For your daring, there is a quick fox-smile and a barking laugh. He shouts, "There she rides like an expert. She must be the Black Jack's lady!" His horse lunges in chase, hating to lose any race, and he quickly catches up to you. But you can tell he is holding back. His thoroughbred is quite large, and has outrun hundreds (if you believe the legend, that is) of the king's own men, his best men.
     Shall you run ahead and turn him in? Shall you have your father's men arrest him and cash in on the bounty? Bluebell smells home and runs a better than expected race. The nostrils of both thoroughbreds are flared, taking in the oxygen and converting it to speed...

     Well you may wonder. You have seen the whip-edge of her tongue, you have sensed that she might hold spite. She has savaged you in speech, has she not? Might she not unleash her tongue for your capture, and so gain her own freedom from you?
     It wouldn't be about the money...
     But no. You can see her, scowling at your shout, see her uneven breath. "Go away!" As if saying it again would make you suddenly comply. Would she respect you as much if you did? She gives Bluebell another sharp nudge with her heels, leaning low over the neck of her horse.
     There are lights on at the house. It is well after dark now, and the general's eldest daughter never returned home from her ride. There - is that the general? An older man, thick in the middle and in the chest. No, it is not - but it surely is some visitor of his. The man is accompanied by soldiers, and there is the start to see the two horses charging the courtyard...

     "And give the race to you?" he calls out. "Concede? A Welsh prince? Never!" and silver spurs decorated with Celtic symbols spurs the side of his midnight ride, the thoroughbred stallion racing toward the lights. It's just a friendly race, lads, no need to open fire. Right?
     Right?
     Crafty eyes, keen eyes, and most assuredly green eyes glance from you to the lights ahead. From you to the soldiers ahead. And though his thoroughbred could go faster, he subtly holds him back to race you neck and neck. You are close enough to see the farce for what it is.
     "Lady Carter, you should not nag your gelding," ha! "... he's not a bad runner, even for all his bad behavior!" You seem to prefer creatures of poor behavior....

     Penny bites her lip. Does she reveal the truth? Or ...
     Or nothing. It would be poor repayment for your help, however torturous she finds it, to reveal you for who and what you are. And in the end, she cannot bring herself to do so...
     Even if it would simplify her existence...
     She curbs her gelding, lowering over at you and sliding from the saddle almost before the horse has halted. The older man steps forth, an expression of relief on his features. "Lady Penelope, you gave us all quite a fright! Your father was afraid you'd been captured, or worse." Not Lord General Carter, then. "I, ah, was unaware you were with a suitor."
     "He isn't - that is, I - Lord Davidson, allow me to present to you the Earl of Radnor." Penny's teeth are gritted as she says it, and she straightens with a hearty exhale, reaching up to pick leaves from her hair. She ignores the soldiers, who grin at one another, not bothering to hide their amusement. "I am," she says with exaggerated, ill-feigned patience, "as you can see, not captured or anything of the sort. Is," her tone changes to one of mild trepidation, "is father home, then?"
     Lord Michael Davidson - a general in his own right, and apparently a close confidante of Lord General Carter's - Penny's father must have sent word to the local garrison...

     "Lord Davidson," the Earl of Radnor says, and then he looks to the garrison. A small smile forms. If only they knew. "Good gentlemen," he nods to them as well. "It's a good thing I happened to be hunting nearby. With the roads imperiled and Miss Carter already a victim to the Jack once this year," he glances to her before facing the crowd with all the due noblesse oblige of the upper class, and all the confidence of a winning commander, "I fear these woods are no longer safe at night, not even for a woman of her bravery."
     He glances to Penelope, smiling as he dismounts his black horse whose neck is spotted with white foam from the excitement. He drops the reins and the horse stands in place, taking a moment to catch his breath and nibble on his snaffle bit. I've doomed you to having an escort at night. Well, as it should be. And perhaps it shall be me.
     "I should like to speak with the General a moment, if I might. I fear I shall have to head back to Radnor without being able to make his acquaintance if not." He turns to Miss Carter. "Miss Carter," he extends his hand to you, to lead you within, no doubt. To do you great courtesy of seeing you to the door.
     Like a suitor...
     "I thank you for the race, however unexpected." He smiles. "I shall call again before I take my leave of England," now that's spoken like a suitor.

