Lady Penelope

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A gripping story of romance, lovers and a life filled with intrigue . . . Warm-hearted and wilful, her temper as fiery as her beautiful auburn hair, Lady Penelope is a romantic heroine whose impulsive nature makes her as many enemies as her vivacious, flame-haired beauty wins her admirers. Caught up in the dangerous intrigues of Queen Elizabeth's court, forced to marry a wealthy but repulsive nobleman, she pours all her passion into her children . . . and her lovers. Will Penelope survive her loveless marriage and a life filled with tragedy, and finally emerge triumphant? ****************** What readers are saying about LADY PENELOPE 'Perfect!' - 5 STARS 'My favourite novel' - 5 STARS 'I love the history behind the book' - 5 STARS 'Loved it . . . Penelope was a brilliant character' - 5 STARS 'Good from start to end' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 236

Sample

1

Chartley

The sky was blue that day, a deep sapphire lightened by circling wisps of cloud. Although it was September and autumn was already approaching, the sun was hot. Cows huddled together under the shade of the tree, their long tails flicking lazily to ward off the flies, their jaws moving leisurely as they chewed the cud. Under the hazel bushes a squirrel hopped about half-heartedly looking for nuts, as though it were too good a day to be collecting its winter store. And swallows, preparing for their great migration, chattered noisily to each other as they swooped and skimmed across the sky.

To the south lay a quiet pool over which a great willow grew. The tree’s heavy lower branches trailed in the clear water and cast back a leafy reflection as if a sister tree grew in the deep green depths of the pool. There, crouched in the upper branches like a bird, was a young girl, her blue embroidered skirt drawn tightly about her knees. Her hair was the colour of autumn, like the leaves of the horse chestnut tree beyond. It was neither red nor gold and, freed from its usual plaits, it now cascaded down over her face as she leaned forward to gaze with coal-black eyes into the crystal water below and dreamily watch the little minnows that darted in and out of the leafy willow pattern on the sunlit surface.

This was Penelope’s favourite seat, high up in the heavens. It was here she came when the desire to be alone possessed her, when she had to escape from her nagging old nurse, or the acid comments of her beautiful, flirtatious mother, or simply to sit quietly and think. She was generally a high-spirited and impulsive child, so moments for reflection were rare and welcome. But today sad news had come that had made her want to retreat to this spot. News that her father, the Earl of Essex, lay dying in Ireland.

With nothing except the twittering birds to disturb her thoughts, she recalled happy memories of the soft-spoken man who had always had time to listen to her. Sadness filled her young heart and her black eyes, so like those of the deer that roamed the immense parklands of Chartley Manor, misted with tears. Poor Papa, he was dying in Dublin, in a savage country far away from his family. She would never see him again . . .

‘My lady!’ A soft call came from behind the cherry trees that scattered scarlet and orange leaves across the grass. A small figure waved her arms frantically in Penelope’s direction but then ducked down out of sight.

‘Whatever’s the matter with Hawise?’ Penelope asked herself, screwing up her eyes to peer through the leafy foliage. Below her, not far away, she spotted two other figures. Holding her breath and hugging her knees tighter, she tried not to betray her presence as her mother, accompanied by a tall nobleman, came slowly down the path.

Stones crunched under the couple’s feet as they strolled together hand in hand. Penelope had no cause to worry; they saw only each other. Deep passion glowed in her mother’s dark eyes as she leaned back against the trunk of the old oak tree and said farewell to her lover.

‘Good-bye, Robin,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful, my love,’ she warned.

Familiarly, the man caressed her, his white teeth flashing in a charming grin. ‘The devil takes care of his own,’ he assured her.

After a long kiss, the couple parted, and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, strode past the willow tree where Penelope was hidden, and on across the park to the gate where his men and mount awaited him.

From her position in the tree, Penelope could see the glint of jewels in the cap her mother wore over her luxuriant auburn hair. Her mother was looking particularly beautiful in a red velvet gown with its tiny waist and voluminous sleeves. It suited her complexion perfectly. How lovely she was, but how could she be so cruel? That very day news had come that her husband lay dying and she had been entertaining her lover without a qualm.

