Penelope Wilkinson was, by all accounts, an old maid. Oh, she was not nearing the end of her life, and it would be seven years, at least, before the ability to conceive a child was something she would lose. Still, at thirty and five, the good citizens of Kent figured her a lost cause; and when one is figured for such, one comes to believe it's true.
Surrendering herself to this social status, Penelope often spent time in the company of her widowed mother and frail grandmother. She busied herself with long books and embroidering, and sought employment as a governess or tutor.
Her search for employment seemed in vain, until one June morning. Penelope had been reading in the drawing room, when her mother entered with an envelope in hand.
"It's addressed to you, Penny. It's come from Devonshire."
Penelope's brow furrowed. She knew no one personally from Devonshire, and figured the envelope's contents to be for someone else. Nonetheless, it was addressed to her, and so she took the envelope from her mother.
"What is it?" Ms. Wilkinson asked.
Shrugging, Penelope tore the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper, which she read to herself. Her mother was startled when Penelope was unable to suppress a loud gasp.
"Mama, it's happened!" Penelope said.
"What's happened, dear?"
Clearing her throat, Penelope read the letter out loud:
Dear Miss Wilkinson,
I do fear that you won't recall me. We spoke briefly at a picnic held on the estate of your former employer's. At the time, your young charge was growing and would soon enter society, which you had told me would leave you unemployed. A year has passed, and I hear that Anne Davies is well into her first season, and that you're no longer her governess. I also have heard that you've become secluded and reside in the home of your mother.
Mind that the offer I'm about to make is one solely of desperation, and not pity. Being the older woman I am, I've retired to Devonshire and have become the aquaintance of a Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter, Margaret. It was when we were having tea, that Mrs. Dashwood spoke of Margret's education. She spoke of how the child's always excelled in French and Geography, but pays no mind to History and Music.
Reaching the depths of my memory, I recalled how well you were at playing the harpsichord on the day that we met, and how Anne Davies always spoke of how you taught her about the Naploenic Wars and the Renaissance. I know it's always wrong to assume, but I figured Margret's weaknesses to be your strengths. Mentioning your name to Mrs. Dashwood, she insisted that I write to you and that you come to Devonshire for a proper introduction and consideration for employment.
As I've written, this offer is solely due to desperation. Margaret is a good child, but one who will soon be entering society as a young woman. As I'm sure you know, a proper education always carries with the benefits of a good match.
I look forward to your arrival in Devonshire, my dear Miss Wilkinson.
With Fondest Wishes,
Abigail Pentgood
"The widowed Pentgood? Oh Penelope, you must have more sense than to accept an offer from her? Why, I hear the day of her husband's death, she was seen on the arm of an officer in His Majesty's navy."
Penelope sighed. "Mama, look at where we live. I loved Papa, and will always be grateful for the support he gave, mentally and financially. He's been dead for five years, Mama, and this house is cramped and small. I'm not saying that I would love us to own a fine estate, but the idea of us owning a larger house, with money to spare on necessities and the proper care for Grandmama."
Ms. Wilkinson said nothing for awhile, appearing deep in thought. Eventually, she gave a relentless sigh and nodded her head.
"You should pack for your trip. Devonshire is a long way from here."
Kissing her mother's cheek, Penelope rushed upstairs to pack her belongings; eager to meet Ms. Dashwood for the interview.