new smile blossomed across the actress’s face, one wide enough to show off her straight, white teeth, but not so wide as to draw lines around her eyes. The expression emphasized the small beauty mark at the bottom edge of her left cheekbone. “How old are you, child?”

“Nineteen, ma’am. I’ll be twenty next month,” Penelope answered, bowing her head in a show of submission.

A servant didn’t volunteer her opinions or converse with her betters like an equal. Madame LaBelle might forgive her forwardness in offering a well-intentioned compliment, but from this point forward, Penelope intended to demonstrate that she knew her place.

Answer directly. Speak only when spoken to. Display deference and decorum at all times.

“When Miss Wyndham recommended you, she assured me you were literate and wrote with a fine hand. Is that an accurate assessment?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Edith leaned forward and pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse. “I brought a sample of her penmanship, Madame.” She held out an essay Penelope had written before she’d left Wyndham to take a position in the Carlisle household. “She graduated with top marks.”

“Excellent.” Madame LaBelle gave a cursory glance to the essay, then handed it back to Edith, obviously not caring about the content, only the appearance of the handwriting. “I’ll need someone to oversee my correspondence in addition to tending to more mundane duties.” She returned her attention to Penelope. “Sometimes I have difficulty falling asleep. I’ll likely ask you to read to me on those occasions. If I were to ask you to fetch me a book of poetry to sooth my restless spirit, which would you select?”

It was a test. Penelope’s pulse reacted instantly. She searched her mind for the poems she had learned in school, trying to guess what a famous actress might prefer. But she knew nothing of Madame LaBelle’s tastes. Before the silence could stretch too long, she mentally clasped the one piece of verse that had always spoken to her heart, a tale of love between ordinary people. A man’s adoration and a woman’s dedication. A love lasting from first blush through old age.

“Tennyson,” Penelope said. “I find his rhythms soothing, and his idyllic scenes conjure peaceful images.”

Madame LaBelle leaned forward, her gaze challenging, expectant. “Such as?”