Page 2 of Scales and Sensibility
It wasn’t enough.
“After everything I’ve been through…” Penelope’s voice thickened with oncoming tears; her blue eyes glistened. “After all the trials I’ve been forced to put up with…”
The tears were real, Elinor knew. That was the worst part of life with her cousin. Penelope sincerely believed that she was oppressed by terrible injustice at every turn.
“Losing the best seamstress in Kent, just before I could come out in Society—”
“Mrs. Hunt was terribly irresponsible, dear, we understand.” Lady Hathergill’s voice had flattened with what Elinor hoped was a lack of conviction, but it might just as easily have been mere exhaustion. “She should certainly have waited until after your début to give up her business.”
“Penelope, you must remember that her leg was badly broken,” said Elinor. “The physician did tell her she needed rest.”
“She could still use her hands perfectly well!” Penelope glared at Elinor. “No, that was only an excuse. The truth is, she simply didn’t care about my début. She didn’t even care that I would have to appear at my very first ball looking like an ugly, fashion-blind country bumpkin!”
“Now, dear…” Lady Hathergill was already sinking inexorably back into her chair. It certainly wasn’t the first time that everyone in Hathergill Hall had heard the full litany of Penelope’s misfortunes.
“And that wasn’t even the worst of it.” Tears were streaming down Penelope’s pink cheeks now, making her look like an angry china shepherdess. “First Papa wouldn’t let me début in London…”
…Until September, Elinor finished silently. She wasn’t rash enough to remind Penelope out loud that her tragically denied London visit had only been postponed until the Little Season officially began in one month’s time…or that her début ball at Hathergill Hall next week was designed to be the largest, most impressive, and by far the most expensive event ever to be hosted in the county.
...Or, for that matter, that Elinor’s own social début, planned for her eighteenth birthday twelve months ago, would never happen at all.
“Then Mrs. De Lacey blatantly snubbed us, despite all of Mama’s promises…”
Lady Hathergill’s eyes fluttered shut, avoiding confrontation as usual. It was up to Elinor to draw a deep breath and say, as calmly and as reasonably as she could, “The only reason Mrs. De Lacey had to cancel her visit was that she had a putrid sore throat. That could hardly be deemed an insult to anyone, surely.”
“A putrid sore throat? In August? Who takes ill in August? No, she obviously invented it as an excuse not to come. And it’s all Mama’s fault for arguing with her all those years ago, Papa said so.” Penelope whirled to face her somnolent mother accusingly. “How could you have been so stupid as to offend her? Didn’t you even think of how important she was to become?”
The real question, as far as Elinor was concerned, was: how had Lady Hathergill ever managed to argue with anybody? From the moment Elinor had first entered Hathergill Hall six months ago, she had never once seen her aunt contradict either her daughter or her husband, no matter how unreasonable either of them became. It was as if she had given up on even possessing any real opinions of her own.
It was utterly maddening—especially when compared to Elinor’s own mother, Lady Hathergill’s younger sister, whose fierce, protective fire still burned like a beacon in Elinor’s memory.
But Penelope was still ranting. “What is the use of Mama having an old friend at the pinnacle of London fashion if she won’t even attend my début ball?”
Elinor gritted her teeth. “I’m sure you’ll meet Mrs. De Lacey in September, and”—be humble, be submissive—“you may impress her then.”
After all, Mrs. De Lacey was in the gossip columns of the national newspapers nearly every week with some witty new saying, radical house redesign, or astonishing new purchase that had set all thetonalight. The balls and soirées that she hostessed were discussed all across the length and breadth of Britain, and her husband’s early death had left her one of the wealthiest widows in the country. Even her invention of a scandalous new private club for women, which had been preached against in outraged pulpits across the nation, had only led to even more public invitations from the smitten royal family.
In other words, Mrs. De Lacey never let anything or anyone stop her from doing what she wanted. That meant that she and Elinor couldn’t have been more different—so why should they agree on Penelope?
“And then Papa fobbed me off with this worthless excuse for anon-functioning dragon!” Penelope pointed at Sir Jessamyn with a trembling finger. His glittering green ears flattened in panic against his head. His tail tightened around Elinor’s ankles until she teetered on her feet and had to hold out her arms to keep her balance.
“Penelope, please,” she said, “if you could just try to be a little more patient with him—”
“You’re doing it again!” Penelope stared at her. “Listen to her, Mama! She really is pretending that it’s all my fault!”
“I only meant—” Elinor began.
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Penelope choked on a sob. “How could you, Elinor?”
Elinor stared at her cousin open-mouthed. She couldn’t even think of a response.
“Iallowed Mama and Papa to take you in, despite all the horrid inconvenience. I allowed one of my maids to do your hair! I even told my friends it wasn’t kind to mock you for being so grim and sour-faced all the time. I told them you couldn’t help being plain and tedious. And Mama promised me—she promised!—that you would give me so much help with my début that it would all be worth it in the end.”
Elinor swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. There was a distant ringing in her ears, like the whistle of a steam engine charging towards her, something loud and angry and dangerous that she had never, ever given into before.
Penelope didn’t seem to hear it.
“I even let you be fitted for new gowns frommyseamstress! Mama asked if I would mind it too terribly, but I said no, because I was tired of you looking like a crow all the time in all those terrible black gowns.”
