.
In which Percy pays a compliment
(October, 1814)
.
Lady Avery's cousin in Somersetshire had a fifteen year-old daughter.
And during Lady Avery's visit, said daughter — Miss Martha Macnair — seemed to have made quite an impression on young Miss Avery, who had not seen her cousin for some time.
And though Penelope had never met Martha in her life, Penelope was certain she'd like to wring her neck.
Because in a mere week Martha had managed to model and encourage a haughty attitude in Constance, whilst at the same time convincing Constance that her accomplishments were lacking in every way and she was going to wind up a spinster by age nineteen.
Martha was, apparently, perfect, inspiring both awe and resentment in her younger cousin, who'd now taken to quarrelling with Penelope over the proper way to do everything — 'according to Martha!' — and then comparing her own progress with Martha at every opportunity.
And she wasn't the only one. Lady Avery had returned from that trip in a veritable panic over Constance's piano skills — 'outstripped by Martha!' — and had demanded that Penelope double her practice time.
This was really unnecessary, as Constance was perfectly capable of feeling like an abject failure within the normally allotted time.
On this particular day, Penelope sat off to the side — quietly, so as not to interfere with Constance's focus — as Constance grew more careless in her playing with every new mistake and agitated huff.
After stumbling yet again, Constance abruptly stopped her playing, took hold of the sheet music, and threw it across the top of the piano.
Or she tried to throw it, anyway; instead, the loose sheets caught the air and fluttered in a mess all around her, making this display much less impressive than she'd intended.
Penelope wondered whether Martha wasn't a little spoilt as well — because Constance, whilst recalcitrant, had never behaved like this under Penelope's supervision.
"I'm never going to be as good as Martha!" complained Constance.
Penelope let out a tiny sigh through her nose and resisted the impulse to retrieve the music from the floor herself.
It had, at least, been a full hour without a reference to Martha — the longest Constance had gone so far.
Martha, Martha, Martha.
"Let us not compare ourselves to Martha, hmm? Besides, she is two years older than you and has had more time to practise."
"She said I ought to be more accomplished by now and that her governess Katie must be better than you at teaching." Then Constance paused under Penelope's mild gaze, before offering, "I told her that you're prettier than Katie, though."
It took all of Penelope's effort not to betray any amusement.
"What an unkind thing to say about… Miss Macnair's governess. I'm not sure we ought to be calling her by her Christian name, you know; it's very familiar."
"Martha does."
"Well, Miss Macnair is familiar with her, after all. I'm sure her governess has been with her for many years."
"When may I call you by your Christian name?"
Penelope contemplated her folded hands. She hadn't stopped to think about it before. She'd heard of some governesses allowing this but had never done it with her own (quite a severe woman).
"It doesn't seem fair that Martha should address her governess so, whilst I may not," insisted Constance, interrupting Penelope's thoughts. "Like she's a friend."
"Well, as I've said, Miss Macnair must be very familiar with her governess. That is not so uncommon, I believe. After so many years."
Constance idly pressed the top C key a few times.
"Martha is older than I am, I suppose," she allowed.
"That's true as well."
Then Constance recalled a very important bit of information. "Did you know, Martha will be coming out this very next season! In London!"
"I did not know that." Penelope wished to never know another thing about Martha in her life. But then sheer, morbid curiosity had her asking, "But is she not still fifteen?"
"Yes, but she'll be sixteen in the spring."
"So young," Penelope said with quiet dismay.
"I wonder if Mother might bring me out when I am sixteen."
A little pang worked its way into Penelope's heart as she looked into Constance's bright blue eyes.
But she merely asked, with a spirit of equanimity, "Would you want that?"
"Oh, yes! Perhaps… perhaps I won't want to be married when I'm sixteen. But seventeen, surely!"
Penelope's eyebrows drew together in concern, but then they lifted in unconcealed glee when Constance asked, almost on afterthought: "How old are you?"
"That is not something you ask a person, I'm sure you know."
"I only wanted to…" Constance coloured and looked down.
"Wanted to what?"
Constance fidgeted, struggling with a distressing thought.
"I am nearly five and twenty," offered Penelope.
Constance looked up in relief. "So you are too old to get married!"
"Yes," said Penelope with a wry smile. "I am too old to be married."
"Good, because Martha told me that if you were really young and nice-looking you would leave me to get married, and probably to someone like Father's steward."
Penelope had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle an inappropriate burst of laughter.
"I assure you, I will not be leaving you to marry Mr Clay." She stood, smoothing the skirts of her wool dress. "Now, if you please, let's talk no more about Miss Macnair's suppositions. Miss Macnair may have opinions about governesses when she has children of her own. For now, if you'd like to be married in four years, then I suggest you continue to practise at your piano."
