Chapter Text
Penelope crept quietly towards the felled tree stump, her heart thumping against her rib cage, her blood slick fingers slipping on the dagger in her hand as her ears strained for any sound, the phantom echo of steel against steel echoing in them drowning out almost everything else.
She inched closer and closer, the image of blue eyes staring unseeingly up at her flashing over and over in her mind, the acrid taste of bile still coating her tongue, as she forced herself to peer over the edge of the stump, her blood running cold in her veins at the very sight of what lay in front of her.
‘No,’ she said, her eyes widening in horror as she realised what she was seeing and what she had just agreed to do….
Two months before
Penelope had no last name.
Well, none she could recall anyways. She supposed that many others in her position might have found that particular fact about themselves disheartening, even bleak. They might have let it bother them, but then again, she had never been one for such self-pity. And, quite frankly, she had no time for such things.
Which was why she found it increasingly frustrating and odd that, as she once again walked through the streets of the village, moving towards its town square where she could hear the inviting chatter of many voices, the residents of the village drawn to the weekly marketplace just like herself, that her thoughts were once again drifting to her past. Or, to what she knew of it.
Penelope kicked at a loose stone in the street, venting her annoyance on it as she walked purposely, her boots sloshing through the puddles of rain water and mud brought on by the last of the late winter storms, holding the skirt of her well-worn yellow work dress, trying to avoid the bigger splashes, though she wouldn’t have minded an excuse to scrap the dreadful thing. She hated the colour more than she did perhaps anything else in the world, having been told by many over the years that it did nothing for her complexion and made her look like an ‘overripe citrus fruit’. She knew it did nothing for her, but it wasn’t particularly popular and therefore cheap to purchase and she was nothing if not practical. And who knew, give it a few weeks and if she earned enough coin, she might be able to buy a few new dresses. Well, if she was able to get focused, that was, and stop these infernal thoughts.
There was just something about the village in the Kingdom of Aubrey, in which she had arrived less than a month before, something in the air that drew her mind backwards, though she didn’t know why. It was just an ordinary village, just like the dozens of others she had lived in or visited since she was a child, with the same types of people going about their daily lives. She hadn’t even come across another Foundling like herself, so there was no reason for her to think of her status. A Foundling, the title given to children who were cast out or abandoned by their families, by parents with too many mouths to feed or children who were never wanted in the first place, were becoming less and less common, especially in Kingdom’s as well cared for as this one. It was something Penelope was deeply grateful for, as she wouldn’t wish her beginning on anyone.
She had heard the story of it so many times throughout her childhood that she could probably tell it word for word if the want had ever overcome her, which, in truth, it rarely did. The guards at the Keep, the ancestral home of Lady Agatha Danbury who had been her guardian for the nine years she lived under her care, had told the story every year during her birthday celebrations. They had always celebrated it on the date of her discovery as they would never know her true birth date, and had told her of how they found her alone in the woods that bordered Lady Danbury’s land at just four years old, tiny and dirty and frightened, with too large eyes that had seen too much, elbows and knees wrapped in bandages that had gone black with dirt and old blood, dressed in the tattered remains of what they had thought might have once been a fine yellow dress.
She had been luckier than many others like herself, she knew. She could have been left at one of the overflowing orphanages in one of the nearby villages, been left to fight for scraps to eat and any morsel of affection and warmth she could find until, if she was lucky enough to survive long enough to come of age, she was kicked out to try and find her own way in the world. She was saved from this future when Lady Danbury had taken one look at the pitiful sight she must have made, filthy and starving and almost mute with fear, and, rather than turn her away, had wiped at the tears of her cheeks with an affectionately stern look on her face, and told her, ‘No more of these tears now, young lady. If you are going to be my ward, you will have to be much tougher than this. But I have a feeling you are more than up for the challenge.’
She had winked at her and Penelope had sniffled once, wiping at her wet, hot cheeks with her small hands and nodded up at the formidable Lady who stood above her. It had earned her an approving smile and, though she didn’t know it then, it had sealed her fate.
Penelope, despite the many years since that she had struggled and suffered through, would not give up those years with Lady Agatha Danbury, the only Mother she had ever known, for anything. She had long ago accepted she would never know what had led to her being in those woods all those years before, and she felt no curiosity regarding it. Lady Danbury had taught her to look to the future, to leave the past where it belonged, and she had taken that lesson to heart. The present and the future were so much interesting, after all.
