.

In which one season comes to an end

(November, 1814)

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The moment Harry had awoken on a late November morning to find bright strips of sunlight peeking in through his curtains — and upon further investigation, a sky full of fluffy, benevolent-looking clouds instead of dark, heavy ones — he'd thrown off the covers, jumped out of bed, and dressed at record speed. He'd crept towards the stairs, keeping his wits about him, lest he alert his father to his presence and be forced to listen to yet another explanation of the boring art of Being an Earl — and then he'd dashed downstairs, across the hall, and out the door to freedom.

Then he'd backtracked inside and to the breakfast room because, actually, he was starving.

But he forced himself to make do with some toast for the moment and then was on his way again, out the door and to the stables.

The stable master, who'd been there since well before Harry could ride, looked up as Harry approached.

"My lord, if I'd known you was coming I'd have had him ready an age ago."

"Oh, no, Archie," replied Harry, "I'll tack him today if you don't mind."

Archie knew Harry too well to argue, and he made himself scarce — because usually when the young lord wanted to labour it meant he had deep thinking to do and didn't want to be disturbed.

Nimbus tossed his head and snorted as Harry approached, and moved restlessly side to side.

Harry's eyebrows lifted, and he faced Nimbus with his fists on his hips.

"Well, 'good morning' to you, as well. What's got you in such a pelter?"

Nimbus twisted his neck this way and that.

"It ain't my fault it's been raining, you know," Harry reminded him. "I've been cooped up, too!"

He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on a peg on a post out of the way, and when Nimbus snorted, Harry looked back in the direction of the post and registered the empty stall just beyond.

His father, then, had already taken Marauder out today.

"You're jealous." Harry grinned. "Well, I'm here now, so what do you say?"

And so he led Nimbus out of his stall and set to work — firstly, brushing him, chatting away the entire time.

"What shall we do today? I'd like to visit Mr Gardner and see how those new greys of his are getting on. I know you don't think much of carriage horses, but even you have to admit they're a pair of prime-goers! And we should probably go and say hello to Hagrid, don't you think?"

Soon enough, Harry had moved on to saddling him.

"I don't think Mama's very pleased that Father must go to London so early this season. Do you think if they convene this month they'll still be in session all through the spring and summer? Good Lord, I don't know how he stands it, do you?"

Nimbus turned his head to look at Harry.

"Don't worry, I won't be going until February at the earliest. You know Mama doesn't care for town. Nothing good ever happens before March, anyway. And someone's got to keep an eye on you," he added pointedly.

Nimbus snorted.

"A likely story," scoffed Harry.

He worked a few moments more in silence before complaining abruptly, "What the devil does he mean, I'm to meet with Pettigrew once a week? How much time can one person spend looking at figures in a ledger?"

Not for the first time, Harry contemplated the way that Buckston often felt far too big and far too small all at the same time.

He lost himself in thought, stroking Nimbus's neck, until Nimbus nuzzled Harry's head and nibbled at his shoulder.

Harry smiled. "Ready?"

Nimbus raised his muzzle to Harry's cheek and blew a puff of air, rustling his hair above his ear a bit.

"I abominate toadeaters, you know," Harry informed him dryly.

They did visit Mr Gardner that day, and Mr Hagrid, and went into the village as well, and generally took full advantage of every moment of crisp daylight.

The sun was dipping low in the afternoon sky when they returned to Buckston; orange-pink and purple-grey reflecting brilliantly off the southern windows and bathing everything else in a soft glow. Leaves rustled genially in a breeze that had followed Harry back from the village. It was the sort of scene that made a forty-bedroom house seem, really, quite cosy.

Windswept and wonderfully exhausted from an energetic ride, Harry and Nimbus slowed to a walk as they made their way past the house to the stables — and then, somewhere to the south, he heard a distant but distinct laugh.

Lady Buckston's laughter was unmistakable when she found something really funny — a rollicking, breathless thing that usually ended in an unladylike snort — and there was one person who could always make her do it.

Beyond the gardens and stables, the grounds rose in a gentle slope to the southeast, and there, just beyond the hedgerow, were his parents, both atop his father's horse. Lily had always been somewhat uneasy on horseback, but now and then she allowed James to take her riding with him as they were now. Seated aside in front of her husband, Lily laughed and brushed hair back from her face as they slowed from a gallop.

Being some distance away — and more importantly, entirely in their own little world — neither of them paid the slightest bit of notice to Harry, who'd unwittingly brought Nimbus to a stop as he took in this scene.