"Oh."
Constance slid off the piano bench and began gathering up the scattered sheet music, handing it over to Penelope a few pages at a time so that Penelope could put it back in the proper order.
Suddenly Constance, who had been reaching underneath the piano for the last few sheets, sat up so abruptly that she almost hit her head on the underside of the instrument.
"Why do gentlemen care if a lady can play?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why does it matter that a lady can play? Or draw."
"They want to marry accomplished young ladies. And they enjoy lovely music and art."
"But I don't know any married ladies who play or draw. Mother knows how to play but she never does, not anymore. Nor does my Aunt Avery. So what has playing the piano to do with being married?"
It both pleased and worried Penelope, how clever Constance was. Penelope, whilst hardly a radical, couldn't very well disagree with this logic — however, if she wanted to keep her job she couldn't have Constance running around talking this way.
"Perhaps they are too busy with other matters…"
"Like what?" Constance asked in such a sceptical, saucy tone that once again Penelope's hand flew to her mouth.
For it was funny, yes, but there was something more — in that moment, Penelope was forcibly reminded of her own sister.
Her elder sister was the most vivacious, provocative person she'd ever known.
And yet she was still trapped.
With few exceptions, it seemed like they all were.
And Penelope could hardly say whether in that moment the person she felt the most melancholy for was Constance, her sister, or herself.
She cleared her throat and composed herself with no small amount of effort.
"A great many things go into running a household. And besides, perhaps your mother and your aunt take little pleasure in playing. Nothing will stop you from continuing to play after you're married, you know."
Constance, still sat on the floor with both legs tucked underneath her, pondered for a silent moment. "I just don't… If a gentleman marries you because he enjoys your playing, wouldn't he want you to continue playing? And wouldn't you want to? Wouldn't that be important?"
Penelope had to wonder whether Constance was — or would be — a romantic. And she could hardly say whether that made the whole situation better or worse.
"I know I certainly would," she offered in reply. "Playing gives me great pleasure. Just as others take pleasure in drawing or sewing or writing letters or riding."
"No one enjoys sewing," sulked Constance. "And none of this makes any sense."
"Perhaps not. Shall we practise anyway?" Penelope held out an expectant hand for the rest of the sheet music, and when Constance handed it over Penelope restored all of it to the music desk.
Constance resumed her seat and poised her fingers over the keys for a contemplative moment before beginning to play.
Half a minute into it, she stopped again with an angry strike of the keys.
"I don't understand how I'm meant to do this part." She pointed to the arpeggios. "How my fingers are supposed to do all of this without getting twisted up." She swung her feet back and forth below the bench.
"Would you like me to show you again?" offered Penelope.
"Yes, please."
So Penelope took her place beside Constance and demonstrated the offending bit of composition.
"Hmm?" she encouraged, looking to Constance, who nodded dubiously but otherwise did not respond.
She demonstrated again, more deliberately. And then, because she knew how it helped Constance to see and hear a piece played out before attempting it, Penelope started from the beginning and played until Constance nodded and resolved to try again.
.
.
A couple of weeks back under Penelope's tutelage, and Constance had more or less remembered herself, though she did seem more prone to sliding into the sullens these days. Penelope couldn't tell whether this was a result of Cousin Martha's influence or whether Constance, who'd just recently turned thirteen, was experiencing the sorts of emotions that all girls her age did but which nobody was ever supposed to talk about or tolerate. And so Penelope was perhaps a little too indulgent of Constance's moods and a little too easy in her reprimands whenever Constance took an insolent tone with Penelope or any other member of the staff.
"I've decided that I don't think it's fair after all that you may call me Constance but I must call you Miss Dawlish," said Constance abruptly as they sat underneath a tree, drawing.
Or rather, they had been drawing at some point, but Constance had long since ripped up her third attempt and was now simply lodging various complaints she'd apparently been storing up for some time. Previous ones had included the breakfast offerings, the way her maid had done her hair, her frustration with her own drawing skills, and the weather — though she still hadn't relented and actually gone back home. Penelope's usual tactic of simply setting off in the direction she wanted and hoping Constance would follow, hadn't worked on this occasion; when she'd tried, Constance had simply lain in the grass staring up at the sky. So far this had had the (likely intended) result of cutting into her scheduled piano practice by at least half an hour.
"Oh?" enquired Penelope with more than a hint of exasperation. She brushed a few stray strands of hair off her face and neck. It was an unseasonably warm day, which was not helping.
"Yes. I thought of it when I saw Mary today."
Mary was one of the housemaids at Moorpark Manor.