     Penny glowers, but turns away from you. "I have to see to Bluebell," she snaps, "before I see to any other comforts, your grace - mine or yours." She picks up the reins, leading the gelding past the soldiers more than a little in a snit. The gelding is blowing hard - glad for its home, excited by the race, its bellyful of sweet grass and meadow flowers forgotten in eagerness for the corn of the stable.
     "Here, my lady," one of the soldier interjects hurriedly, "allow me." He takes the reins from Penelope before she can get far - career soldier, that, knowing which side holds the butter. Penny may glower at him all she likes - but it's generals and earls that can put good words in for promotions. Priorities.
     She is quite without excuse again, and you receive a brief, black look. Lord Davidson bites back a smile, evidently familiar with Penny from somewhere. "General Carter is at home, and I am sure that he would be pleased to meet the gentleman whose presence protected his eldest - and most favored - daughter." He offers Penny a genial smile, and she averts her gaze.
     Most favored? That is something others might dispute...
     "Addis, Lowry." Lord Davidson nods to two of the soldiers. "You know where General Carter is. Please see his grace and Lady Penelope to him..."

     The interjecting soldier receives a grateful smile and a slight bow of his head. If this works out, perhaps he shall receive a commendation. His arm offered to you, your hand upon his own, your thief and would-be suitor leads you to the door in follow of two guards who were searching for him just last week.
     "My luck is in full bloom tonight," the Earl of Radnor says, he smiles warmly. "It must be the moon..." Ah, the Welshmen. Always so lyrical...

     "It isn't your luck that is in full bloom," Penny snips out at you, though in a lower voice. She has no choice, and in such matters, she feels trapped. You can feel it; it vibrates, thrums under her skin, conveyed to you through touch. She is trembling, almost as when you danced with her. But she has little choice...
     "Penny?" A set of wide eyes look from over a railing, down at you and she both. Cassie gasps. "You're alive! And -" She spots you next; she lets out a little squeal, eyes going wide, and she turns and vanishes through a door, which bangs. Soon there will be another door banging. Penelope bites her lip, gaze tipping downwards. The soldiers bite their own lips - but for very different reasons.
     And then the study door is opened for you, and you see where Lord General Carter contemplates his strategies. A library, of sorts - the walls are lined with books. Thomas Carter is in his mid or late thirties, his hair cut just long enough to be pulled back. He is slender, built like a whippet, tall and lean and dressed in evening clothes of which the outer coats have been discarded. He rises to his feet, keen grey eyes looking from the soldiers to you - and then to Penny, stopping there. He rises, coming round from behind his desk, walking to you. "Pardon, I pray," he says politely. "I realize we have not been introduced."
     He steps to the side, taking Penelope's shoulders gently, and pulls her into a tight embrace, closing his eyes. Lord General Thomas Carter is not publicly known to be a demonstrative man. However, for the moment, he makes an exception.

     Her hand is freed so that her father may take her into his grasp. In every father's arms, every woman is a little girl. The earl pivots, giving the general his leave and a moment of privacy for both. His green eyes are trained on some part of the floor.
     If she were my daughter, I would do no less. He was probably sick with worry, as I would have been...
     He loves you more than if you were a son, Penelope. Do you not realize this? You are his child. Named for the woman that a man fought his way home to see for twenty years.

