Chapter 7
She should’ve taken Alworth’s offer to take his carriage. The problem was that she hadn’t wanted him to know where she lived. It was none of his business, she told herself. She was ashamed of her lodgings, and she didn’t want him to see how and where she lived.
Pen could not afford to move into the Albany, an exclusive address that provided elegant apartments for bachelors at a costly price. Pen still had funds aplenty, but she was economical about spending her money. The new set of clothes, which she’d insisted on paying for herself, had ripped a considerable hole into her savings. Who knew how long it would take her to find Marcus? Who knew how long she’d have to stay in her current lodgings?
She dressed carefully, pulling on dark blue breeches, a silver waistcoat, and a dark blue tailcoat that a customer had ordered but never bought. It fit her to perfection. Even in the dim mirror, she could see that she made a dapper young man. With wet fingers, she flicked her hair back. She struggled with her cravat, trying to imitate Alworth’s movements as he’d tied his. The result was less than stellar, but it’d have to do.
Pen stepped into the street, feeling smart. She felt excitement sizzle through her as she hailed a hackney. How she looked forward to the opera! It would be her first ever opera.
She arrived in Bow Street and admired the Theatre Royal with the four fluted colonnades. Carriages stopped in front of the entrance and magnificently dressed people descended.
She spied Alworth in the foyer, talking to a lady with a purple turban, seemingly unaware of Pen’s presence nearby. The woman pulled a young girl forward, who blushed, and Alworth pulled out one of his charming smiles as he bent over her hand.
For one fraction of a second, Pen wished she was her. How would it be if Alworth were to see her as a woman, bowing over her hand? How would it be if she were the recipient of that charming smile?
Alworth really looked breathtakingly splendid in dark breeches that clung to his thighs, an immaculately tailored coat, and crispy white cravat. He wore a purple waistcoat, which made Pen blink, and apparently a corset that nipped into his waist. His shoulders were broad, possibly because they were padded. His blonde hair was coiffed into careful disorderliness. He was a dandy, through and through, yet there was a wiry toughness underneath it all. A sharp awareness covered by his sleepy smile. The man inside wasn’t at all like the appearance he presented to the world. Pen wondered why.
He turned heads. The ladies tittered behind their fans and threw him languishing glances. Pen felt a stab of annoyance. Silly creatures.
She shifted from one leg to another, not knowing what to do with her hands. Should she approach him? He didn’t seem aware that she was there. Or did he ignore her on purpose? He wasn’t cutting her, was he? Everyone was here with someone else. Couples stepped up the vast staircase to their boxes. Should she go ahead? But then she did not know where Alworth sat, whether he had a box.
She felt foolish alone among the glitter and glamour, the elegance and grandeur. Now the silly girls had noticed her hiding behind the statue and tittered about her, hiding their faces behind fans. Pen had an unreasonable urge to check her hair in the gilded mirrors on the wall. Maybe she had a stain on her coat or a smudge on her cheek… Zounds. Did that tall girl just bat her eyelashes at her?
Pen moved closer to the marble statue, wondering whether she could hide behind it, and prayed Alworth would finish his conversation soon.
After a while, the lady left, and Alworth turned. He nodded at her coolly. Pen stepped up to him, relieved.
“Are you still angry at me? As you see, I made it here unhurt. No one tried to confront and pluck me in the streets. I am sorry I incurred your disapproval this afternoon by turning down your carriage.” She lifted her shoulders. “You’ve already done too much for me. I suppose I simply don’t like to be beholden to anyone.”
Her unexpected frankness must have disarmed him. His aloofness melted. “You are not beholden to me by taking my carriage, child. It was a gesture of goodwill. Of friendship.”
“Is this what we are? Friends?” She searched his face.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t give you loyalty easily, do you, Pen Kumari?”
What on earth did that mean?
Before she could reply, he said, “Shall we go inside? They are about to start.”
She trod after him, confused.
Alworth had indeed a box, from which one had a splendid view not only over the stage but also over the spectators.
Pen forgot their exchange and felt the thrill of excitement rush through her. “Look! How splendid the scenery is on stage. The trees look quite real, don’t they? How odd, they are selling oranges in the pit! Those velvet curtains seem to be quite heavy; don’t you think?”
Alworth observed her with amusement. “Is this your first time at the opera?”
“Yes.” Pen stretched her neck. “Why are those ladies pointing their opera glasses at you?”
“I rather think they are inspecting you, my dashing youth.”
Pen shook her head. “They are most definitely ogling you.” Something occurred to her. “Are you a very sought-after bachelor?”
He barked a laugh. “Heaven help me if I am. But quiet, now.”
For the next several hours, Pen dove into a dreamland of music, magic and beauty. Then her mind wandered to Marcus. She’d always thought her first visit to the opera would be with him. Instead, she was sitting next to someone she didn’t even know a week ago. Pen squinted at Alworth from the side. He had a nice, classical profile, a proud nose and a stubborn chin. Lips that quirked upwards at the corner, either in a self-conscious smirk or a captivating smile. Everything about him was captivating. All the ladies here seemed to think so. Pen shifted in her seat as she remembered the unpleasant pang she felt when they batted their eyelashes at him.
It had almost felt like… jealousy. But no, that was nonsense, of course. Why would she feel jealous of a man she hardly knew? That would imply she cared about him, but she was certain she did not. They were not friends, not really, not even if he suggested they were.
