Page 41 of Where the Heart Leads
A moment later, Griselda joined her.
“Well.” Like her, Griselda surveyed the figure before the windows. “You’ll certainly pass muster.”
Barnaby turned his head and looked at them, then, with his chin, indicated Penelope. “Let’s see what your magic can make of her.”
Griselda caught Penelope’s eye. She tipped her head toward her bedroom. “Come in here—I’ve got the clothes laid out.”
Turning away from the presence by the window, Penelope meekly followed Griselda into the other room.
It took some time, and not a little hilarity, to transform Penelope into a Covent Garden flowerseller. Griselda firmly shut the bedroom door, giving them some privacy in which to work.
Once she was satisfied with the picture Penelope presented, Griselda had to change her own clothes. “I decided appearing down on my luck will make those who recognize me more likely to talk. Parading around as a successful milliner might get respect, but it isn’t going to garner any sympathy in the East End.”
Seated before Griselda’s dressing table, Penelope used the mirror to adjust the angle of her hat. It was an ancient, dark blue velvet cap that had seen much better days, but with a spray of silk flowers attached to the band it looked exactly like something a flowerseller from the streets around Covent Garden would wear.
Her clothes consisted of a full skirt in cheap, bright blue satin, a once white blouse now a soft shade of gray, and a waisted jacket in black twill with large buttons.
They’d wound ribbon around the earpieces of her spectacles, and rubbed wax on the gold frames to make them look tarnished. A trug, the mark of her trade, had been discussed, but abandoned; she wasn’t interested in selling any wares today.
Eyeing the overall result with satisfaction, Penelope said, “This disguise is wonderful—thank you for your help.”
Tying the cords of an old petticoat at her waist, Griselda glanced at her. She hesitated, then said, “If you want to return the favor, you can relieve my curiosity.”
Penelope swung around on the stool. She spread her hands. “Ask what you will.”
Griselda reached for the skirt she’d chosen. “I’ve heard of the Foundling House, and the children who go there—the education they receive there. By all accounts, you and a handful of other ladies, some your sisters, have arranged all that. You still actively run the place.” She paused, then said, “My question is this: Why do you do it? A lady like you doesn’t need to sully her hands with the likes of that.”
Penelope raised her brows. She didn’t immediately answer; the question was sincere, and deserved a considered—equally sincere—response. Griselda glanced at her face, saw she was thinking, and gave her time.
Eventually, she said, “I’m the daughter of a viscount, now the sister of a very wealthy one. I’ve lived, and still live, a sheltered life of luxury in which all my needs are met without me having to lift a finger. And while I wouldn’t be honest if I claimed that all that was anything other than extremely comfortable, what it’s not is challenging.”
Looking up, she met Griselda’s gaze. “If I just sat back and let my life as a viscount’s daughter unfold in the way that it would were I to surrender the reins, then what satisfaction would I gain from it?” She spread her hands wide. “What would I achieve in my life?”
Letting her hands fall to her lap, she went on, “Being wealthy is nice, but being idle and achieving nothing is not. Not satisfying, not…fulfilling.”
Drawing in a breath, she felt that truth resonate within her. Holding Griselda’s gaze, she concluded, “That’swhy I do what I do. Why ladies like me do what we do. People call it charity, and for the recipients I suppose it is, but it serves an important role for us, too. It gives us what we wouldn’t otherwise have—satisfaction, fulfillment, and a purpose in life.”
After a moment, Griselda nodded. “Thank you. That makes sense.” She smiled. “Younow make sense in a way you didn’t before. I’m very glad Stokes remembered me and asked me to help.”
“Speaking of Stokes…” Penelope held up a finger. They both listened and heard, muffled but distinguishable, the jingling of the bell on the door.
“His timing is excellent.” Griselda shrugged into a loose jacket with a torn pocket, then picked up a shabby bonnet and placed it over her hair. They heard Barnaby’s heavy bootsteps cross to the stairs and go down. Glancing in the mirror past Penelope, Griselda settled the bonnet, then nodded. “I’m done. Let’s join them.”
Griselda descended the stairs first. When she reached for the curtain, Penelope caught her hand and tugged her back. “What about your apprentices? Won’t they think this is all rather odd?”
“Undoubtedly. Odd and more.” Griselda grinned reassuringly. “But they’re good girls and I’ve told them to keep their eyes open but their mouths firmly shut. They’ve got good positions here and they know it—they won’t risk them by talking out of turn.”
Penelope nodded. Releasing Griselda, she drew in a steadying breath; butterflies fluttered as if she were about to step out on a stage.
Griselda led the way. Looking past her, Penelope saw Barnaby and Stokes standing, talking, in the middle of the shop, two dark and dangerous characters incongruously surrounded by feathers and frippery.
The sight tugged her lips into a smile. Griselda stopped by the counter to speak with her apprentices. Stokes and Barnaby were discussing something. Stokes, facing the counter, saw her first—and stopped speaking.
Alerted by the sudden blankness in Stokes’s face, Barnaby swung around.
And saw her—Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, connected by birth and marriage to any number of the senior families in the ton—in a guise that effectively transformed her, spectacles and all, into the most refreshingly fetching, utterly engaging trollop who had ever strolled the Covent Garden walks.
He very nearly closed his eyes and groaned.