Which was why it was simply driving her to distraction that she could not shake the phantom that seemed to linger in her mind since her arrival or the memories that haunted her like a ghost, just out of reach, no matter how she strained to reach them. She wished only to be rid of their frustrating intrusion to her days. There was just something about Aubrey that just kept tugging at some long forgotten thread, at some echo of…she didn’t know what. It seemed to hang in the air, in the sweet perfume of the blue flowers that grew in the trees in large drooping clusters, the flowers she had never seen growing in any other Kingdom. Perhaps she had once lived there….once visited with her family…
She didn’t know and she simply did not wish to. She had never been able to remember who she had been or where she had come from before she was abandoned, and after a few years of being with Lady Danbury she had stopped trying to, not wanting to ever leave her. Lady Danbury had asked her only once if she had wanted her to enquire after her family, to see if she could find them, and Penelope had refused the offer without even a single thought. She had found the only family she needed and wanted in Lady Danbury, the tough and no-nonsense woman with a quick wit and warm laugh, who loved Penelope unconditionally in her own way, and in the servants and soldiers that were loyal to her. She didn’t need to know the people who would leave their child in the woods to die.
Penelope had often wondered, in the years since she had left the Keep at just thirteen years old, if Lady Danbury had known all along what her son would do to her on her death, if she had known he would banish her from the Keep the day they had put the only Mother she had known into the ground, snarling that he ‘had no room or time for foundling runts that Mother took pity on’. If it was this reason that she had insisted that Penelope was well-educated by tutors, that she was able to read and write, fluent in French, Latin and Greek, accomplished in mathematics and astronomy, and not only needlework and dancing, as many other noble girls she knew, as well as trained in combat and defense as well as any man or son. Whether she had known she would one day need to fend for herself. Penelope didn’t know, and never would now, but she was grateful to her nonetheless. She had taught her to be strong and self-reliant. She had taught her to be a survivor.
It was due to this that, in her twenty-two years on the earth, that Penelope had learnt rather quickly to live lightly and not to hold onto anything too tightly. Not to people, not to her past, and certainly not to any possessions. There was no room for sentimentality if one wanted to survive. It was why, as she entered the narrow man-made lanes between the many stalls erected for the market day, she kept her few, but precious, possessions in the bag slung cross-ways over her shoulder and bouncing against the soft curve of her stomach, always within reach.
Though she carried very little, what she did she protected fiercely. A couple of spare dresses and shifts, gone threadbare and faded with years of use and washing, her coin-purse that she kept hidden deep in the substantial bodice of her gown, as well as her falling apart leather book which was filled to its last page with her handwritten notes and recipes, and with the cherished handwriting of the women she had met on her travels, of those who had taken her in when she was young and homeless, who had become her teachers and had made her into the Healer she now was. They had taught her all they knew, sharing the knowledge that had been passed down from their Mothers, Sisters, Aunts and Grandmothers. She had absorbed all she could, collecting and grinding down herbs and other plants and learning their uses in poultices and tonics, how they could clear coughs and other afflictions of the lungs or ease the pain and swelling from burns and sprains. She had learned to stitch wounds and set bones and how to tell a babe’s position in its Mother’s womb and how to bring that life safely into the world. Those women were the reason she always kept a handful of herbs and dried flower petals and roots carefully preserved in the bottom of her knapsack, always on hand, for she never knew when she would come across someone who begged her to break their loved ones fever, or for help to restore a Mother’s dried milk, or to draw an infection from a wound.
Her final possession, one she kept on her always, was the dagger she kept strapped to her right thigh. Its weight was a comforting reminder that though she might look like an easy target, with her small curvy stature, large blue eyes and bright red hair that always stood out in the crowd and she had always thought would have been better suited to a woman of much more noble status, she was anything but. It had protected her more times she could count while she was travelling the roads. No man expected a woman to be able to best him in hand-to-hand combat after all. The dagger itself was probably worth more than enough to gain Penelope the coin to purchase herself a permanent home, but she refused to even consider ever parting with it. Even at her lowest points, when she had been homeless and begging, her stomach almost collapsing in on itself with hunger and soaked to the point of pain with rain and cold, she had never even thought of selling it. Lady Danbury had gifted it to her on her thirteenth birthday, mere weeks before her death, and it was the most precious possession she had.
Penelope shook her head, determinedly pushing such morose thoughts away, a small smile turning up the edges of her mouth as she acknowledged the warm greetings of the villagers as she passed them, a bubble of laughter rising in her stomach. It was a good day, she thought as she tipped her head back to the warm sun as it beamed down onto her head, soaking it in after weeks of endless rain, spring finally hinting at its long awaited arrival.
It was a good day and she wouldn’t let such musings ruin it, wouldn’t let it ruin the almost giddying memory of her success that morning.