"Oh? And what epiphany have you had after seeing Mary?"
"Epi-what?"
"Epiphany. It is a word that describes when you've just realised something."
"Well, what I've realised is that the only people I call by Christian name, who must still call me Miss Avery, are housemaids. Which means that you are calling me in the manner one might call a maid."
It would have been funny if Penelope weren't so exhausted.
"I think you know perfectly well that I do not speak to you like a housemaid," she said mildly. There was no use in becoming cross — it never changed anything, in Penelope's opinion. "Though I hope you'll consider that the fact that you call Mary by name doesn't make her any less respectable. She may not be a lady, but she's the reason your home looks as lovely as it does. And anyway, all of this is a very poor reason to ask me for such an intimacy."
Constance had the goodness to look a little abashed under Penelope's meaningful glance, but she recovered soon enough and switched to guilt tactics: "But are we not friends after all? Like Martha and Katie."
"I'm not entirely certain that a friend would be keeping me out in this heat. I'm sure that you and I have very nearly burnt to a crisp by now."
"Well, I only wanted to — Oh, look, it's Father!"
With that, Constance was up and running towards the road not too far away, and Penelope pushed herself off her elbow, hastily brushing bits of grass from her skirts and scooping up the drawing pads and case of pencils and pastels, sighing as she did. For Lord Avery was indeed driving his gig along the road — and for all Constance's recent concerns about becoming a lady to rival Martha, at the moment she looked every bit a hoyden, dashing about with sun-reddened cheeks and probably covered head-to-toe in bits of shrubbery.
Lord Avery, accompanied by Mr Weasley, was just returning from business with the local magistrate, and he drew up as Constance approached, her governess on her heels.
"You've been a little sun-kissed, my dear," he observed of his daughter after the requisite greetings had been exchanged.
Penelope was quick with her apologies.
"We've had rather a longer walk than usual today," she explained, "and hadn't expected it to be quite so warm. But we're just on our way home now, aren't we, Constance?"
Under these circumstances, Lord Avery could hardly have continued on without offering the ladies a ride, and both he and Percy seemed to have realised this at the same time, for Percy was already stepping down from the carriage as Lord Avery extended the offer.
Constance — who'd only ever ridden in one of their travelling carriages and never in her father's gig — cut across Penelope's protests with an emphatic, "Oh, yes, can I?"
"Certainly," was her father's almost indifferent reply, though he did give her a small smile. "You're still little yet, my dear, and I'm sure this seat can accommodate both of you very comfortably."
"I couldn't possibly displace Mr Weasley," insisted Penelope. "But certainly you must take Miss Avery with you."
Constance, who hadn't anticipated being wedged in between her father and his twenty-five year old employee, found herself suddenly and inexplicably alarmed at the thought.
Lord Avery shrugged. "No cause for concern, there's always the rumble." He indicated the rear-facing seat behind the driving seat, where a groom or other servant or staff might sit. "You don't mind, do you, Weasley?"
Percy would rather have been presented to the Monarch in his small clothes.
"I think I fancy a walk, sir," he replied.
Then he turned to Constance and held out a hand to assist her up into the carriage. "Miss Avery?"
And then when he'd finished with that, he held out a hand to Penelope.
But Penelope still doubted the propriety of riding with Lord Avery in his small gig even with his daughter, so she said, "If Mr Weasley has no objection to my company, I'll walk as well."
The arrangement also had the advantage of allowing Constance some time with her father and Penelope ten minutes in the company of another adult — one who was fairly unlikely to talk about Martha Macnair.
"But perhaps you'll be so kind as to see these safely home?" she asked Constance, giving over the drawing materials once Constance was situated. "And I'll see you again very shortly."
Then Lord Avery and his daughter were off, leaving Percy and Penelope to exchange a look that was all at once controlled and companionable.
"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Percy — for he'd noted, though he was sure he ought not to comment on it directly, how flushed her cheeks were. It was a little disconcerting, for it made her look like a girl Ginny's age.
The impression was hardly helped by the little leaf that had attached itself to a tendril of brown hair that had escaped from within her bonnet. Percy absently ran his hand over the side of his own neck mirroring where this situation was happening.
"Yes, I'm quite — " Penelope paused in embarrassment, having unthinkingly copied the hand movement and discovered the leaf, which she let flutter to the ground. She brushed off her dress for good measure. "I'm very well. I believe the sun has got to me, but I assure you I'm not tired."
"I'm afraid the day quite got away from us," she explained as they began walking towards Moorpark Manor. "We were drawing, you see — though, I do suspect that Constance's enthusiasm for being out of doors for so long today had more to do with avoiding the piano. She's become quite frustrated with it, poor thing."