Suddenly her mother’s shrill voice echoed up into the tree. She had discovered Hawise. ‘What are you doing, girl, skulking about like that in the bushes? Come out at once!’ The maid-servant slowly emerged, from behind the bush and dropped a contrite curtsy. ‘Get about your business!’

The woman glowered at the terrified Hawise who quickly scuttled off towards the timbered manor house. With a smile on her red lips as though thinking again of her lover, the Countess of Essex picked up her skirts with jewelled fingers and swept majestically past the fountains and up the lawn.

When her mother was out of sight, Penelope dropped lightly to the ground and ran home, taking a devious route through a copse, past the stables and up the back stairs to her bedchamber where Hawise stood wide-eyed and still trembling with fright. ‘Oh, my lady!’ she exclaimed. ‘I really thought she was going to catch you this time.’

Penelope’s eyes flashed with defiance. ‘My father is dying and my mother receives my Lord Leicester,’ she said slowly. ‘Who is she to criticize me for doing what I want? I shall seek solitude in the willow tree whenever I want – and I shall do what I want.’ She sniffed and pulled her head away as Hawise tried to coil the auburn hair into neat braids. ‘How dare she betray my poor father like that!’ she muttered through tight lips as she stared out through the window at the great gardens below. ‘How dare she!’

 

Late that evening, a cool mist swept across the parklands drifting between the high chimneys, and obscuring the golden weather-vane. The heat had gone; outside the air was chilled. But within the west tower, it was cosy and warm. In one room, a stout middle-aged woman dozed beside a large wood fire and, in an adjoining chamber, Hawise, the maid-servant, brushed her mistress’s long silky tresses, as she prepared her for bed. Like all the family rooms in the house, the chamber was finely decorated. Carved oak panels and exotic tapestries covered the old stone walls; scarlet silk drapes hung down around the four-poster bed and heavy velvet curtains shut out the approaching nightfall.

Hawise brushed Penelope’s hair in firm sweeping strokes until it shone like burnished gold. Her young mistress was deep in thought. ‘There’s a strange stillness in the air,’ Penelope said at last. She shook her head. ‘Poor Papa. I wonder if his spirit will come back here?’

Hawise paused in her work, brush suspended in air. ‘Oh, my lady,’ she cried in hushed tones, ‘don’t say such dreadful things. That’s blasphemy!’

Penelope smiled. ‘They say we never really die, so why can’t we see those we love when we have passed on?’

Looking furtively from side to side, the servant made the sign of the cross. ‘Hush, my lady,’ she begged. ‘Someone might hear you. Your papa is at peace. Let him rest.’ Hawise quickly changed the subject. ‘I hear that your Grandfather Knollys will be here tomorrow.’ Hawise was constantly foraging throughout the house for scraps of gossip she could relay to her mistress. ‘They say he will decide on what’s to happen to your brother Robert.’

Penelope nodded and sighed. ‘Poor Robert – the new Earl of Essex and only eleven years old. Now Papa is gone, I suppose all our lives will be very different.’ She reached back and gripped Hawise’s hand. The servant squeezed Penelope’s hand in response.

A noise from the next room warned them that the woman was waking up. Hawise put a finger to her lips. ‘Mother’s waking,’ she whispered. The girls fell silent. Both knew it was wrong for them to be so familiar with each other. After all, Hawise was just a servant and must keep her place.

Anne Dallon, the woman in the next room, had suckled both girls at the same time, one on each breast. She had become pregnant during her mistress’s progress as lady-in-waiting to the queen. When the young lords had drunk their fill at any great celebration or feast in the noble houses of England, mistress and maid stood the same risk in those long dark corridors, fabulous gardens and isolated chambers. The young Lady Lettice Knollys was also with child after that first visit to Lord Leicester’s estate, and although her husband, Walter Devereux, had no doubts about the parentage of his first child, a few tongues did wag. No high-born lady suckled her young, so it fell upon the full-breasted Anne Dallon to care for the baby girl alongside her own. And as Lady Lettice continued to live a wild and high-spirited life, it was left to the servant to bring the girls up together.

Despite the differences in their rank, time had only drawn the girls closer. Lady Penelope Devereux shared everything with her serving maid, Hawise, and could not imagine life without her by her side.