"Revolting, isn't it?" he commented to Nimbus, as James wrapped his arms around Lily and kissed her on the neck.

But as he said it, he was smiling.

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Lord Avery gave Percy only three days' notice that they would, in fact, be departing for London before the month was out (as it turned out, the country was horribly dull once most of the other lords had returned to London already, and his Devonshire paramour was becoming quite tiresome and not in a good way).

Percy, however, had been prepared for this eventuality for weeks, despite Lord Avery's emphatic claims that he would not be returning to London until February. He already knew what he was taking with him. His shoes were cobbled, all non-Birmingham buttons on his coats accounted for. All that remained was to dash off a quick letter to Mrs Brougham who managed the respectable bachelor lodgings where Percy always stayed, to inform her of his impending arrival.

There was not a single, solitary reason why Percy should have to go into Honiton on any errands.

Of course, there was also not a single, solitary reason why he should speak to the governess — at any time or about any thing.

And yet.

The day before he was to depart for London he encountered her on her way down the stairs, wearing a pelisse, a cloak draped over her arm, tying her bonnet.

He'd maintained a minimum level of cordiality with her over the past few weeks on occasion when he did encounter her — the type he should have been maintaining all along these past months. He'd been too comfortable, too familiar. It didn't matter that she was unavailable and unmarriageable; these conventions existed for a reason. Because, as it turned out, unavailable, unmarriageable, completely unsuitable women were still women after all (who knew?) — and skirting the rules of propriety led to moments of weakness like that he'd had after their duet.

And yet.

"It's a rather unpleasant day for a walk, I think," he found himself commenting as they approached one another, he going up the stairs and she down.

"Oh, yes, but I must take advantage of this cessation in the rain to take the carriage into Honiton."

Percy halted. "Alone?"

"Oh, yes, I hope to be rather quick about it. Constance does tend to take her time."

It was rare indeed that a small voice in the back of Percy's mind spoke up to remind him when someone else's business was not his business — as it did, most emphatically, now.

But Percy had never listened to that voice before, anyway.

"You have no escort?" he clarified a little stupidly.

"Well, there's the coachman, certainly."

When Percy gave her a dubious look, Penelope smiled. "You don't mean to suggest that I need a chaperone, surely? These days I am the chaperone, you know."

"I… No, of course not. I only… Well, I must go into Honiton myself," he lied, "and I thought…"

He trailed off as Penelope raised her eyebrows a little. He thought what? That she would agree to ride in a closed carriage alone with him? Since when had he taken so much leave of his senses?

"Well, I may always take out the curricle," he recovered. "If you'd like. Though it is cold, now that I think of it, and I wouldn't want you to catch a chill; so I see now that this cannot be a very agreeable solution for you."

She would surely be unable to agree to either of these situations, and at least he'd have made the offer.

"I am from further north, you know," she reminded him gamely. "I hardly regard it."

It occurred to Percy, perhaps two minutes too late (indeed, twenty-five years too late), that sometimes, the less said, the better.

"Ah," he decided.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'm sure I'd be glad of the company."

"No. I mean, no, of course not. It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you. What time shall you depart?"

"Eleven," he replied.

Did he have anything he was supposed to do at eleven? Well, clearly, he was going to Honiton.

So eleven found him handing her up into the curricle, ensuring that she was situated comfortably with a blanket.

"Are you warm enough?" he enquired once he'd climbed up next to her.

"Oh, yes, thank you."

He threw her a dubious look.

"Very well, but it's occurred to me that if the weather worsens whilst we're in town, we must hire a more suitable carriage for you for the drive back in any event. And then I think we shall be right back where we started."

"We must hope it stays dry, then," she replied.

Percy gave no reply.

"Walk on," he directed the horse, with an attitude of terminating any further conversation.

They travelled a few minutes in silence. She wore a hooded cloak that obscured most of her face from his perspective, not that he was looking, and her hands clasped in her lap were covered by a pair of gloves — really very fine leather gloves, actually —

"I hear that you and Lord Avery shall depart for London soon," offered Penelope. Constance had mentioned it, at which point it had been revealed, somewhat to Penelope's alarm, that Lady Avery and Constance would of course follow to London in the spring, and therefore Penelope would as well.

It had hardly been a surprise — of course they would go to London for the season as the families of peers usually did — but Penelope hadn't had to think about it until now.

"Yes," replied Percy, with the oddest sensation of guilt, a peculiar notion that he should have said something to her sooner.

Which was entirely stupid, of course.

