Why had she agreed to allow Thaddeus to return to Pensteague on his own?
Not that she could outright forbid him, even if she wanted. Thaddeus’s smile sheathed razor-sharp resolve, much like his father.
In Chev, she hadn’t grasped the essential nature of his need to take charge and to protect. In fact, she hadn’t truly understood Chev until she mothered his son.
Through Thaddeus, she’d come to understand Cheverley in many ways. She pressed her forehead against the glass. Now, however, it was too late to make use of what she’d learned. And what she understood did not make Cheverley’s loss—or the hubris he’d displayed—any easier to bear.
Thaddeus had been thrilled when he discovered one of Cheverley’s first bows. He’d asked if Chev could shoot through twelve axes—a legend Chev himself loved to perpetuate.
“Not through the axes. Through holes in the axe handles.” She told Thaddeus the truth, hoping the truth would sift through the heart of Thaddeus’s romantic ideals. “Skill isn’t magic. Your father spent years testing his strength against different combinations of arrow weight and bow stiffness until he could shoot through all twelve handles.”
Men were impressed with Chev’s “magical” strength.
She’d been awed by his inventive planning.
She meant to encourage the latter in her son.
Somuch like his father, that boy. Soon, Thaddeus would transform excited dreams into ingenious remedies. And, if she weren’t careful, then, like Chev, he’d be gone.
But could anyone separate the engineer from the wanderer, the adventurer? Were they simply different sides to curiosity’s coin?
Behind her, Mrs. Rentontsked.“Come away from the window, my lady. You aren’t yet properly dressed.”
As if anyone looking up from the courtyard below could tell her shift and stays were all she wore beneath her dressing gown.
“Of course,” she said, moving into the room and preparing to be dressed. “I was just watching for Thaddeus.”
“I wouldn’t worry, my lady. He’s likely occupied with the new sailor who’s arrived at Pensteague.”
“A new sailor?” She frowned. She preferred to question any new arrivals before they saw Thaddeus.
“When Emmaus stopped by the kitchens today, he told me a captain arrived yesterday evening. Master Thaddeus is likely peppering the man with questions about life at sea.”
“No doubt.” If Cheverley were a subject at Cambridge, Thaddeus would take a first.
Thaddeus requested stories from the men Cheverley had led, the men Cheverley had called friend...anyone, really. In the absence of direct information, he collected other details. In his mind, he pieced them all together like precious puzzle parts, creating a phantom father.
“Not to worry.” Carefully, Mrs. Renton laid Penelope’s dress out on the bed. “The captain did not claim to have known his lordship.”
Penelope set aside the pang of disappointment.
“And,” Mrs. Renton continued, “I doubt he’d be a harm to anyone, what with him missing his arm.’”
“Poor man,” Penelope replied. The last sailor in a similar circumstance stayed only a few weeks before deciding London’s gaming hells were a more interesting use of his time. She prayed for true healing this time.
Mrs. Renton picked up the dress. “Ready?”
She nodded, lifting her hands.
The heavy velvet buffeted as the fabric slid down over her torso and tumbled to the floor. Mrs. Renton fastened hooks, and the bodice cinched over her breasts. Penelope held still as Mrs. Renton then began stitching the navy-inspired braid Penelope had woven over the hooks.
“Such a wonderful idea.” Mrs. Renton mumbled over pins, which disappeared into the seam one by one. “I never would have thought the duchess’s court clothing would have enough fabric in the skirt alone to make you such a beautiful dress.”
“Thank heaven for the panniers popular in the duchess’s time,” Penelope said.
“And for the new, slimmer style.”
After Mrs. Renton finished stitching, she stepped back and gasped.