     In her father's arms, there is a struggle for a moment. Your ears are sharp enough to hear her gasp, the suppressed sob that almost escapes. You can imagine, perhaps, the fear with which she's struggled until now, now that she is undisputedly safe. Whether it is grief or relief, Penny is unable to fight back on a few further tears, muffled by her father's arms.
     "Shh," the general murmurs. "It's alright. It's alright, Penny. You are strong and brave. Never doubt it." He kisses the top of her head before releasing her, holding her shoulders at a distance now as he looks at her keenly. "Go wash up a bit and then come back," he directs her quietly. "I will speak with your escort. Go on."
     She would argue, ordinarily; but even as convinced of her own lack of appeal as she is, Penny has her vanity. Tears, leaves, scrapes and more tears have her in no fit state to make a poised declaration - for or against you. Penny nods, swallowing hard, casting a jerky glance in your direction. And then she turns - not quite running from the room.
     The general looks to the soldiers, then nods to them. "Return to your posts," he says simply. And then he closes the door, turning to you. "I," he says it carefully, "am Thomas Carter. This is my house; I believe that you have already met my eldest daughter, Penelope. I admit to some curiosity as to how you have made her acquaintance, though as a father, I believe that I owe you a debt of thanks, for escorting her back to us when we suspected her - feared her lost. Might I have the occasion of knowing the name of the man for whom, along with myself, I am about to pour a very large glass of brandy?"

     "I am Rhodri Rhys ap Owain, earl of Radnor," that's in Wales, as his name might also suggest. "General Carter, I am most pleased to meet you. I... must apologize for my appearance. I was out hunting hare when I came across a riderless horse. One... Bluebell..." Yes, that was it. "Ah, I thank you," he murmurs for the promise of brandy.
     "It took me a bit to find your young lady, but I am glad I did. I believe that she, like most of the writers she reads, suffered for her poetry tonight..."

     There is a bit of a smile for the mention of poetry, and Lord Carter turns away, going to the cabinet and taking down two fat-bellied glasses, taking up one fat-bellied bottle. "She must like you or she'd never have admitted to her choice in reading material. Penny thinks of poetry as a sign of weakness, though has never had it occur to her that I willingly keep poetry in my collection." Liquid gurgles in golden tones into the glasses. It grants him a moment of composure, now that panic and relief have both had their moment.
     He turns, glass offered out to you. "Your Grace, I fear that we owe you a debt which we will not be easily able to repay. I value my lands and my horses greatly, but nothing do I value more than my daughters." Thomas smiles faintly, then steps back. "Please, be at ease. Was she thrown?"

     "I do not believe so, though she would never admit it if she had," he seems to already be familiar with her. He accepts the glass with a nod of thanks and a smile, lifting it to smell. He breathes into it and then sips it, as all lovers of fine brandy do.
     "She did take one scratch to the cheek. Though she may have caught that on a limb or switch as she was searching for her beast." He sips at the brandy once more and as he takes a seat, he settles himself.
     "There is one matter about which I should like to speak with you, Lord Carter, if I may. You... might well have heard that I had the pleasure of meeting your daughters at the recent event in the City," yes, the dance after the brush with the Davy. "I had the pleasure of speaking with your Penelope. I find her..." he smiles, "...engaging, challenging, highly intelligent and a worthy competitor in the sport of country dancing. I should... like, sir, to have your permission to court her. I may never convince her of my charm," his mouth twists at that. "She seems resolutely set against it, thinking I shall fold as all the others."
     That amuses him, clearly. "But she and I are similar creatures. We are both stubborn, proud, well read and adventurous, wild things in a very civilized world. I should like her to be my wife."

     Both of the man's eyebrows quirk up at your continued speech. He listens without interrupting, even as he returns to his seat, taking each statement one at a time and then putting them together for their cohesive whole. "So you restore my daughter to me," Thomas says mildly, "in the hopes that I may then freely give what you have found." The corners of his mouth quirk faintly. "A clever gambit, Lord Owain. You will need cleverness, if you're hoping for Penelope's heart as well as her hand."
     He eases himself down into his seat, lifting the brandy to his lips ruminatively. "You are not the first man to speak to me about courtship." Did you know? Did you guess? "I admit that under the circumstances, you do have an advantage; you have already saved her from the heavens alone know what unpleasant fate. I must ask you, though - you say that you are both stubborn. Do you believe yourself stubborn enough? I have," he adds after a moment, smiling faintly, "had much of the raising of Penny. My wife loves her dearly, but Penny is too stubborn for her; she is gentler than that. So I speak with knowledge of her stubbornness. Do you believe that she will look upon your suit with favour?"

