And today, there was cake.
Not one cake – that would have been manageable – but eight small samples in varying flavours, delivered that morning in a neat row by the very proud baker Nora had recommended, who had departed after declaring that he awaited her verdict with the greatest anticipation.
“This one,” Jane said thoughtfully, setting down a small plate and pressing her finger to her lips. “Lemon and blueberry. It has the best crumb of the eight.”
“I thought you preferred the almond?” Nora asked, tilting her head at the second plate from the left.
“I did, until I tried the lemon. I have since revised my opinion.”
“She changes her mind on the almond every third tasting,” Nora told Penelope. “This is the fourth time we have revisited it.”
Penelope smiled and made a small note beside the lemon and blueberry entry on her list. She was seated at the writing desk in the corner, surrounded by the swatches and the catalogues and the notes, and there was a pleasant kind of warmth in the space now. The sight of her two dearest friends helping her plan the beginning of her new life, the afternoon light falling softly through the windows, the smell of cake in the air.
It was all so terribly wonderful. And yet...
She found herself pausing with her pen hovering over the page, looking at the three of them in the room, and feeling a disquieting sensation that was not sorrow, exactly, but a slight ache in her chest. A gentle, bittersweet sort of wishing.
She wished her mother were here.
She could imagine it so clearly: her mother seated on the settee beside Nora, one of the cake plates in her hand, offering a decisive opinion in the manner she had always approached everything – softly, directly, without equivocation. She would have had a view of the flowers. She would have had at least four opinions on the dress. She would have sat with Penelope in the evenings and talked about what was coming, and laughed with her, and perhaps cried with her, in the way that mothers did.
“Penelope.”
She looked up and found that she was being watched by Nora’s perceptive, gentle eyes.
“You look as though you are miles away,” Nora noted quietly.
“I am here,” Penelope replied, and managed a smile that seemed to make her heart ache even more. “I was simply thinking. There is still the matter of the centrepiece arrangement – I have not settled on whether to go with the roses or the peonies, and the florist needs an answer by Friday –”
“That can wait until Friday,” Nora interrupted firmly. “Sit back for a moment. The cake will not decide itself in the next five minutes and neither will the flowers, and you look as though you have not stopped moving since this morning. Take a breath.”
“I will take a breath later. There is still the matter of the seating arrangement, and I have not yet written to Cecil's aunt in Derbyshire –”
“Which Jane and I can help draft,” Nora pointed out, with the particular tone she used when she had made a decision and considered the matter settled. “Penelope. Sit back and rest. Five minutes.”
Penelope did as she had been told, smiling as she recalled that this was a similar type of commanding air that Cecil carried. Nora hardly ever used that tone with her, but it was heartwarming to be on the other side of it, and Penelope found that she was still so excited for them to be sisters.
She looked at the room, letting her gaze fall on the swatches, the notes, the eight small cake plates in their neat row, and felt the stress of it press down on her like a weight she had not noticed she was carrying until she stopped.
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, the door had opened, and Cecil stood in the doorway.
He looked between the three of them, taking in the cake, the swatches, the catalogues, and the general impression of organised chaos like a man who had arrived at a battlefield andwas assessing the terrain. And finally, his gaze found Penelope and stayed there as the corner of his lips rose slightly.
“I was in the neighbourhood,” he announced.
Nora coughed delicately, and Penelope gave her a look, amusement settling on her face.
“He was not in the neighbourhood,” Nora said pleasantly, not looking remotely abashed. “I sent him a note this morning. You needed rescuing and I decided to call in reinforcements. Go on. Jane and I have the remaining items well in hand, and we are both thoroughly familiar with your preferences at this point.”
She gestured toward the door with a small wave, narrowing her eyes at her brother, who also waved from where he stood. Penelope looked at her two friends – Jane, who was already reaching for Penelope's annotated catalogues with an air of quiet competence, and Nora, who was watching her with a confident, fond expression.
“I feel terrible leaving you with all of it,” Penelope sighed as she sat up straighter.
“You ought to,” Nora agreed cheerfully. “But I am the one who sent for my brother, which means I engineered this situation myself, so you have nothing to feel guilty about. Now go, before I change my mind.”
Cecil offered her his arm at the doorway, and she took it, and they went out together into the afternoon air.
His estate was not far – they reached it in less than half an hour, the carriage moving through the afternoon light at an easy pace – and it pleased Penelope greatly to know that she would not be too far from home. She still had not made peace with the fact that she would soon leave Lionel by himself, and her brother was intent on teasing her about it. He took every opportunity presented to him to sigh about how she would soon leave him to his affairs as a bachelor, and when he really wished to bother her, he would wrap his arms around her and wail playfully.
