“Have you read his later work?” Penelope asked. “The Prelude?”
“I have,” the gentleman said eagerly. “Though I confess some of it is quite dense. But the autobiographical elements are fascinating. The way he explores the development of the poetic mind – “
It was only when the gentleman blinked and seemed to recall himself that he took a step back, his face flushing again as he realized they had been conversing like old friends. He bowed quickly, formally.
“My apologies, Miss. Where are my manners? I become so carried away when discussing literature. I am Matthias Hawthorne, Viscount of Lockwood.”
Penelope curtsied, feeling slightly flustered by the sudden formality after their easy conversation. “Lady Penelope Waverly. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lockwood.”
“Lady Penelope,” he echoed, smiling slightly. His smile was warm, genuine. “The pleasure is mine. It is rare to find someone who shares such enthusiasm for poetry.”
Before either of them could say more, a servant appeared at Penelope's elbow, his timing impeccable.
“Pardon me, Lady Penelope, Lord Lockwood,” the servant said with a bow. “Dinner will be served shortly. If you would both make your way to the table?”
Penelope and Lord Lockwood hurried back to the table, and to her surprise – and slight embarrassment – she found that he had been seated directly beside her. She caught Nora's eye across the table and saw her friend's knowing smile.
It seemed that she had observed the whole thing, and for some reason, it made Penelope nervous. But, for once, she wanted to bask in the unexpected camaraderie between them.
For a little while at least.
CHAPTER SIX
As the first course was served, they resumed their conversation about Wordsworth, gradually expanding to discuss other poets and works they had both read.
“Have you read Byron's latest?” Lord Lockwood asked, passing her the bread basket with careful attention. “Don Juan?”
“I have,” Penelope said, accepting a warm roll. “Though I must confess, I found it a bit too melodramatic for my taste. I prefer the quiet contemplation of Wordsworth to Byron's more... theatrical approach. All that Byronic brooding seems rather affected.”
“I quite agree,” Lord Lockwood said earnestly, his eyes lighting up. “Though there is something to be said for passion in poetry. It can be quite moving when done well. When it comes from genuine feeling rather than pose.”
“True,” Penelope conceded, spreading butter on her roll. “Have you read Coleridge? His 'Kubla Khan' reminded me of something I read recently –”
“About justice as a faceless deity who lives among the masses,” Lord Lockwood finished, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Yes! The idea that justice – or any virtue, really – could be anyone, anywhere. It is quite profound. The notion that we all have the capacity for righteousness. It sounds rather like this Athena character everyone has been talking about,”
Penelope found herself tightening her grip on her cutlery in an effort to keep her face passive. She took a sip of wine to steady herself before she spoke up again.
“Oh, you are right. Such a reference could be made between the two... What do you think? Of Athena?”
Lord Lockwood dabbed at the corner of his mouth, his expression thoughtful. “I think Athena must be a very interesting person. Their idea seems quite righteous, do you not think? To warn women of potential heartbreak, to give them the information they need to make informed choices.”
Before Penelope could respond, a voice cut across the table like a knife.
“Righteous?” Cecil said, his tone sharp enough to make several guests turn their heads. “I hardly think interfering in the private affairs of strangers qualifies as righteous.”
Penelope's head snapped up, her eyes locking with Cecil's across the table. He was staring at her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken – though whether from anger or something else, she could not say. His expression was cold, hard. She had seen him look at others this way, but never at her.
“Surely,” Lord Lockwood said mildly, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling across the table, “One could argue that preventing harm is a noble endeavour, Your Grace. If someone has information that could save another from pain –”
“And who is to decide what constitutes harm?” Cecil challenged, his eyes never leaving Penelope's face. “No man or woman has the right to judge another's character so absolutely. More often than not, they are simply damaging the lives of people they barely know, driven by their own inability to mind their own affairs. Perhaps Athena is simply a meddling busybody with too much time and too little sense.”
Penelope felt heat rising in her cheeks. He was insulting her – deliberately, publicly. And she could not defend herself without revealing her secret.
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice tight with barely controlled anger, “Athena is simply trying to protect those who cannot protect themselves. And if their words turn out to be true, then surely, they must be doing something right. The women they warned were grateful, were they not?”
“Or perhaps,” Cecil countered, leaning forward slightly, his hands gripping his wine glass so tightly his knuckles went white,“Athena is a self-righteous hypocrite who enjoys wielding power over others under the guise of virtue. Perhaps they interferee because their own life is so empty and meaningless that they need to insert herself into others' affairs to feel important.”
The words hit like physical blows. Penelope felt her breath catch, felt tears prick at her eyes. Empty. Meaningless. Was that really what he thought of her?
