Penelope was seated at her piano the next afternoon, perfecting the Scottish sheet music, when a footman entered.
“Miss Elmsly, there is a Mister MacGregor here to call upon you,” the footman said. “He says he does not have a card to give you. Are you at home?”
“Oh, of course!” she blurted without thought. Penelope then cleared her throat, trying to look composed. Her mind raced as she wondered what the Scot had come for. Then she looked down at her piano, music and notes scattered upon the top. “Of course. He’s here about the book.”
Penelope dispelled the odd sting of regret as she closed up her instrument and gathered the papers. As she heard footsteps coming down the hall, she hurried over to a mirror, ensuring that her hair was still pinned neatly into its usual twisting bun.
“Mister MacGregor,” the footman announced.
“Thank you.” Penelope turned toward them. “Please bring us some refreshments.”
The footman bowed and turned, exiting from the room. Smiling, she motioned for Drummond to take a seat. He settled himself on the couch while she sat primly on her favorite armchair.
“I came to bring ye this. I hope it’s no’ a bad time.” He held out a hatbox. “Flora told me ye had left it. She wanted to deliver it herself, but had another appointment.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to make a special trip just for this,” Penelope said, taking the box and putting it by her feet for the footman to remove. “But, thank you all the same. I rather liked this particular hat.”
“It’s the least I could do, seein’ as ye are helpin’ me write the book and did no’ run in horror upon seein’ my scars.”
Penelope averted her eyes from his emerald gaze, busying herself with straightening her skirts, a terrible nervous habit. “Please, don’t mention it. I told you yesterday, and I’ll tell you again, if I didn’t faint at the sight of it, it wasn’t all that horrifying. Really, Drummond, you think me so weak as to pass out at the sight of a little mark.”
“No offence meant,” he said with a smirk. “But I appreciate it, all the same.”
“You know, you never did tell me what happened with the livestock,” Penelope stated primly as a footman entered with tea and cakes.
Drummond covered up a laugh with a cough. “I’ll know ye’ll be pleased to hear that no pig was injured and all the wee piglets were safe from harm.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, passing him a teacup. “I would be rather vexed if you didn’t have the fortitude to save all those innocent creatures.”
The corners of his lips twitched and he waited until the footman had gone before speaking again. “Ye are a strange lass, Penelope Elmsly.”
She raised a brow over the rim of her teacup. “No stranger than a giant Scotsman who runs about London delivering stray hats.”
Penelope blushed at her own words. Usually she was so calm and collected, but the teasing words kept spilling from her mouth without abandon. Something about Drummond’s presence opened her sharp mind and gave her outlet for the wit she usually only shared with Charlotte.
“I’ll have ye know, your hats are the only ones in my charge.”
While his words were innocent, as Penelope had only abandoned one of her dear accessories with him, his voice took on an odd lilt as he spoke. And, if she spoke true, she would say that it rather pleased her to know that Drummond wasn’t traipsing about London. But that was none of her business. Not at all. Although she almost wished that it were.
She furrowed her brow as she held out a plate of treats to him, noting the peculiar look in his eyes as he gazed upon her. His green orbs always had a strange way of making her feel completely exposed, but she was slowly getting used to the new sensation.
Penelope cleared her throat, bringing the papers on the side table to his attention in an attempt to derail whatever was coming from their prolonged eye contact. “I’ve finished the final sheet music for some of your songs.” She offered the pile to him, but he declined.
“Me lookin’ at them makes no difference, seein’ as I can no’ read music. I trust ye.”
“I suppose you can just go over them in the final works. All we need to do now, after compiling some more songs, is get the stories written down. I’m rather excited for that part.”
“Well, I—”
“Penelope.” Cecily was standing in the doorway, her face a mask of composure. “I was not aware you were currently entertaining.”
“Mother, this is Drummond MacGregor, a cousin of Charlotte’s husband,” Penelope said as he shot up from his seat to greet Cecily. “Drummond, this is my mother, Cecily Elmsly.”
“Pleasure to meet ye.” Drummond made a slight bow.
Cecily returned the gesture with a tight-lipped smile. “And you. Penelope, could I steal you for just a moment?”
She nodded and followed her mother into the hallway, leaving Drummond standing by the fireplace. Cecily pulled her into the next room for privacy, closing the door behind her.
“Darling, why is there a large, kilted man sitting on my imported French settee?”
“I left my hat at the MacLeod home while visiting yesterday. He came to return it and we got caught up talking about the book we are compiling.”
“Book? What book?”
“Drummond has a lovely voice and we’re compiling the music and stories of his people into a book. It’s really rather grand, the songs they have, and we don’t have that much left to do before we’ll be finished.”
Cecily breathed hard through her nose. “And you’re on a first name basis?”
“Apparently it’s the way in Scotland when you share a meal. In public we always maintain propriety.”
“Naturally,” Cecily replied dryly. “You are aware, darling, how improper this looks? I wouldn’t have any idea you were entertaining a man in a loincloth unless a maid had come for me.”
Penelope silently cursed the unknown tattletale. “Mother, there’s nothing improper about it,” she said, ignoring the shirtless touching from the previous day. “What we’re doing is a literary and historical feat. Besides, he’s wearing a kilt, not a loincloth.”
