Page 43 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“How could he have been waiting for me?” Penelope asked, a little baffled. “I was always here.”
“I mean waiting for you to get back seeking a spouse,” Martha clarified. “Perhaps he had realized that it was time for him to stop aggravating you and that you might be taken soon.”
Her lady’s maid’s words did not comfort her much. In fact, they sort of perturbed her. Was Stephen doing all this to make sure she did not marry anyone else? Or, was it something else? Could it be that he was seeking a marriage of convenience? Lord Hillbrook had not been business minded on the drive at all. He had shown interest in what she spoke about and was understanding with her worrying about Edward. He did not act like a man who was only out to get a wife.
Then again, she was not exactly experienced in the way men went about courting women. She could have easily been fooled by his looks and kind acts and the pendant. She struggled with that thought and decided to take the better road. Perhaps, Lord Hillbrook did really care for her and was not the irritating person she had known. Perhaps she could be a bit kinder.
Perhaps he is really a good man under it all…he did tell me about his father and that could have been a bit hard.
Thinking of Hillbrook’s confession, she then remembered another admission—that of Mr. Moore. Mr. Moore’s confession had been a lot more soulful and had traces of heartbreak that easily outran Hillbrook’s. If she were to hold a contest, that was.
But then—Mr. Moore’s words—no one can know another’s pain, but it is pain all the same—came back to her and she felt a bit ashamed. Who was she to judge? Sitting there she decided she had to speak with Mr. Moore. She did not speak a word to Martha about it though and only said, “Let’s get prepared for dinner.”
After a warm bath and a change of clothes, Penelope rose from where Martha was finished fixing her hair. “I’m going to visit Bessie. I’ll be back soon.”
She left the room and walked to the stables, hoping that Mr. Moore was there too. There was the sound of footsteps inside and she entered to see the very man she was wanting to meet. Mr. Moore was in Duke’s stall, brushing down the animal’s dark coat. She stood there and did not say a word, knowing that he knew she knew there.
“Good evening, My Lady,” he eventually said. “May I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me why you want to personally usher Lord Hillbrook into Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell?”
She had uttered it without thinking and had expected her reference to go over his head. Just as she was about to clarify, he stunned her.
“Why would I think him treacherous?” Mr. Moore replied before he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.
He knows aboutThe Divine Comedy! God Almighty! He knows it!
“Lord Masseur had an extensive collection of books in his library and gave me permission to read any I wished,” Mr. Moore clarified with a soft ruddy blush against his cheeks.
She stepped closer, “But you still don’t like him.”
His eyes dipped to her chest where the ivory elephant pendant had rested, and seeing the empty place, his eyes darted away and back up. His jaw had gone stiff for a moment then softened. “I…”
“You don’t have to be overly polite, Mr. Moore,” she added.
He dropped the brush and sighed so deeply his whole body sagged, “I don’t like him, but that is mostly my problem.”
“No,” she replied, “it is his too. I remember how he looked at you that night. He might have been lobbing swords and daggers at you if he had them.”
Mr. Moore was then fingering the brush. “My Lady, I do not think it is proper.”
Bravely, Penelope stepped closer and rested her hand over the brush and pressed it away, “Not proper to be angry?”
He looked a bit bemused, “Not proper to speak what is truly on my mind.”
“Why?” She edged closer and closer to see the emerald green of his eyes dim to verdant. “Why?”
A wary look flashed in his eyes, and he stepped away from her. That very move carved a deep pit of emptiness in her stomach that she did not understand. His eyes closed off and his shoulders went stiff.
There was no way she could break through his iron-clad barrier and feeling bereft stepped away. A riot of emotions was raging war in her chest and knowing that she would not get anything more from him, pained her. Where was the connection they had made? She knew they had made one, so where was it?
“I thought…” she hesitated, “I thought we were…” Friends enough to speak our minds…but I suppose I was wrong.
Swallowing she shook her head and laughed. “I was wrong I suppose. Good day, Mr. Moore. I am sorry for bothering you.”
Walking away, she stopped at the door to look toward the paddock and then sighed heavily. Looking over her shoulder she saw Mr. Moore standing there with a death grip on the brush, nostrils flared and deep furrow in his brow, a tightly-knit pained, furrow. Silently, she walked off.
Chapter 17