     Lord Owain leans in toward the general. "A man more stubborn than a Welshman does not exist." He smiles in such knowledge and lifts the glass to you in toast before settling back. "I was stubborn enough to win a dance from her, despite her vanquishing several others before me, as much I imagine she has done to the eligible young men who have come before me in suit."
     Green eyes lift from the swirling colors in his glass and he smiles. "I think she shall. Though she will never admit it. Were I to be successful, were I to get her installed in Powis Castle as my lady, she would not even admit it to the preacher. Yet... I believe she shall."
     He's not one for not having confidence, that's for certain. He'll need that too. Along with cleverness, fortitude, stubbornness, intelligence...
     "I believe Powis would offer her the intellectual stimulation that other offers may not have. At the very least, she shall be situated in some of the loveliest land on the island and with a man who honestly cares for her as I have since I first danced with her," and when she stood up to me in defense of her sisters though I had a gun in my hand.

     You draw a smile from the lord general, one which creases the corners of his eyes as the edges of his mouth. "She will never admit what she wants unless it is forced from her," Thomas agrees. "You have her measure well, and on short acquaintance, Lord Owain." His smile fades by degrees, and he glances to his glass.
     "There is something that you should know, of the suitors before you. Understand, I tell you this not to arm you unfairly against my daughter, though I am not above crippling her defense in her own long-term good if I feel it warranted - but lest you unintentionally damage her feelings beyond repair, and your own ... circumstance in the bargain."
     The brandy is sipped, savored. Thomas is not concerned about Penny making an overhasty return; she will have to battle not only with tangled hair and a complete change of clothing but also with her sisters' overwhelming curiosity before she can make good her return. "A year ago," he says finally, "Lord Adam Richards - presently holding the rank of captain, by the by - made his suit to my eldest daughter, Penelope. I wish to be precise in this. He was a guest under my roof, and that is how they made acquaintance. He was very admiring of Penny's skill at riding, and of her knowledge of history and battles. He asked her to dance, and it looked very likely that he would ask me for permission to seek her hand."
     Obviously, somewhere there came about a fly in the ointment...
     Lord Carter rises to his feet, allowing his footsteps to retrace their way back to the brandy. He takes up the bottle, refilling his glass and then bringing the bottle to you in offering. "He did seek me out, and he did ask for my consent to press suit - to Helen, not to Penny. He claimed to me that he and Penny had come to an understanding, and that Helen knew of his feelings. I was surprised. Penny'd said nothing of this to me, nor had Helen. I told him that I should give him my reply in a day or so, and I sought the truth of the matter out."
     His smile is faint, but holds nothing now of mirth or relief or pleasure as he refills your glass. "Neither sister knew anything of it. He had indeed been friendly to Helen, but she had taken it for an entirely friendly interest and nothing more. She would not dream of stealing away a suitor from her sister. As for Penny - were she a man, she would have demanded satisfaction, I am sure. I had a devil of a time preventing her from it all the same. And it has soured her, Lord Owain. She is not keen to trust. For her sake, I did not ... pursue Lord Adam. It would do more to damage her reputation than salve her heart. I am a father. In this, I could do little other than ensure that whatever career Captain Richards may cherish dreams of within any military body in which I hold influence shall not come to glittering gold."
     You receive a direct look, one you may recognise. "She must hold you in some esteem, however," Thomas says shrewdly. "She did not tell me that she loathes you before she left."

     "I had gathered that she had met some ...indignity of the kind. She has accused me of such cowardice, which I of course have rebuffed. I am a direct man, and not a coward at any rate, to woo one woman in the true seeking of another. I wish you to know that my suit is a true suit. I have met Helen and Cassandra. Lovely young girls, both. But not the woman I seek for my wife."
     He takes a swallow of the brandy and then holds it in response to your offer to pour. "Thank you," he notes quietly. "I need a woman of strong spirit to match my own. And she does. She challenges me. And," he smiles just short of another sip of brandy, "...though she doesn't loathe me... completely... she is not prone to like me."
     And it delights him. The shine in his eyes betrays him. She is delightful. And he... he is quite besotted. But, still, rather horribly clever. A suitable match.

