Page 2 of Uncrowned

“She did, Allen. She must have. Why didn’t I put it together before. You made us look cheap, didn’t you. Desperate. Oh, God, help us, people will talk even more. We’re never going to live those pictures of you down.”

Air blew back my hair as my mother began fanning herself with a booklet resting on my father’s desk. Closer, he stepped, making me squirm in my chair as he walked around the desk, towards me.

“I didn’t do anything that would cause some sort of scandal, Father. I swear, I didn’t.”

“Are you calling your mother a liar, Penelope?”

“… N-No. I only meant⁠—”

Whack!

Blood washed over my tongue, and the sting had tears filling my eyes. I sat straighter, reaching to the heat that began pouring from my cheek.

“I’m deeply sorry for calling you a liar, Mother. Perhaps you’re right. It must have been my fault. I’m an embarrassment. Next time I will not fail to secure a husband. A titled one. I can do it.”

“Says the girl who’s already failed twice.”

More tears. They blurred my parents in my peripheral, and the empty desk before me faded as my mind begged to be anywhere but here—with any man or woman but them.

“I won’t fail next time.”

The soft words were all I could manage. My mother made a sound as if she didn’t believe me. I stayed stiff as they walked deeper into the room behind me. Yes. Next time I’d succeed. I’d marry a corpse if it got me out of their abusive, controlling household. And hadn’t I thought I’d finally get that with Edwin? Sure, I wasn’t attracted to him, but he hadn’t seemed anywhere near as horrible as my parents. He was serious with no sense of humor, but he was soft spoken and seemed to care for my interests. He was paler than I was, but he didn’t look on his death bed. For a little over sixty, he was in good shape. None of that mattered. I failed. I was still here.

Next time…

Wetness raced down my face. I was barely aware enough to reach up and wipe it away.

Time passed.

More whining from my mother.

Building aggravation from my father.

At one point I tensed, expecting the worst. As time passed, I found myself drifting back to the fictional worlds I lived in as they continued to scheme and complain. I stayed in the void of safety where I could escape it all.

Footsteps had me blinking away elaborate gardens full of flowers, only to come face to face with the painting of Rosemoor. It had been ours, so long ago. It was the dream—their dream. Duchess of Rosemoor… Duchess. Not in this lifetime.

“Where did the time go?” My mother’s voice was suddenly right behind me. “Come, Penelope. Let us change before dinner. The Smiths’ will be here in less than an hour. We don’t have much time.”

I stood, swallowing back the questions that wanted to come. I passed my father, keeping my eyes averted. He was watching me. I could feel my skin crawling, especially with my back to him. I didn’t trust his mood. When my father tasted blood, he rarely let it end without making a mark. That slap would not appease the monster inside him. If I wanted to get out unscathed, my best bet was to keep quiet and stay invisible.

“You’ll wear the sapphire dress Patricia dropped off for you yesterday. The shoulders are capped but the square neckline is wide. You’ll wear your hair up to expose your neck. You may wear my pearls.”

Clicking on the steps from my mother’s heels merged with my pulse pounding in my ears. Quickly, I glanced behind me to make sure my father wasn’t near before picking up my pace.

“That’s kind of you, Mother. Is… I mean, will Pauly be coming over with his parents as well?”

The words nearly got trapped in my throat at my old friend’s childhood name. My mother slowed, a smile tugging at her mouth. Hope fought against dread, and my stomach twisted in knots at the manipulation that flashed.

“You know Paul is in France.”

“Oh—” I nearly stumbled as we reached the hall, continuing as she headed to my room.

But she said I could wear the pearls. That usually meant something more, right?

“So, it’ll just be his parents? Is Babette well enough to come this time? Is the chemotherapy helping? Is the cancer gone? Is that why we’re celebrating?”

My mother paused but continued forward. “Slow down, Penelope. No. John always says she’ll attend, but she never does. Babette will be dead before the year is out. John believes she won’t make it another few months. Five, tops.”