‘We look almost like sisters,’ said Hawise, casually tilting her head to one side. ‘But your hair is fair, almost red, and mine is brown.’

‘True,’ agreed Penelope, ‘in the shadow our faces are much alike.’ Hawise brought a hand-mirror to her mistress and, standing behind, she rested her chin on Penelope’s shoulder so that the mirror reflected both their youthful faces. Indeed, they had the same long aristocratic nose, the wide brow, the narrow chin, the elongated eyes – Penelope’s were black and Hawise’s were hazel. Fascinated, they stared at their faces for several minutes.

‘Perhaps it was the milk,’ suggested Hawise.

‘Nonsense,’ said Penelope wisely, ‘that would not have made any difference.’

Hawise shrugged her shoulders and frowned in puzzlement as she remembered something. ‘The soldiers at the gate made strange talk today,’ she said slowly. ‘They were laughing and one said that the cuckoo had been here twice and was likely to come again this spring.’

Penelope pursed her lips. ‘What twaddle!’ she snapped. ‘You should learn not to eavesdrop. Hand me my robe,’ she added, reaching out her hand.

The next morning Penelope’s grandfather, Sir Francis Knollys, arrived at Chartley Hall with his advisers. He was old and stern, and dressed in sombre colours. His white hair was sparse and thin on top, revealing a broad and noble brow. But his forehead was wrinkled with worry lines from a lifetime of loyal service to his queen. He had come today to do his best for his newly widowed daughter and her children. He had little sympathy for Lettice; her licentious ways had hardly been a secret at court. But there were the children . . .

Lettice sat before her father now, a black veil covering her face as she wept for her dead husband. ‘Crocodile tears,’ grunted Sir Francis. ‘We all know you are not sorry to be rid of the poor fellow. You cuckolded him often enough.’

He was saying these words when Penelope entered the room. Immediately his tone changed. ‘Ah, Lady Penelope, quite grown-up, I see.’ He bowed his head as she dropped a polite curtsy. ‘Sad eyes,’ he remarked as he scrutinised her. ‘Soon be looking for a suitor.’

A nurse then brought in Penelope’s younger brother. Immediately all attention was focused on the new Earl of Essex. Almost ten, Robert Devereux was tall for his age, and handsome, with a mop of chestnut curls. He hugged and kissed his grandfather with a genuine display of charm and affection, and then stood boldly upright beside the table while the advisers shuffled their papers and discussed his future with his grandfather.

From her place beside her mother, Penelope watched the scene and was slowly possessed by a strange feeling. Something told her she would soon be leaving this lovely home. The thought filled her with melancholy. Glancing sideways, she surveyed her mother’s beautiful face under the veil. It looked sullen rather than sad. The Countess was already dressed in her travelling cloak, waiting to be taken on the long journey to Wales to receive the body of her late husband now on its long way home across the stormy Irish Sea. He was to be buried in Camarthen, the place of his birth.

The air was tense among the gentlemen; there was much discussion. Eventually they rose and Grandfather Knollys gave instructions for Robert to ride back with him to London.

After everyone had gone their separate ways, Penelope and Hawise met in the gallery. ‘I’ve never seen Mother so disturbed,’ Penelope confided. ‘Robert is to be a ward of Lord Cecil, the Chancellor. Mother cannot abide Mildred, Lady Cecil.’

‘Does that mean he will not come home to Chartley any more?’ enquired Hawise, wide-eyed with concern for young Robert.

‘When he comes of age he can return; then he will turn Mother out.’

This seemed to please Hawise. A small grin appeared on her pink lips and dimples in her cheeks. ‘Sometimes, I’m very glad that I am low-born. I may not be free; I’ll always be a servant. But at least I’ll be able to choose my own husband. That’s more than you will.’

Penelope’s face flushed with annoyance. ‘What are you saying, Hawise?’ she demanded. ‘You know I shall choose my own man! I’ve always said I would.’

Hawise shook her head, sad to shatter Penelope’s childhood dream. ‘They are already looking for a husband for you,’ she said. ‘He must be wealthy because your father left nothing but debts. They say your brother Robert is the poorest earl in England.’

Penelope stamped her foot as two red spots of temper appeared on her cheeks. Her black eyes flashed. ‘How dare you, Hawise! I’ll do as I please. Get on with your work!’ she ordered.