     "You have my permission to court her. And," Thomas smiles slightly, "speaking as a man as well as a father, I wish you good luck with it, and her. I've no doubt she will make it difficult for you - you might almost do better to win her and then woo her."
     He chuckles, carrying the bottle away again. "Penny is not prone to like anyone except soldiers. She is infatuated with heroics and those who pursue them. I blame myself - not only these dusty old books, but by having her with me on the parade grounds and the barracks. It is no fit place for a young girl." He shrugs self-effacingly, then looks up at the door, suddenly alert. "Here she comes," he remarks, amused. "I wonder if she is listening in to hear us decide her fate?"
     Apparently not, for the door is pulled open and Penelope slips back inside. She is clad in a simple off-white gown that leaves her shoulders and arms mostly bare, and while her hair is devoid of leaves and twigs, there is a certain confusion to it. Part of it is bound back, while the rest is allowed to flow to contrast with the pallor of her gown and her skin. It's as if several people argued about how her hair ought to be done, until she walked out in the middle; and knowing Penny, you can just imagine it.
     "I apologize for the delay, father," Penny says evenly, only a flicker of an eyelash in your direction. "Lord Owain. Helen and Cassandra were both ... very happy to see me, and it took me some time to calm them. I hope I have offered no offense by my absence."
     So even. So controlled. So polite...

     The Earl of Radnor rises as she enters. Had he had a hat he would have removed it with a flourish. Instead, he bows his head and gives her entrance a warm smile of pleased greeting, his brandy held out of the way for it. He remains standing until she has taken a seat.
     He looks at you, there is a smile for how your hair is. He adores it. You have your own fashion. And you have no idea just how beautiful you are. "It looks like I shall be extending my stay." Rhodri's smile slants to a smile.
     Aren't you just thrilled?
     "I am not offended. Your cheek looks better," Rhodri offers, knowing too much as always. "It won't scar afterall. You'll have to give up your dreams of piracy, I fear."

     Thomas's lips twitch faintly at his daughter's hair, but he doesn't comment on it. "My dear. Lord Owain and I were just discussing you. Would you care for a glass of sherry, or shall I call for a tisane?"
     Penny prims up her lips. "Sherry will be fine, thank you." She is maintaining that even tone of voice - even if it kills her. "Extending your stay, Lord Owain? I wouldn't think there's much worth staying around here for. Besides, you did say that you were in the midst of leaving when ... you encountered me." Of course, that was before you decided to press your suit so liberally. She looks between you and her further with suspicious uncertainty. Exhilaration is not visible upon her face...
     Her hand lifts automatically to her cheek. "Yes. Cassie put a plaster on it while I tidied myself up. I'm sure it will be fine, Lord Owain. As I seem to recall saying earlier." Battle being joined so soon?
     Thomas stifles another smile, rising. "I am sure that you both must be quite hungry. I shall go have some food brought in for you both." He sets his brandy down, moving for the doors; you are not the only sly one, for as he reaches them and swings them open, he adds, "By the by, Penny, Lord Owain has sought my permission to court you, and I have given it gladly. I hope that you shall look upon his suit with favour, for though it would pain me to lose a daughter, I can do no less for the man who has saved you not once but twice over." He nods to you and she both with a slight smile, and a shrewd glint to his expression. "I'll return yet." The doors are pulled closed behind him.
     Penelope sits there, shocked for a moment, then whirls on you, teeth bared in a moment's unrestrained savagery. "You - you - you!" She scrabbles to find something which she might throw at you, leaping from her chair. "I loathe you!"

     "You love me?" deliberately mishearing you. Or is he? Rhodri smiles at the rim of the brandy glass and calmly takes a swallow while you rant and rave. "Then why didn't you just say so in the first place?" After the briefest pauses: "You are the Kate to my Petruccio." He pauses. "That was his name wasn't it? In the Taming of the Shrew? Were you father not at hand, or not so good a fellow, I should think you'd need to be over a shoulder, much as in the play. Fascinating, how life imitates art. Or... is it the other way?"
     He sets the brandy down, his hands folding against his silken belly as you search for things to throw at him. He seems largely unconcerned. And for a whole garrison being outside and your formidable hands and temper inside! "You are even more lovely when your cheeks are flushed with rage, your hair both pinned and free. Duw," a soft word of Welsh, "... as I live and breathe, you inspire me to poetry. Now look," he speaks pragmatically, sitting forward, "...and let's save the hurling of items for our next visitation. I know you have been mistreated, you've said as much. And I know you won't trust me until you're able to lift me up and pitch me over your shoulder, but my suit is honest, whatever you think of me. I am just going to say it. And my courtship shall bear the truth of it out."
     "Oh," Rhodri adds on, "... and any jewels I give you shall be purchased," that spoken in a whisper. "Now... go ahead," he grins it now, "...give me your worst, my darling Penelope..."

