Page 42 of His Wild Duchess
“Oh, devils,” George muttered as he waded through the sea of grass and weeds.
Penelope followed his stare to the cottage. The small building was run down and on the brink of collapsing, patches of the roof already caving in. A stream ran behind the cottage, one that came from runoff from a recent rain. The wolfhounds drankfrom it, setting their warm feet in the cool water for a moment or two before running off and disappearing within the grass. Penelope ran her hands over their wispy tops, goosebumps appearing up and down her bare arms.
She watched George ducked through the front door, the entire building creaking the moment he took one step inside. Penelope approached with a deflated heart, stepping onto the raised porch only to hear it moan and bend beneath her weight.
“This won’t do,” she quietly said as she walked within the cottage’s parlor.
George appeared from a bedroom door. “Don’t be so disheartened,” he said, waving her over. “It is quite cozy, when you ignore everything falling apart.”
Penelope laughed, taking slow and cautious steps to enter the bedroom behind him. It was a small room, half the size of the bedroom she lived in now. There was plenty of space for the dogs, and a bed for her to sleep in. A wardrobe painted green sat in the corner, ornate flowers drawn across it in different shades. Penelope waded across the room, dragging her fingertips along the lines and curves.
“What do you see when you imagine your cottage?” George asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Don’t lie,” he quickly said. “Or act like you haven’t been imagining it for years. Go on, tell me.”
Penelope kept her back facing him out of embarrassment. She had thought about it, perhaps for all her life, and that was something he didn’t need to know. “There would be a fireplace,” she whispered. “For the winter months. A kitchen, large enough for me to bake my own breads and collect a season’s harvest.”
“A garden?”
“Oh, yes,” she mused. “A vegetable garden. Chickens, perhaps.”
George appeared at her right, leaning forward as if he tried to see her face. “Of course,” he murmured. “Can’t forget the chickens.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Heavens, no,” he said, straightening up. “I’m only curious. What else?”
Penelope eyed him, but only saw sincerity in his face. Not only that, but she realized that she had never shared these things with another person before. Sure, she’d whisper it in the dogs’ ears, even if she wished for them to nod and talk back, but never before had she revealed it to another person. It was more freeing than she realized it would be.
“I wouldn’t have a need for a study or a drawing room,” she said, “But space for books, and bookcases would be necessary. And a singledesk, with not a piece of embroidery in sight.”
George laughed. “Then what would the desk be for?”
“Writing letters, I suppose. Imagine it being below a window, and if I picked up artistry, I might paint the view from my desk.”
“Ah,” George mused, “Of course, there would be that to consider.”
Penelope glanced over at him. He stood only a few feet away, hands within his pockets as he watched her. There was so much within his face, emotions she couldn’t recognize, that suddenly, she lacked air, and every window within the cottage was tightly shut.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, one hand pressed over her stomach.
“Wait, what’s -”
Penelope curved out the bedroom, no longer hearing him. Going out the back door, she ignored the way the cottage creaked again beneath her, as if it would fall apart at any given moment. Coming out the back door, Penelope left the raised porch, taking a few long strides further into the sea of tall grass. In the distance, she watched the dogs run so fast through the fields that the grass was bent in half at some spots, creating a rambunctious trail through the sea of weeds.
Out from behind her, she heard the sounds of George leaving the cottage, coming up behind her.
“Does the cottage disappoint you that much?”
Penelope couldn’t turn to face him. “Of course not,” she said. “I felt rather like those decaying walls would collapse at any moment. Didn’t you?.”
“I suppose ,” he murmured, giving her an odd look. “I believe a storm is coming.”
Penelope raised her head to the sky. He was right: when she breathed in deeply through her nose, the smell of distant rain came to her. It was nostalgic and comforting, and suddenly, she was eager for it. The skies in the distance began to take on a darker grey, that faded into a heavy blue.
Looking out over the fields, Penelope kept her gaze on the hounds. They rested within the tall grass, Brutus’s head sticking out over the weeds to sniff the air. They both panted, tongue lolling out the sides of their mouths happily.
