Page 4 of A Tryst By the Sea
“Will you take your jewels, my lady?”
“I won’t need them.” Had never needed them, though Mama had gushed about the Summerton tiaras for the entire four weeks of Penelope’s engagement. Vergilius had called upon her weekly, bringing gifts—a locket containing a curl of his dark hair and a painted miniature of him, a box of French chocolates, a book of Wordsworth’s verse.
Penelope had shelved the book with the rest of the library’s poetry and left the chocolates for her staff.
“What of your Sunday bonnets, ma’am? Just the one, or should I pack several?”
“I will choose from what’s available at the Hall.” A mere dozen, not to mention sun hats, skimmers, toques… The viscountess’s dressing closet had struck a much younger Penelope as a hall of wonders.
I’ll miss you, Pen.What did that mean? What had the look in Summerton’s eyes signified when he’d said those words? Had he been concerned? When would it occur to him that Penelope had hit the end of her tether for the last time?
She must remain firm now, or the rest of her life would not hold a half-penny’s worth of peace or contentment.
She’d given up on joy, but she could still aspire to freedom. Vergilius would be the aggrieved party, and after a suitable period of fuming and brooding—both of which he’d been quite good at as a younger man—he could get on with his life. Eventually, he’d see that Penelope had done him a final, sincere favor by leaving him.
Silforth went to the window and nudged aside the drapes. “Lady Stanthorpe’s carriage is in the mews, ma’am. You’ll soon be on your way.”
Those words should have filled Penelope with relief, but all she felt as she changed into half boots and took a last look around her apartment, was guilt. She was slinking away under false pretenses, abandoning her marriage, and abandoning a good man, though a man who—after ten years—she hardly knew.
I am just too tired to keep trying.She’d been emotionally exhausted for years, and every so often, such as when Vergilius had looked at her this morning at the breakfast table, she suspected he was as weary as she.
She gathered up her reticule and gloves and made her way to the porte cochere. To her surprise and horror, Summerton waited on the steps in all his lordly glory.
“I will see you off,” he said, smiling slightly. “The least I can do.”
Why, oh, why, must he look so serious and dear in the morning sun? When had he traded the insouciance of youth for the gravitas of the mature man?
Two porters loaded the largest of Penelope’s trunks onto the boot.
“I won’t be far,” she said. “Just down at the Hall.” The lie made her bilious. Vergilius did not deserve to be lied to.
“You’ll be back a fortnight hence?”
Why did he ask? “I hope to be.” Penelope would never be back, and if Lady Stanthorpe’s staff continued on to the Stanthorpe estate in Cornwall, Summerton would have no way of knowing precisely where his prodigal wife bided.
“Will you miss me?” he asked, with a ghost of his old devilment, though the look in his eyes was watchful.
What has become of us?Penelope wanted to ask that question aloud, even as a voice that sounded very like Mama clamored in her head that it wasn’t too late to change her mind.
“I will miss you terribly.” She leavened that truth with a smile of her own and went up on her toes to kiss her spouse farewell. God help her, in some corner of her heart, shewouldmiss him terribly.
Summerton ambushed her, turning what should have been a kiss on the cheek into a lover’s kiss, mouth upon mouth, body to body. Penelope hadn’t kissed her husband in that manner for years, but she kissed him back.
Foolishness. Utter, sentimental, wasted, stupid foolishness, but parting foolishness and therefore forgivable.
“When you return to Town,” Summerton said, stepping away as the last trunk was lashed to the boot, “I’d like to talk to you. I’ve been much preoccupied with voting my seat, the renovations at the Hall, and a few other matters. I see no need for us to do as much entertaining this spring as we usually do and wanted to assay your thoughts about a reduced social schedule.”
And that was just like him. To offer her the first real kiss they’d shared in years and then start maundering on about household matters. How did he do that?
“We’ll talk when I return,” Penelope said, though those hours she’d spent planning dinners, musicales, and at homes had been intended to serve Summerton’s political aspirations and to keep her own blue devils at bay.
The porters ambled off to the mews, and a footman opened the coach door.
Time to go. Time to take the first step toward freedom and away from failure.
“I really will miss you,” Penelope said, the words bringing a lump to her throat. Vergilius was a fine man, he truly was, and in his way, he had tried.
“Then hurry home, my lady.” He handed her up and closed the door after her.