"Surely the way to become less frustrated with something is to become better at it," Percy mused dispassionately.
It just slipped out, an opinion where one hadn't been requested or needed. In retrospect, Percy would realise that had gone a step beyond polite conversation, considering he had no personal interest in — or business commenting on — Miss Avery's education. And if he'd really stopped to think about it further, he'd have realised that even he knew it wasn't quite as simple as the way he'd put it.
But he'd said it, and as with everything else that came out of his mouth the only reasonable thing to do was to stand by it — every captious, facile bit of it.
"How very pragmatic," remarked Penelope in a tone Percy could not quite make out. "But then, have you ever tried to reason with a thirteen year-old girl?"
"I have," Percy replied, catching her a little by surprise. "And seven years later, I'm still trying to reason with her."
A smile curved Penelope's mouth.
"You have a sister," she observed, oddly gratified to know this.
How much more… more a person seemed, once you knew something so small and yet so considerable about them. Even something as commonplace as having a sister.
"I do," he said, and did not offer any elaboration.
And as it would have been rude to pry further, Penelope simply said, "Well, then you have an appreciation for exactly how wilful they can be."
" 'Appreciation' is an interesting word for it."
"What word would you use?"
"Frustration."
"Well, then you know what you must do."
"What?"
Penelope didn't bother to keep the broad smile off her face as she replied: "Become better."
Percy's mind didn't even have time to consider stopping the delighted chuckle before it escaped him.
"You know," he offered after they'd walked a minute in silence, "Miss Avery's playing has greatly improved in the time you've been here, I believe. What little I've heard, anyway."
"Really? How kind of you to say so!"
"It isn't kind, it's true."
"Well, nevertheless. May I tell her that you said so?"
He looked at her quizzically.
"I believe compliments can be a great motivation, particularly when one is discouraged — don't you think?" she asked.
"I think you may be right. Yes, all right, tell her if you like."
"Thank you. Do you play?"
"I do."
Penelope looked up at him, her attention undivided, her expression unmistakable in its encouragement for him to go on.
Percy couldn't recall the last time any person had taken a sincere interest in one of his, and so he allowed himself a moment of honesty: "Well… in a manner of speaking. I can play, I just don't very often. There's never time for it anymore. And the instrument at home always seems to be out of tune. Seems I'm the only one who's had even a vague interest in keeping up with it."
Then he shook his head, more to himself than to anyone or anything else, signalling the end of that confession.
And when they exchanged another look she swallowed the prying 'Tell me something else,' just as he bit back the overly familiar 'It was a pleasure hearing you play every day,' and together they made the rest of the journey back to the Manor in silence.
.
.
Penelope found Constance in the schoolroom trying in vain to extract a ribbon whose knot had become tangled up with her hair.
"Did you have a pleasant drive back with your father?" Penelope asked, taking over the task, for she had a better vantage point.
"Oh, yes!"
"What did you talk about?"
"Talk about?"
Penelope shrugged, her fingers prying loose the knot. "I know he's very busy and you don't have much time with him as it is. I thought you might have had a nice conversation."
Constance shook her head until Penelope gently stilled it with her hands so she could resume her efforts. "We didn't talk about anything. Father never does, really."
Sliding the bow from Constance's hair, Penelope ran her fingers gently through the tangles until they came apart.
They were trapped, perhaps; but they were trapped together.
"My name is Penelope," she said softly. "I think I'd like it very much if you called me that."
"Penelope." Constance tested the name aloud. "That's pretty."
"Thank you."
It felt odd, but she would get used to it.
Then Penelope shook herself out of the melancholy that had slowly crept in. "Do you know what Mr Weasley and I talked about?"
"What?"
"He said that your playing has greatly improved of late."
Flummoxed, Constance whirled around in her seat. "He did?"
"Mm-hmm. Isn't that nice to hear?"
Constance faced forward again, her feet swinging and scuffing against the floor as her mind raced and her cheeks warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.
Martha had talked a great deal about something called beaux, though Constance hadn't entirely understood Martha's fascination with them. She knew she wanted to be married someday, but it had always been a vague prospect, a faceless gentleman who'd provide her with a nice, big country house, and children who would spring up suddenly one day like daisies.
But that day Constance had been helped into a carriage for the very first time by a gentleman — not a servant — other than her father, and to top it off he'd paid her a compliment, as well!
To tell the truth, Constance was quite overwrought.
.
.
.
Notes:
Now we're all caught up - see you on Sunday the 13th with chapter 8!
.
'gig' - a small carriage usually pulled by one horse, with an uncovered seat for two people
'small clothes' - underwear (like boxers)
'beaux' - male admirers or suitors