The ever-cheerful, easygoing, and mild-mannered Viscount Danbury lost his temper. And in doing so, Matthew Periwinkle was on the receiving end of one of the most debilitating blows ever thrown. The sound of his fist exploding off Periwinkle’s face was a combination of a loud pop followed by gravelling crunching and then a gurgle or two.
Hugh’s conscience suffered not one bit as he stood over the man who’d had the temerity to enter his own home and threaten both him and his fiancée.
With the assistance of a longstanding manservant, Hugh piled the man onto an old horse cart and headed into town. Of course, the captain of the Seven Mermaids was more than willing to take on an additional deckhand, for a small fee, that was.
Danbury handed a bag of coins over to the haggard-looking seaman, feeling satisfied indeed.
Matthew Periwinkle would not find many who would care to listen to what he had to say in the wilds of America. If he made it that far, that was. Life at sea was not made for the faint of heart, and Hugh suspected that Periwinkle was just that.
Whistling, Hugh jumped back up onto the pony cart and rode back to the estate in the dark.
But what should he do about Penelope? If only she could be so easily dealt with.
* * *
By the end of their journey, Penelope and Rose would be on a first name basis with nearly every innkeeper and his wife in England. Penelope’s condition had forced them to stopthatmany times.
After Penelope had rested for two whole days, the midwife finally gave them her blessing to continue on their journey. The woman was not enthusiastic about it though. And she was very adamant, however, that should Penelope experience any unusual pains or stretching, or if she was unable to keep food down for more than a day, she must stop and rest again.
Rose promised her mistress would follow those instructions.
And so, the longest journey ever made commenced once again.
At first, Penelope thought nothing of it. Yes, she was a bit queasy and dizzy, but she’d felt that way for weeks now. Surely, she was not so delicately formed that she could not travel, in a plush and well-sprung carriage, mind you, for a week or so. But it was the pains, which at first she didn’t even notice, that changed her outlook.
She was carrying two, possibly more, tiny little squalling infants inside of her, and they depended upon her to take good care of them. What good would there be in finding Hugh if she killed her babies in the process? The thought was a horrifying one. Penelope would rather live at the ends of the earth, alone, away from all society, with her healthy and well-formed children than harm a hair on their unborn little heads.
They traveled one or two hours in the morning, stopped for nuncheon and a nap, or even a brief nature walk, and then traveled for two or three hours in the afternoon. If Penelope had any doubts about her and the babies’ health, she and her entourage skipped traveling in the afternoon and she laid about the closest inn, instead.
And she found herself knitting.
She’d never really been all that enthusiastic of a knitter, but with the image of her babies becoming more real every day, she suddenly found herself with a keen desire to create blankets, booties, and sweaters of the most miniature sizes imaginable.
And she met some interesting people as she traveled. She could not use her real name, of course, as it seemed her condition, for some reason she could only guess about, was apparent to many of the women she met up with. The innkeepers took particular care to make sure she was always given a comfortable and peaceful chamber and the maids doted on her anxiously.
Penelope assumed Rose was at the root of the extra consideration she received. She’d known Rose had been frightened for her when they’d had to stop that first time. For all of Rose’s candid lack of submissiveness and bluster, Penelope knew that her childhood friend was caring and sensitive at heart. She was frightened for Penelope’s condition.
And so, they stopped.
And stopped.
And stopped.
But nobody complained. Not Coachman John, not Peter, nor Mokey, and most definitely not Rose.
For they all seemed to realize that there was greater importance to this journey than just a simple holiday. It was as though Penelope’s personal crusade to locate Hugh Chesterton had become all of theirs, as well.
She supposed they all knew the truth.
Well, not the entire truth, but the truth of her condition. And that, surprisingly, was oddly comforting.
It was as though her babies already had protectors.
The journey took nearly twice the time it had when she’d travelled with her mother. It took twenty-four days, to be precise.
By the time they neared Danbury’s estate at the very farthest southwestern part of England, Penelope was feeling rather as though control of matters was slipping away from her.
If Hugh was not here, if he’d bolted again for some other nether regions of this godforsaken kingdom, she would merely have to rent a cottage somewhere and figure out how to make a new life for herself.