"It's earlier than the season usually starts, I believe," she noted.

"Yes, it is."

"Do you accompany Lord Avery to London every spring?"

"I do."

"You must be missed at home."

He looked at her curiously.

"I'm sorry. You had mentioned that your piano at home always seemed out of tune," she explained, "and that you are the only one who likes to keep up with it. I had gathered…"

"Well, you gathered correctly," he acknowledged. "I live in my family's home along with my parents, and my sister and two youngest brothers as well."

"Four of you," she observed.

"Seven, actually. But my other three brothers are no longer at home."

"Six boys! I quite despair for your sister!"

"Well, don't. She's quite indulged — particularly being the youngest, you know."

She was silent for a moment, and Percy glanced at her. Her hood had fallen back a little from her face, and she wore an ironic smile.

Resigned, Percy realised, "You are about to tell me that you are the youngest, aren't you?"

"That I am. I have two elder sisters. And where do you fall in order?"

"Almost exactly in the middle."

"Ah. Well, don't worry, we have opinions about you, too."

There was never a hint of malice in Penelope's jest, and yet again, Percy found himself chuckling in spite of everything.

And it felt like the easiest thing in the world when, half a minute later, he asked, "Your sisters, do they live near Birmingham?"

"Yes, they do."

"How did you come to find yourself so far from home, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I was used to be governess to a Miss Jennings, whose late mother was a very dear friend of Lady Greengrass. After Miss Jennings — Mrs Elton, I should say now — married, Lady Greengrass learnt that Lady Avery was seeking a governess and recommended me for the post."

"You must be missed at home as well," he guessed.

Looking straight ahead as he was, Percy missed the sad, pensive little smile that crossed her face.

"I believe I am," she agreed.

Periodic, inoffensive conversation about family life carried them the rest of the way to town, where Percy deposited her in front of the milliner's shop and set off to… well, to find something with which he could justify his presence on this excursion. He didn't really need a new hat, but neither was he opposed to one…

Then again, he could always say he'd had business with the bank. Or that something was on order for Lord Avery, to be delivered in London. Not that it made any sense that Lord Avery wouldn't just buy whatever he needed in London proper, but after all it was hardly the governess's business anyway.

Penelope made quick work of her errands at the milliner's, replenishing her sewing supplies, and ducking into the confectioner's for some treats to sneak back to Constance. Percy raised a brow upon seeing her emerging from the last shop.

"This was the important business that brought you to town in the dead of November?" he asked when they'd reunited.

"Indeed, sweeties are very important! Would you care for one?" She displayed a small box, her other parcels tucked underneath her arm. "Marzipan and sugar plums!"

"Thank you, no," Percy said with barely concealed amusement, reaching out to take the rest of her burden. "Have you everything that you need?"

She affirmed that she did, and he called for the curricle and soon they were off to Moorpark, with the sun still peeking through clouds of innocuous light grey

Percy's mind drifted back to London, not only for himself but the knowledge that apparently his youngest brother was set to go in the spring with the Viscount Potter — a terrible idea, in Percy's opinion, as occupationless young men hardly ever did anything there that didn't involve getting into debt or other trouble, but apparently his opinion mattered for very little. And now, Percy had recently learnt, Aunt Muriel planned to chaperone Ginny to London as well, where her reputation might not precede her quite as much as it did these days in Devonshire.

"Miss Dawlish, you've been out in society, I believe?" he asked abruptly.

"What?"

It seemed to him that she reacted with something resembling alarm — but then, he realised his question had been quite unexpected, and perhaps he'd interrupted her in the midst of her thoughts.

"Forgive me — when you spoke of assemblies in town and the like," he explained.

"Oh. Yes, of course, I have."

Percy hesitated, until Penelope fixed him with a quizzical look, pushing her hood back from her face in a demonstration of her attention.

"Do you mind if I ask…" He hesitated again. "For how long were you out before you… before you took your first post as a governess?"

She was silent, and when he dared to peek at her to note her reaction, it was impossible to say what precisely was playing across her face. Concern? Suspicion? Offence?

"Forgive me." He shook his head, inwardly chastising himself. "It's none of my business, after all."

Penelope recovered her voice at last. "No, I just… it's been some time, you know. Why do you ask?"

She watched as he opened his mouth and then promptly closed it, his attention fixed on the road ahead, swaying a little with the movement of the carriage. Then she looked ahead to the road as well, and that was when he spoke.

"My sister is twenty. She's had a number of offers, or nearly — good ones — and has turned up her nose at every one. I can't understand it. And as you can imagine, I worry about her."