She had been living in the village for just over three weeks and she had finally found a home to board in. The one bedroom home that sat on the side of the village closest to the woods, which suited Penelope as she could forage and collect what she needed for her healing services easily, was owned by two sisters who seemed genuinely kind and welcoming and, after three weeks of sleeping on the damp and moss-ridden floor of an abandoned shack in the woods, the idea of the pallet in front of the roasting fire they offered was her current idea of heaven. The sisters had also offered, when they had learned of her profession, the spare room downstairs, having only been used for storage in recent years, in which to offer her healing services from and for no extra cost. The Miss. Sophie Beckett, a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and green eyes, only a few years older than Penelope herself and the eldest of the two sisters, ran her seamstressing business in the room next to it, and had insisted she use the other room, and said she would enjoy the company during the days, as she often found the days monotonous and lonely. Penelope, who often spent most days when not with patients building up her supplies and making poultices, teas and drying ingredients, and often felt the same loneliness and wish for companionship, found herself looking forward to having someone to spend the hours with also.
Penelope had already earned a reputation for herself in the early days after her arrival, having saved a young man from losing his leg when his car had rolled over him, snapping the bone and sending it straight through the skin. She had come to him in time to stop the bleeding and strap the break so that, if he followed her strict instructions, he would be up and walking around within weeks now. The village had been without a healer or doctor for many moons and the villagers were more than eager to welcome someone with her skill.
She still couldn’t quite believe her good luck, finding both a place to board and a place for patients to come to her when they were able, and she wished to celebrate it. And it was with this in mind that she found herself in the market, looking for something to surprise Sophie, and her sister Posy, a young shy woman who was somehow even more voluptuous than Penelope herself, with for their dinner. She walked through the many stalls offering their wares and foods, the tanalising smell of roasting meats, the yeast of fresh bread, and the pungent smell of different cheeses hanging in the air making her stomach rumble and her mouth water, her breakfast of a stale roll feeling years ago now, having missed her midday meal during her meeting with Sophie and Posy.
Penelope stopped in front of a stall where a burly-looking man with a ruddy face stood with his hands on his hips and a surprisingly pristine apron tied around his waist, a display of steaming pies on the scarred wooden table in front of him. She smiled at him warmly, biting back a grin when she saw his own lip twitch, as if fighting off his own smile.
‘Good Afternoon. Two of your chicken pies, please sir.’
‘Two pieces, Mistress’, he said gruffly, beginning to wrap them in cloth for her for the journey home.
Penelope glanced around surreptitiously and began to reach inside her bodice for her coin purse, when she felt the breath rush from her body, letting out a breathless cry as a body suddenly slammed into her from the side. She clung perilously onto the table in front of her as her boots slid from under her in the thick mud underneath her feet, praying she didn’t take the poor man’s wares down to the ground with her.
As she finally found her feet, she grimaced when she heard the unmistakable splat of the person who had run into her falling into the rather large mud puddle in front of the stall. She cringed, slowly turning to look down at them and…. Oh…Oh bollocks, bollocks, bollocks! Her stomach dropped so quickly she felt sick from it as she took in the man….the bloody Nobleman!...below her, drenched from head to toe in the thick dark mud. He could be mistaken for nothing else, in his fine brown pants and what she was sure used to be a pristine white linen shirt and light blue cloak, the gold coat of arms on it now completely unrecognisable from the layers of dirty and mud soaking it.
Shit, Penelope thought dumbly, watching him anxiously as he leant back on his elbows, trying to rise but only succeeding in making himself slip further into the puddle as other shoppers skirted around him, most keeping their gazes politely averted while others laughed at the sight he made.
Well, so much for her good luck. Penelope could already see herself bent over in the stocks for this, for what she was sure would be considered a severe infraction against the nobleman, even though it wasn’t her fault. The man had run into her! But who would believe her words over his? No-one, that’s who, she thought, her shoulders sagging with defeat as she reluctantly accepted her fate.
The man gaped down at himself, lifting his arms and blinking almost stupidly as the mud dripped from his hands. His face had been mostly spared, except for a few spots here and there, and Penelope found herself, somewhere through the thick fog of shock that kept her pinned in place when really anyone with some type of self-preservation would have paid for her pies and ran as she soon as she’d found her feet, strangely grateful for it as he just might have been the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.
She couldn’t pull her eyes away, staring at the dark hair that curled around his ears and forehead and lit up with different shades of chestnut brown in the sunlight, his eyes a shade of blue that reminded her of a summer sky just before dusk, with cheekbones and a jawline that was so sharp she felt sure if she touched it she would prick her finger, and his lips…
Oh, those lips. So fully and curving up at the edges, as if always ready for a smile. It had been a long, long time since Penelope had been kissed by a man, since she had stolen a brief moment of heat and comfort in the arms of a stranger, one she had never been convinced to take further. But those lips? She was almost certain that they could convince her to do anything they wanted. She could imagine them against her own, could almost feel how soft they would be or perhaps, even better, how hungry, stealing the breath from her so deliciously.