     "I do not love you! I will never love you! Not in a hundred years; not in five hundred years!" Penny is fond when in the grips of rage, of making sweeping pronouncements that are as dramatic as they are false. Take note. She glowers at you, still looking as if she'd cheerfully throttle you if only she could.
     She turns her back on you abruptly, pulse beating faster. "Why can't you just leave me in peace? What do I have to do to make you go away? I am not your darling. I am not anyone's darling."
     It is so unfair. Barely has she gotten her composure back and already she is losing it again. What is it about you that makes cowardice her operational state?

     "I am patient and persistent. If it is five-hundred years then... so be it. But your father will hate to miss the wedding." He smiles to watch you go off like a roman candle. You are so passionate. One might well wonder what rewards may be in store were one to be able to convert hatred into love like an alchemist...
     "You would have to marry me to make me go away," he chuckles. "Is it not the frequent complaint of wives that their husbands are never around?"
     It is unfair. He is so frustratingly clever. So infuriatingly handsome. So unbearably civil. "I should let you get your rest. It has been a long night for you," he murmurs and he rises, finishing his second glass of brandy. "And I do not wish to have you yawning tomorrow when I send my first greetings to you. Ah, it will be like tennis, yes? I will send you tokens, you will return them to me."

     "I will tell my father that you have left. I will tell me father all sorts of things," Penny threatens. You receive her glowering abuse, and treat it as if it were tokens. You show no sign of the temper you displayed in the forest. She hurls you away as if forever, and you return, again and again.
     What must she do to be rid of you...
     "You may come tomorrow if you wish. I will not see you," Penny declares. She folds her arms over her chest, whirling away with a haughty sniff that sends her hair flouncing against her shoulders in a thick carpet. "I will give your trinkets to the housemaids. You may trifle with their affections, but never with mine! Leave, and good riddance to you!"
     If only Cassandra and Helen were here, they would gasp. You can hear their ghostly cries - But Penny, he's an earl! A real, live earl, Penny!

     "I will come tomorrow and I will see you, as sure as I am seeing you now. In a whirlwind or cyclonic rage, but I will see you," he promises that, meeting your glower with his own determination. "We will go riding. I believe the weather shall be pleasant. You with a chaperone and book. And I will be with you, to continue the Metamorphoses together. I won't even insist that you start it over on my account."
     How generous of him...
     He moves to stand beside you, a great tower of a man. He reaches for your hand, palm up as at the party. "If you choose to give my gifts away, then they shall all know how well I love you. It does nothing to dissuade my suit, Penelope, or cheapen it. For I am your Odysseus, ready to set aside my adventures for your sake. Now, give me your hand, your small hand that is nothing like a man's... and I will bid you goodnight until I may see you in the morning..."

     She wants to snatch her hand away. You can see it in her eyes - that stubbornness, the resistance to the ideas of which you speak. "I will not be riding tomorrow. Nor will I be reading Ovid. Now yet will I be in company with a man who reads poetry," Penny declares. But you are able to take her hand, no matter what she is saying.
     She looks mistrustfully up at you, so small she is next to you. You have given her everything. Her jewels (and what might your father say if he knew). Her freedom (from everything but your courtship). The truth of who you are, what you are. The name with which you were born...
     And, for all that she yells and scorns you - she has not said the words which would in truth send you away...
     "You do not love me," Penny declares, though her voice softens, wavers. She no longer knows what to believe. "You just - wish for the challenge. That's all. ...Good night, Lord Owain. Just ... at least wait until after breakfast? I do not - I cannot deal with my sisters' questions right now."
     It is a concession...
     Will you take it as you take your leave?