Penelope nodded, taking this in, before assuring him, "But she's still young; she has plenty of time, two or three years at least."

Percy shook his head a little, and his sigh sent up a puff of breath in the chill air. "Yes but sometimes she behaves as if she has no interest in marrying at all."

As his eyes were still fixed straight ahead, he didn't see her knowing little smile, but he heard it in her voice when she replied after a significant pause.

"And let me guess," she said. "You are filled with horror at the sight of me because you believe you're seeing her future."

"No, of course not!" he protested, wide-eyed. "I'm… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give offence."

"You haven't offended me," she replied in such an open, earnest way that he had no choice but to believe her. "And it would be strange if you didn't worry about her, so it's not so surprising that you should say so."

"Please believe me, I was only thinking…" He cast about for words again. "I believe you might be the only person I can ask about this."

"Ask what?"

"Well… Well, you see, you chose not to marry, and yet you seem perfectly reasonable."

"Oh!" she exclaimed in a voice that had the embers of laughter burning underneath. "I've never heard such flattery. Mind you take care with that."

"Well, you do," he insisted, to cover up his embarrassment. He adjusted his spectacles unnecessarily.

Penelope waited, but no further commentary was forthcoming from him at the moment.

"I'm curious," she asked at last, "what makes you think that I chose not to?"

"Well, didn't you?" he asked matter-of-factly.

Then it was his turn to fill the ensuing silence.

"You've just said that you had the opportunity," he pointed out. "And you're so young still."

"I'm not quite so young. I think you'd be surprised."

"You hardly look older than my sister."

"And how might I be a governess if I were barely older than twenty?"

"I never said that you were, only that you don't look… well…"

"Old?"

Percy's face, already warm, grew ever hotter.

"My," she said with great humour. "I'm perfectly reasonable and I don't look precisely like a spinster — take care, Mr Weasley, or this may all go to my head!"

"Nevertheless," he insisted, determined to get this conversation back on target. "Either you found not one single person acceptable, or you had no interest at all. And forgive me for presuming, but you don't seem snobbish, so only one conclusion seems to make sense."

Penelope pondered this for a few seconds. "You've failed to mention the third possibility."

"Which is?"

"That I never received any offers and had no reason to expect any."

"I failed to mention it because I don't wish to entertain nonsensical ideas."

Now Penelope felt her face grow warm, and she ducked her head to hide a smile. Percy scratched the tip of his nose, his face determinedly impassive as he stared straight ahead.

"Is it so unbelievable?" Penelope countered. "After all, I hadn't a great deal of money, and I know I'm no great beauty."

"Propriety doesn't permit me to contradict you on this point," he said with authority. "But suffice it to say that I won't be conceding my position."

"Do you ever?"

Percy responded with a little scoff of amusement.

For the life of her, Penelope could never say why she chose to share what she did next.

"You're right, however: I did choose not to marry."

"Why?" he asked.

"I believe you will no longer think me perfectly reasonable. In fact, it's entirely unreasonable. But I suppose I'd better tell you, if only so you don't come to some worse assumption, such as that I've run away from some sort of ignominy or something."

"That's the furthest thing from my mind, but I'm interested to hear the real reason all the same."

"Well… I despise the idea of marrying without affection."

Percy's reaction was delayed, but when it came it was a bewildered laugh.

"Is that all?" he asked in condescending disbelief.

"'Is that all'?" she echoed earnestly. "Oh, haven't you a heart? That's everything."

"Assuming that were true," he said, trying to wrap his mind around this, "are you saying that you've never cared for anybody at all? In any way?"

"Affection on both sides, Mr Weasley," she amended.

"But what does that mean? Surely there's some amount of care involved already, is there not, when someone is offering you a home and protection?"

"'Some amount of care,'" she repeated. "I'm afraid I could never be contented with such a… tepid sort of coexistence."

"You require, what, more poetry? Flowers?"

"You're laughing at me."

"I most certainly am not; I'm simply… surprised."

"I don't see why; I'm hardly the first person in the world to wish for a love match. And I don't require flowers or poetry — those things hardly seem any measure of sincerity, anyway."

"Well, precisely! Any cad or boy in the throes of calf-love can affect passion. Surely the sort of affection that matters will grow over time? After you've known one another longer?"

"Do you gamble?" she asked abruptly.

Percy frowned. "No, never."

"Neither do I."

Percy fell speechless, turning this over in his mind until she spoke again.