“You’ve entered the marriage market, Penelope, and while it was all well and good that Charlotte landed herself some kind of Scottish royalty, a romance in Scotland isn’t in the cards for you.”
She pinked, biting her lip in embarrassment. “Mother, this isn’t a romance. We’re just friends.”
“Men and women can’t be friends. Being friends with a man is how a lady gets with child and contracts disease.”
She sighed. “Mother, you’re being dramatic.”
“I am not.” Cecily held up a finger. “I won’t have a daughter of mine being publicly courted by Theodore Harrison while privately entertaining a Scottish stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“He will be.” Her voice dropped low. “Make your excuses and send him away. You should know better than to entertain a man without a chaperone.”
“But, Mother, we’re—”
“No. He leaves at once. You’re lucky your father is at the arcade. Otherwise the poor man would have a fit. No more visits, no more book, no more Scottish men!”
Penelope, shocked by her mother’s harsh words and stern tone, left the room and came back to Drummond. Cecily stood in the doorway, once again the picture of calm sensibility.
“I’m sorry, there’s been somewhat of a family emergency,” Penelope explained evenly.
“O’ course, I’ll take my leave.”
Thinking fast, she took the pile of music and notes to the desk. “Let me just make one more change and you can take these with you.”
Picking up a pen, she made a quick note on one of the papers.
My mother is forbidding we speak in fear that we are being improper. But we must finish this book. I will think of a way to work together in secret, for I doubt she’ll allow me to visit with Flora for some time.
–Penelope
“There, it’s done.” Penelope handed him the pile, her note on the last page. “Be sure to look it all over.”
“Aye, I will. Good day.” He tipped his head at both women before making his exit.
Penelope set her jaw and stalked past her mother, making her way to her bedroom. Thankfully, Cecily didn’t follow. As she passed the butler, she ordered him to have the small piano taken up to her chambers. If her mother didn’t want her working on the book with Drummond, she would just have to do it behind locked doors.
***
Penelope picked at her dinner, pointedly showing her unhappiness with being forced to abandon her musical pursuits. Her mother kept silent, darting glances at Edmund, willing him to join the fight against Penelope. However, he wasn’t one to get involved in ‘female matters.’
Once the icy silence became too much, Cecily put down her cutlery and turned toward her husband. “Edmund, dear, isn’t it wonderful that Penelope will be going to Hyde Park tomorrow with Theodore Harrison?”
He had a blank look on his face and his mustache twitched beneath his nose. “Who, now?”
“Theodore. Harrison,” Cecily hissed.
“The very rich man Mother believes I should marry who owns a lot of boats,” Penelope clarified.
“Oh, don’t be crude,” Cecily said with a heaving sigh.
“Ah, yes.” Edmund nodded. “Have fun, darling.”
“Edmund, dear,” Cecily began again, “wouldn’t it be a shame if she did anything to jeopardize her relationship with him?”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “Mother is upset that I have been helping Charlotte’s husband’s cousin compile a book of songs and stories. She finds it inappropriate.”
“Because it is. Isn’t it, Edmund?”
He looked between the two women. “Is this really about a book, Cecily?”
“Penelope was entertaining this Scottish gentleman without a chaperone.”
Edmund’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Penelope, you’re old enough to know how unsuitable that is. At your age a lady cannot be alone with a man. I do hope we won’t have to have this conversation again.”
“Yes, Father,” Penelope mumbled, ignoring her mother’s pleased expression.
“Pardon me, Miss Elmsly.” A footman entered, a small letter on his tray. “A note from Lady MacLeod.”
Penelope took the letter and tucked it into the folds of her dress. She assumed that word of her ‘family emergency’ had reached Charlotte and her old friend was trying to ensure that everything was all right.
No longer having much of an appetite, she excused herself from the table and went up to her room. The footmen had delivered her piano, situating it next to a large window, allowing her some lovely light during the day. She momentarily regretted her decision to give Drummond all of her Scottish notes. The music had grown on her and she was sorry to have seen it go.
She sat down at her desk, where a maid had always kept a lamp lit for her. Using a letter opener, she slipped open the envelope in one movement. When she began reading, she was more than surprised to see what the paper held.
Penelope,
I hope this letter finds you well. I also hope that my presence in your home didn’t offend your mother, overly much. I appreciate your passion for this book and do want to push on, if you’re still agreeable. I have an idea. If you are willing, leave a light in your window and the latch unlocked tomorrow evening. Send word to Flora if this isn’t too forward.
–Drummond by the hand of Flora
P.S.
This is terribly romantic, exciting, and please do agree!
–Flora
Penelope quickly folded the letter up, lest her mother suddenly burst in. Taking a tiny key from one drawer, she hurriedly crouched down. Under her sizeable writing desk was a secret cabinet where she kept all manners of odds and ends. She added Flora’s note—or rather, Drummond’s—to the small cupboard, locking it up quickly before penning her response.
Flora,
I was sorry to miss you today, but find your proposal of a visit most agreeable. Thank you for returning my hat.
–Penelope