He turned. Penelope had mostly righted her clothes, and her hair was back in place, but she looked utterly wretched. His mother was right; he had no notion of how to behave to a lady. He had let his desire overcome what little sense he had, and he had exposed Penelope to ridicule. Of course one could not treat one’s wife as one might treat one’s mistress. No matter how enticing she was or how much honey she spilled on her fingers.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been more careful.”

She shook her head. “I ought not to have allowed it, I know that very well. I suppose she is right. I am common at heart. I must be.”

“You are uncommon generous. She shouldn’t have said that. I really am sorry-this hasn’t been a good time for her.” Lady Bedlow had never stood up well to strain. When seven-year-old Nev had broken his nose falling out of a tree and, frightened by the amount of blood, had gone crying to his mother, she’d fainted dead away. You couldn’t blame her; she couldn’t help it. It had been Lord Bedlow who had stanched the bleeding and called the doctor, he remembered; and who had told him, not unkindly, that a gentleman didn’t cry, no matter how bad the pain. For a moment he missed his father.

Penelope’s eyes filled with sympathy. Thinking of someone else seemed to ease her discomfort. She smoothed her skirts, straightened, looked competent and reassuring again. Penelope, Nev thought, was naturally responsible. “Of course it hasn’t, poor lady. I promise you, I shan’t regard it in the least. Go on.” She smiled. “And please, tell her anything she wishes to take to the Dower House is hers.”

“You’re too good to me,” Nev said, and meant it.

She looked down and blushed. She was so easy to please. Nev wished his mother at Jericho.

“You can’t talk to Penelope that way, Mama,” he said.

“Oh, I see how it is. Just because she is willing to allow you liberties that any self-respecting young lady would scorn, you’ll take her side against your own mother!”

“If being kissed by her husband is a liberty any self-respecting young lady would scorn, I am glad Penelope is a Cit!”

“At the breakfast table, Nate? Where do you get it from? Your father would never have dreamed of doing such a thing!”

He would never have dreamed of doing such a thing with you, Nev thought. “Penelope has done us all a very great favor, Mama. I wish you could be civil to her.”

“Oh, civil I shall certainly be-I would not dream of stooping to her level with vulgar scenes and catty remarks,” Lady Bedlow said, with a sort of unhealthy agitation. “But you cannot expect me to be grateful that she is lording it over me, in my home, turning my son against me, using my breakfast parlor as if it were a brothel-” Her face was white. Nev looked closer and saw the dark circles under her eyes.

“Come here, Mama,” he said gently, and held out an arm.

She flew to him, with a muffled, “Oh, Nate! It’s been so dreadful-”

He stroked her hair. “I know, Mama. I know you didn’t mean it.” And for the moment he believed it.

Nine

Penelope watched in disbelief as the dowager Lady Bedlow’s servants carted away a sofa, an ormolu clock, a painting of two shepherdesses, a small table, and-well, most of the other furniture Penelope remembered seeing in the parlor. The morning room and the master bedrooms had already been despoiled the night before.

“How much furniture can she fit in the Dower House?” Nev asked, bemused. “I’ve been there, and it’s just not that big.”

Penelope couldn’t help laughing. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything she wishes to take. Were you fond of those things?”

“Not particularly. But we can’t afford to replace any of them, can we?”

“No, but we can’t afford to entertain either, so who’s to know?”

Nev grinned. “It’s clear you’ve never lived in the country. The servants will tell everyone in the neighborhood by tonight.”

Penelope felt a slight pang. She so wanted to make a good impression in the neighborhood. On the other hand, she reminded herself, people would hardly like her more for a show of vulgar wealth. “If those things make her happy, I don’t mind. I’ve never liked Fragonard, anyway.”

“Who?”

Penelope felt another, greater pang. Her mother would have recognized the name. So would Edward. “The man who painted those shepherdesses. I’ve always preferred Boucher.” She realized he wouldn’t recognize that name either, and flushed.

“What are you doing today?” he asked.

“I’m going to visit the laborers.” Penelope tried not to sound as nervous as she felt. “Isn’t the lady of the manor supposed to do that? They always do in books.”

Nev looked uneasy. “I suppose so-who are you taking with you?”

Penelope did not quite like the idea of venturing into those rough cottages. She couldn’t shake the image of the lean, grim men in the fields. She had told herself not to be fanciful, that none of them would dare lay a finger on Lady Bedlow, but at Nev ’s evident concern her fears flooded back. “I thought I might take one of the grooms, to drive the cart.”

“Take Jack.”

She nodded. “Is there anything I should take with me, do you think? Or would that seem like charity and offend people?”

“I don’t know. Shall we send to my mother and ask her?”

Penelope hesitated. In a moment, she knew, she would say yes, because it was the sensible thing to do. But a tiny, foolish part of her did not want Lady Bedlow to know how unequipped Penelope was to be a countess.

“Here, how’s this? We won’t take anything with us this time, but we’ll note what people need and go back in a few days. That is-would you like me to go with you?”

She looked up, unable to keep the relief off her face. “Yes, but not if you have other things to attend to.”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” His slight hesitation told her he hadn’t had any plans at all.

Penelope realized quickly enough that even if she had filled every corner of the cart with food, it would not have made up what these people lacked. The cottages were tiny, ramshackle, and threadbare. A straw pallet, a kettle, and perhaps a table with a chair or two were the usual furnishings; fuel for a fire at which to boil the kettle was a rare luxury.

Some of the laborers seemed embarrassed by their poverty; others sat with an air of grim satisfaction, seeming to say, Look, and see how I live! Penelope did not know what to say or what to ask; she tried not to look too obviously at the privation. Nev seemed able to make polite conversation-to ask about children and histories and employment, and get, sometimes, something more than respectful monosyllables. Penelope tried to at least commit names to memory, but each lean, prematurely weathered face seemed to blend into the next.

One, however, stood out: Aggie Cusher. She was a young woman, even rather pretty, despite straggly blonde hair, a lined face, and a few missing teeth. She wore a bright satin ribbon in her hair, and it looked as out of place in that cottage as a golden saltcellar would have. A skinny blonde girl of eight or nine, in a dress several sizes too small for her, pounded oats at the table; an unhealthy-looking child, perhaps two-and-a-half years old, played in the corner.

“Welcome, my lady, my lord, Mrs. Joe Cusher at your service-that is, I’m Agnes,” the young woman said softly enough, and bobbed a curtsy, but there was an indefinable air of hostility about her.

“What a lovely ribbon,” Penelope offered.

“Thank you.” Agnes almost smiled, glancing at the little girl.

The girl paused in her pounding. “I gave it to her. I earned the money myself.”

“I’m sure your mother is very proud of your hard work.” To Penelope’s surprise, a shadow passed across Agnes’s face at these unexceptionable words.

“I work for Mr. Kedge,” the little girl said.