     "Certainly, Penelope. I would not wish to disturb your breakfast. As it is, my hunt was cut short and the dinner I was able to provide quite meager. I should no wonder that you tremble a little, out of hunger." Of course.
     He takes your hand, and he lifts it to his mouth even as he bends, placing a delicate kiss upon your skin. I trust you, he mouths. Perhaps that means more than love between such as you two...
     With that, he frees your hand and steps away. A smile is given to you from the door and he opens it, stepping out in his hunting clothes to the hall and from there... out into the night...
     Will you pray that his love is true tonight when you bend your knee to God ere you sleep?
     Or shall you pray for him to be captured and hanged?

     You bow to kiss her hand, and her gaze is cast down to watch. It is as if the world has gone quite mad to-night. Penny is no longer certain what is sanity...
     And what is madness itself...
     The only thing that remains is to discover, should it be madness, is this madness divine? She watches you go, the hand that you've kissed lifting to almost under her chin, curling closed against her collarbone. You retreat, and for a moment, it is as if the two of you are being torn apart, buffeted by vast winds. And then you are gone.
     Penelope does not know which to pray for. For your safety or for truth...
     For her own capture or her release...
     The front doors close, and with their closing comes the solid thump of her father's door banging open. Cassandra and Helen rush in with a squeal apiece. "Penny! Penny! Oh, he's so handsome," Cassie gushes. "Did he kiss you? Did he rescue you from a fate worse than death? O tell us! You must!"
     "Are you alright? You still look - you look half-wandering," Helen adds, giving her elder sister a shrewd once-over. "Penny, don't tell me ... are you in love with him so soon?"
     Her hand drops from her front as if a hundred-stone weight were attached. "Don't be ridiculous!" Penny snaps, glowering at them both. "I was just deciding whether or not to eat before bed. I'm starving, but you two are enough to put even a leopard off its dinner. Cassie, put that back," she adds warningly, seeing her younger sister holding the as-yet unopened black velvet bag which you gave her. She takes three steps forward, snatching it from the youngest's hands. "I've told you not to touch my things! You want to know what happened? Bluebell untied his reins while I was reading, and Lord Owain found him. There. That's all there is to it. Now leave me be, do, I've a horrid headache!"
     The two sisters exchange glances, Cassandra sulkily pouting at losing 'her' treasure. "But you never tell us anything," Cassie whines complainingly. "What are we to do if you won't tell? That surely can't be all, can it?"
     Helen is the model of restraint in comparison. "I think I know what's happened," she murmurs, looking to Penelope. "...Sister, do eat. We'll talk in the morning. Before your gentleman caller comes to visit." She smiles. Penny might not listen at doors - but Helen, apparently, will.
     Cassandra's eyes go round and wide. "Gentleman caller? Oh! Lord Owain is courting you, Penny? Then I suppose I'd best not..." She bites her lip. "Oh, well," she shrugs philosophically. "Do eat something, Penny. But I want to know all about it! Every last detail!"
     Penelope grits her teeth, then closes her eyes. "I promise that I will tell you how things go tomorrow. After he leaves. However, if the two of you do any more prying and sneaking, the only thing that will happen is that I will tell mother that you've offered your services in the gardens for the next month. Do you understand?" For Penny, she is being a model of temper and restraint.
     Both girls squeak. "A month? Well..." Curiosity apparently is a grave motivator indeed. "Alright," Cassie decides, and Helen nods. "But you've got to promise!"
     "I promise. Now do go." Penny watches her sisters depart, then moves out of the room, intercepting the housemaid and taking the tray without a word. She goes up to her own room, opening the windows to peer out from the balcony over at the road, at the line of trees that the road winds through.
     "I don't know whether to curse you or not, Lord Rhys... Black Jack Davy," Penelope whispers. "I don't know whether I wish you were here to hear me or not. I don't know whether I wish I were in the ground or above it. I ... suppose that God had better watch over you tonight... until I do decide. Be well, then - but not too well. I don't think I could stand for this to happen a second time..."

Posted by rowan at August 19, 2005 08:47 PM