The Month Of Courtship...

London, 1812

There was something hopeful about the month of February, thought Lady Penelope Worthington, considering the calendar for the first time with a philosophical bent. There was some mysterious quality of February-ness which made the sun brighter, the sky clearer and the spirits higher. January was a month as grey as the slush (the closest to snow London could muster) which blanketed the bleak collection of thirty-one days.  Discontent bred in those short and cold days, with the only warmth being the dimming memories of Christmas past. February, however, held possibilities. It was the month, after all, of courtship.

She was of course not thinking of herself. Good heavens as a widow of eight-and-twenty, with sufficient means and independence, there was precious little that would induce her to throw it all away and marry again. Instead she was thinking of her younger sister, whose current suitor Penelope now smiled at benevolently over her teacup. Mr Nathaniel Barrett would never be a great man, but he had all the potential to be a generous husband. Lucinda seemed quite enchanted with the softly stammering country gentleman, his stable of horses and litter of hounds. Their afternoon tea, in which Penelope was acting as both chaperone and guardian, was progressing smoothly and talk had turned to the respective benefits of April and May. Matrimony, she felt sure, was less than a chaste kiss away.

At precisely the moment she had arranged, and neither a moment too soon nor too late, Blean the butler tapped respectfully on the door. Upon entry into the feminine domain he said exactly what they had practised earlier,

“There’s been a housekeeping emergency, my Lady.”

Penelope set down her teacup with an inward smile of satisfaction. If there had been a real emergency it would have provoked more than this bland and vague instruction from the staid butler. It was, however, the perfect excuse to leave the two young people to their courtship for a moment of pivotal privacy.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She murmured, before offering Mr Barrett an apologetic smile and Lucinda a subtle squeeze on the arm. Exiting the room she left the door ajar as respectability required, but not so wide that it would detract from the courage of a nervous suitor.

As there was no actual emergency Penelope found herself at a loss as to what she should do next. She had left her book behind in the sitting room and though there were plenty in the library she did not wish to stray too far from her sister. She regarded herself as a good judge of character and Mr Barrett seemed to her an honest and uncomplicated young man. Yet it was wise to err on the side of caution where the safety of her sister was concerned. If the engineered seclusion was to morph the earnest Mr Barrett into a lecherous ogre, then she would be close at hand if any monsters needed slaying.

There was no doubt then that she should wait. However Penelope had never been very good at waiting, or patience, or indeed keeping still. Any of her close acquaintances would be able to quote verbatim her favourite maxim: if you want to get somewhere, there’s absolutely no point in getting there slowly. And so it was that she began to pace the entrance hall. Every time she made a full circuit of the marbled floor she would glance at the antique grandmother clock. How long did a ‘moment’ take? She chewed her lip as she considered. Not that she believed herself an expert on matters of courtship and Sir Bartholomew’s proposal had been made nigh on eleven years ago when she had been an even more inexperienced seventeen year old.

The pacing was not helping her to settle. Forcing herself to stand still, Penelope slouched against the banister. In lieu of the pacing her fingers began to drum an impatient beat against the wood.

“You really are the worst fidget Penny.” The familiar amused voice startled her so much that she jolted away from the banister and nearly overbalanced. Alexander the Earl of Woodbridge, or Woodbridge as he was known to the rest of society, handed his hat and stick over to Blean, who had as always managed to silently enter the room without Penelope’s knowledge. If she wasn’t so fond of the old butler, she might have been a bit scared by his propensity to startle her.

“What are you doing here so early?” She questioned, greeting the Earl with the improper familiarity born out of years of friendship.

“It’s past two in the afternoon.” He remarked dryly.

“Precisely.” She said, embellishing the word with a raised eyebrow which made it clear that she knew exactly how his evening activities necessitated not rising until well after noon the next day. His rakish exploits were common fodder for the ton’s inexhaustible appetite for gossip.