Thomas exhaled. “It’s not that. It’s just, Pen…I can’t marry you. I have to marry an heiress, or we’ll lose everything.”
She held his hand tighter. “We could be happy somewhere else. You could sell Ashdown Abbey.”
“There is nothing of worth left to sell, and my father’s debts are so great that if I don’t marry an heiress, I’ll be headed to debtor’s prison before the year’s end.”
Penelope finally released her hold. With regret, he let his hand fall to his side. This would be the last time he touched her. When he came back home, he would be a married man.
“My father cheated you of your dowry and I swear that I will repay you every farthing,” he said, but she was no longer looking at him but at his feet.
“You mean your wife will provide my dowry.”
“Yes.”
“Are you to be married soon?”
“I’m leaving for America tomorrow and I won’t come back until I have a bride.” This time it was Thomas that could not look her in the eye.
And before he knew what she was doing, Penelope pressed her soft pink lips, even softer than he’d expected, to his cheek. “Goodbye, my sweetest Tom.”
Then she opened the door and left the room.
“Goodbye, Pen,” he whispered, placing a hand against his breastbone and the tightness there.
5
Cordelia’s French governess, Madame Raubier, brought her breakfast tray every morning. She would stay with her until luncheon, when Frau Gruber, her German governess, arrived. Frau Gruber spoke in German with Cordelia until dinnertime, when either her mother or Mrs. Rinkhart came to sit with her. At bedtime, the sneering maid, Miss Mabel Davis, would come in and sleep on a cot in the corner of the room. She never spoke to Cordelia or even glanced in her direction. But somehow the maid never fell asleep before she did. For whenever Cordelia sat up in her bed, the maid bolted up in her cot and did not lie down again until Cordelia did.
After another week, a small pianoforte was brought to her room so that she could keep up on her music lessons. Music became the only respite for her soul. She played the keys for hours, sorrowing with Chopin, triumphing with Mozart, and despairing with Beethoven. Stuyvesant loved to hear her play and he had a beautiful baritone voice. Occasionally, she could even convince him to sing while she accompanied him. Cordelia squeezed her eyes closed and pictured him standing beside her at the piano.
But when she opened them, he was not there. She slumped in her seat.
One week turned into two weeks. Two weeks became a month. One month became two months, for a total of three months of confinement. But still no word from Stuyvesant. He should have been back from South America already. Why had he not called? Why had he not broken down the front door and come to save her?
Cordelia felt desperate. Unconsciously she bit her fingernails down to the nubs until they bled. But the pricks of pain in her fingertips were nothing on the ache of her heart. She was drowning in feelings of hopelessness. Powerless against the strong wave of her mother’s will.
Her mother would not relent.
Her father never visited.
The summer ended and Edith was sent back to school.
Cordeliahadto get a letter Stuyvesant. Wherever he was in the world, he would come for her if he knew she needed to be saved. He would place his strong arms around her and she could lay her head against his broad chest. Safe at last.
During Madame Raubier’s lesson on the history of the French Revolution, she carefully tore a blank page out of her book. Cordelia waited two more days before slipping a pen and inkwell into her pocket while Frau Gruber read Goethe. Frau Gruber asked Cordelia to write an essay aboutThe Sorrows of Young Werther.
“I cannot write an essay without a pen.”
“Ich dachte, ich habe einen Stift,” Frau Gruber said, her plump hands on her ample hips.
“Nein,” Cordelia lied. “You didn’t give me a pen.”
Frau Gruber’s eyes looked Cordelia up and down before opening her box and giving her another pen and inkwell. She watched Cordelia write the essay and then carefully counted the papers to ensure that Cordelia had not kept any. Cordelia did not touch the pen or the inkwell in her pocket until Mrs. Rinkhart left and Mabel came into the room. She quickly shoved them both underneath her pillow. Mabel helped Cordelia undress and put on her nightgown. Cordelia lay down on her satin sheets and watched Mabel take care of her clothing before lying down on her cot.
“Mabel.”
“Do you need something, Miss Cordelia?” she asked, a hint of impertinence in her tone.
“I need you to deliver a letter for me.”