"I've seen too many cold, unhappy marriages to want any part of that for myself."

"You needn't be cold and unhappy," he argued.

"Only half of that would be within my control," Penelope pointed out, uncertain why she kept talking except for the simple fact that someone was listening. "If he is cruel or cold to me, I cannot do anything about it. If he… if he takes a mistress, I cannot do anything about it."

She blushed furiously, and so did he, each of them resolutely not looking at the other.

Penelope did not need to add aloud that if she'd spoken to Percy — or any man — that way in society — had even hinted that she knew anything about the topic — he'd never have spoken to her again, let alone marry her.

And Percy did not need to confirm aloud that she was right.

But it hardly mattered here and now, where there was never any question of them marrying anyway.

Percy was determined not to be the next person to speak after that remark — to give any indication that he'd even heard it.

And Penelope was glad of the opportunity to continue, to fill the awkward space with something else.

"So I could never be certain of how someone intends to use my heart once it's given. But if I don't marry, then at least I know what I'm getting myself into."

"Do you?" Percy's voice was sharp, and Penelope finally blinked over at him in mild surprise.

"Well, certainly." But she didn't sound certain at all.

"You have… You have no security; you have no one's protection. Have you any idea — "

"Have I any idea about what? I don't think I'm particularly naive, and I grant you there are risks, but then I'm hardly the first female to live this way and I won't be the last. And it's not as if I frequently travel alone; and under the conditions of my current post I enjoy every security that Lady Avery or Miss Avery enjoy themselves under the protection of Lord Avery — "

"You cannot possibly be foolish enough to believe that!" rejoined Percy. "Do you think all you have to fear are highwaymen and pickpockets? Attempts on…" He flushed anew but persisted. "Attempts on your virtue don't stop just because you're no longer green, you know; if the world is dangerous for a lady, it's doubly so for one unmarried, and even more for one beneath a certain station. Even from gentlemen. Even lords."

He'd brought the curricle to a stop, and he turned towards her and delivered the last two words in a pointed manner, something in his face absolutely furious but also imploring her to understand his meaning.

Stricken speechless, Penelope could only nod.

"Walk on," Percy directed the horse tersely.

"And you are not under Lord Avery's protection," he blurted out after a few seconds, delivering this diatribe to the road that stretched before them. "He owes no duty to you, none that matters, and you'd do well to be aware of that because I assure you he is. And Lady Avery may turn you out if and whenever she likes, and then what will you do? You may have avoided living at one person's whim, but only to find yourself at someone else's."

It took only a few seconds' silence for Percy to bring the carriage to a stop once more. Overcome, he sighed and placed his face in his hand.

"I've forgotten myself entirely," he said with chagrin. "I had no right to speak to you that way."

When he was certain she would never say another word to him again, she broke her silence.

"I suspect you were not speaking only to me just now," she ventured, and it was Percy's turn to be rendered mute.

"But do recall," she reassured him, "your sister's reasons are entirely her own, and just because I've found myself here doesn't mean that she will. Indeed, it is my fervent hope that your sister's experiences — and Miss Avery's experiences — will be different to what mine have been."

Percy did not affirm her suspicions, but neither did he dispute them. And with that semblance of an understanding between them, they continued on.

"I hope there won't be too much awkwardness between us," Penelope said abruptly as they neared the smaller road that led to Moorpark. "You're the only friend I have above the age of thirteen."

A curious pang struck him, and he battled through it to give her a bracing smile and a nod.

Back at Moorpark, Percy came around to her side of the carriage to help her down.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley," she said as she began to descend — but at the rueful laugh that escaped him she stopped, halfway down, her hand at his shoulder and his at her elbow, her other hand clutching her skirt.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you think there is any formality that could possibly redeem us after that conversation?"

"I believe whatever was left of formality was abandoned on the side of the road by Mr Dillon's farm," she replied, causing him to laugh again as she touched down onto the earth, steadied by his hands.

It was, without a doubt, too comfortable, too familiar.

But then, she was unavailable and unmarriageable after all. And he was leaving for London.

"Well, thank you again…" she trailed off as he retrieved her parcels from the carriage.

"Percy," he supplied, holding them out to her.

Smiling, she accepted them. "Then, thank you. Percy."

"Your servant. Penelope."

They looked at one another a moment longer, and then he bowed his head and gestured she should go ahead of him into the house; and so she did, pondering her disappointment in the fact that hearing him call her by name had brought her more sorrow than joy.

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Notes:

'toadeater' - an obsequious flatterer; a sycophant