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“Yes. What a stupid thing to do.”
Daniel rather wished he’d chosen a comedy, particularly when they reached the pile of corpses at the end of the play. But Penelope declared herself quite satisfied with her first visit to the theater. “And one should see Shakespeare,” she concluded. “It’s practically obligatory.”
They made their way through the crowd leaving the theater. Progress was slow, and after a bit, Penelope became aware of someone staring at her. Turning, she discovered the Pratts, neighbors in Lancashire all her life. “Oh,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I know those people. They lived two miles from us.”
“Shall we go and say hello?”
It would be a pleasure to have an acquaintance in London. They started toward the older couple. When it became obvious that they meant to speak, Mrs. Pratt ostentatiously turned her back, pulling her husband along with her. She pushed between two clusters of theatergoers as if a pack of foxhounds was after her.
Penelope went still. In the excitement of her first London outing, she’d forgotten that the Pratts had dropped her when Philip’s crimes became known. Indeed, she’d forgotten the fact of her disgrace for a few happy days. Now humiliation and hurt came flooding back. “She gave me the cut direct,” she murmured, stunned at this public rejection. “Oh, how could I have done this?”
“You haven’t done anything. That woman is obviously a harridan.” Daniel put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm.
“I shouldn’t have allowed you to burden yourself with a disgraced wife.” She felt as if everyone was staring at them, whispering about her brother’s transgressions.
“You really must stop this nonsense.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do. You’ve explained it to me innumerable times. But what you can’t seem to see is that I don’t care a fig.”
“Because you don’t reallyknow. The Pratts ran away as if I was poison.”
He shrugged. “And who are they? Small, petty people. We need have no regard forthem.”
“They were friends of my family.”
“Obviously not, or they would not have behaved so badly.”
Penelope gazed up at him as the crowd thinned around them. “Why do you act this way when people I knew all my life just turned their backs on me?”
“Because I am a sterling person,” he replied with a smile.
A wave of love coursed through Penelope. She wanted to throw her arms around him, to hold her happiness close. She couldn’t do that here, but as soon as they reached Macklin’s again, she would show him just how much she appreciated his attitude.
Seventeen
Still, the incident at the theater cast a pall over their London idyll. While Macklin’s house remained delightful, the world outside seemed less welcoming. They stayed in town another week, then drove back to Frithgerd on a sultry July day with thunder rumbling in the distance. Once again, Daniel’s mother’s notebooks traveled with them in a strongbox, returning to their place in the estate’s safe.
As they pulled up before the front door, Penelope tried to think of it as coming home. On the one hand, she knew the place and its denizens well by this time. On the other, she met them now in a new role—as mistress of the house—and she had wondered if this would cause difficulties. She found no hesitation in their greetings, however. Even the housekeeper seemed pleased to greet her.
Foyle, who had stayed on at Rose Cottage with the dogs and their goat, also seemed content. He had no desire to join the Frithgerd household. He preferred his autonomy, at least for now. Penelope suspected that eventually he and Mrs. Hart might come to an understanding, and she would join him there.
Kitty was another question. She’d stayed at Frithgerd during their absence, and enjoyed the company thoroughly, as she was quick to tell Penelope. Indeed, she was full of chatter about the other servants and the routines of the place. Already, they seemed to have become more important to her than Penelope had been. “Only fancy,” the girl told Penelope. “Cook learned her trade from a Frenchman who worked in the king of France’s kitchens. The one whose head they chopped off!” She clove the air with one hand. “He saw the gee-o-tine come down like an outsized meat cleaver and decided then and there to get out of the country. Well, who wouldn’t?”
Penelope was not yet well acquainted with Frithgerd’s cook. Clearly she was worth knowing better.
“He came over on a fishing boat, not knowing a word of English and only seventeen, and got a lowly place in a pastry shop. And his con-fections were so good he was hired away by a duke. That’s where Mrs. Jensen met him, when she was just a scullery maid.” Kitty’s pointed face was full of animation. “His name was A-tee-enn. She helped him with his English, and he showed her how to make hawt qui-sine.”
Penelope wondered what else they might have taught each other. And then she wondered if Mrs. Jensen could make éclairs. “An interesting story.”
“She told me while I was helping in the kitchen. And, miss, if you please, Mrs. Jensen said she’d teach me.”
“To cook?”