Penelope shook her head, shocked at the direction her thoughts had taken, and even more so by the tempting heat that had stirred to life deep inside her, making her squirm in place. She had never felt such immediate attraction before, especially not towards a man she had not even spoken to. She impatiently batted her thoughts away, and determinedly tried to ignore the familiar itch that had bloomed beneath her skin. She had no time for such things, especially not at that moment.
She stiffened, bracing herself for the man to recover his wits and for his eyes to find her, for the anger to finally come, and for him to scream and rave and berate her for knocking him into the mud. For him to call the Law Man to come and punish her. It was, therefore, more than shocking when rather than yelling as she’d expected, the man threw his head back and laughed at himself, his whole body shaking with it and sending drops of mud flying around them.
She stared at him, her heart jolting in surprise. What on earth?
‘Well that wasn’t well done of me’, he said, his voice deep and warm, shaking his head ruefully at himself before he lifted it, his gaze finally meeting her own.
It was then that the most peculiar thing happened. The Nobleman froze in place, the smile on his face, the one she had just known would be devastatingly beautiful- how could it not be?- sliding away as he positively gaped at her, his mouth hanging open.
Penelope frowned, her eyebrows drawing together as she leant down slightly, the healer inside her assessing him worriedly, concern filling her at the dazed look in his eyes. Could he have hurt himself or hit his head? She hadn’t seen him do so but she had been fighting to stay upright at the time. Perhaps he was concussed? It would certainly explain his odd behaviour.
She tucked a strand of her curly red hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and crouched carefully beside him, ensuring her skirts didn’t fall into the puddle. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, almost snatching it back when she felt a spark tingle her fingertips as she felt the warmth of his skin against her own through the thin material of his skirt. She could almost trick herself into believing that he had felt it too when he let out a trembling breath, his eyes roaming over her face, expression disbelieving, barely blinking, as if he was afraid to look away.
‘Are you okay, sir?’ she asked, her voice crackling under the intensity of his gaze, feeling like he was stripping her bare, as if he was, somehow, seeing all of her, inside and out. She felt her cheeks begin to grow warm and barely resisted the urge to look away, to hide from his all-seeing eyes.
‘I…’ he began, his voice thick and gravely with some unknown emotion, but he didn’t get to finish whatever he was going to say as another voice suddenly called out, making them both jolt in surprise.
They turned as one to look at a soldier standing behind them, wearing a long blue cloak in the same shade of light blue as the nobleman wor, though decidedly more clean, a large sword strapped to his hip. There was an amused light in the soldier’s eyes as he looked down at them, though his face stayed respectfully blank.
‘Sir, it is time to return. Your brother has requested your presence.’
The nobleman cursed under his breath, his expression turning stormy for a long moment before he seemed to push the anger away, and it was quickly replaced by reluctant acceptance. With a heavy sigh, he turned back and looked up into her face, giving a small crooked smile that had her heart skipping a beat in her chest and her cheeks growing warm.
‘Sorry for the trouble, Miss…?’
Penelope swallowed hard, suddenly unable to find her voice, overcome by the gentleness warming his and the unmistakable interest in his eyes, and she quickly nodded her head in acknowledgement of his apology. She rose to her feet and forced herself to turn her back to him and the frustrating temptation his very presence promised her. The almost unignorable urge to turn back, to continue to speak to him, was one she had never felt before in her life, and she found it utterly unnerving and terrifying.
She needed to get away. She needed to get far away from this man now.
She fished her coin-purse from out of her bodice, not hearing the nobleman, who was pulling himself from the suckling mud with the help of his guard, let out a curse at the sight, over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She paid the vendor, who had been watching the scene with interest and took the wrapped pies and almost ran from the markets and back in the direction of her new home at the edge of the village.
‘You have no time for this, Penelope. You don’t need any distractions’, she muttered to herself over and over as she walked, letting out a relieved breath when she escaped the suddenly stifling confines of the markets and onto the much quieter streets.
Annoyance furrowed her brow when she felt a stab of sadness and regret creep inside her as she glanced over her shoulder and found the space empty, some part of having been hopeful that he just might follow her.
This was ridiculous. She was here to work and to save money for when she inevitably had to leave and find somewhere new, when a new doctor inevitably arrived. She had no time for romance or entanglements, especially not with a man who was of clearly high means and station. Even if his eyes had made her feel seen for the first time in years and his smile made her knees weak.
Penelope shook her head again at herself as she finally reached Sophie’s house and pulled on the doorknob, stepping into its wonderfully cool interior.
No, she would just have to forget about him. It was simply not meant to be. He was a nobleman and she was a commoner, a simple healer. He was probably just passing through anyways and she would never see him again.
Penelope only wished she didn’t feel disappointed at the very thought.