Penelope spent the rest of the afternoon in her willow tree, thinking about all the changes in her life happening now because of her father’s sudden death. She thought of poor Robert in the care of the dreadful, pious Lady Cecil, and she wondered if she would be sent away too. Perhaps she would have to go north to live with Catherine Hastings, Lord Leicester’s sister, who had been in charge of her younger siblings, Dorothy and Walter, since last year.

The swaying leaves of the green willow and the gentle ripples on the silver pool soon calmed her, and later she heard that she was to stay at Chartley for the time being at least. Penelope was overjoyed not to have to leave her beloved home in Staffordshire, and hoped that she would never have to.

 

Penelope spent much of the autumn while her mother was away riding her pony around the grounds, appreciating more than ever the natural beauty around her. When Hawise could escape from her duties, she would join her mistress, walking beside the pony as they ambled about.

‘My mother says that the queen hates her Ladyship, your mother,’ declared Hawise one morning as they wandered through the woods. The pony’s hoofs thudded rhythmically on the carpet of leaves that covered the ground.

‘Don’t be so silly, Hawise,’ scoffed Penelope. ‘My mother is the queen’s cousin. My mother’s grandmother was Mary Boleyn, sister of Anne Boleyn, the queen’s mother.’

‘It’s because she stole Lord Leicester from her,’ Hawise insisted.

‘Your mother is an old scandalmonger,’ retorted Penelope.

‘The queen might cut off your mother’s head,’ returned Hawise.

‘Don’t be so absurd!’ Penelope was quite cross, but nonetheless stared apprehensively towards the house. It was a familiar view that she loved dearly; the large manor looked so small from such a distance, the river a strip of silver ribbon, the lake a small silk handkerchief. She noticed then a large procession coming along the tree-lined drive. ‘It’s Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mother’s come home!’ She pushed the pony into a trot. ‘Come on, Hawise, I must greet her in the house.’

The two girls hurried quickly down the hill – Lady Penelope sitting elegantly sidesaddle on her pony, and the pretty maid-servant tripping along beside her. Penelope was surprised to feel so happy that her mother was returning from Wales at last, but then she did love her, despite their frequent clashes.

As they drew nearer, they noticed another group of riders approaching the house from the west gate. ‘Who can they be?’ said Hawise, stopping to stare at them.

‘Hurry!’ Penelope urged. ‘If Mother catches you, she’ll have you whipped.’

Behind the house they parted. Hawise went in through the back door, but Penelope slipped in through a window, crouching low as she passed her mother’s room, but pausing momentarily to peek in.

The Countess, already stripped of her travelling gown, stood poised, her hand freeing the lovely red-gold hair that rippled down to her waist. For a second Penelope admired that white silk robe that contrasted with those black passionate eyes, so like her own. Unaware of her daughter’s presence, Lettice was looking towards the far door as if expecting someone to enter.

And then, indeed, the door flew open as Lord Leicester burst in, dusty from riding and still wearing his long muddy leather boots. Without a sound their bodies met as they clasped each other tightly. Leicester picked her up and bore her down onto the bed, holding her in a hot embrace, and ripping the beautiful silk robe in his haste. Penelope watched in horror and, as a dry sob escaped from her throat, she turned and fled down to her chamber where she threw herself on the floor, weeping hysterically. She cried so hard that neither Hawise nor Anne Dallon could quieten her for many hours.

Later that day orders came for Penelope to join her mother in the great hall for supper. Hawise helped her into a yellow satin bodice and skirt, with a tight waist and embroidered sleeves. Her hair was coiled around her head and covered with a jewelled caul and a court bonnet. ‘You look beautiful,’ declared Hawise. ‘Just like a queen.’

‘I don’t feel it,’ complained Penelope. ‘I shall not be civil to him.’

‘To Lord Leicester? Why ever not? He is handsome and brave and, besides your mother is in love with him,’ scolded the maid.

‘I shall not!’ Penelope repeated stubbornly.

The meal was unbearable for the young girl. Her mother was very merry and chattered like a monkey; Lord Leicester and his men were all noisy and drunk. A young man was seated next to Penelope. He had gentle manners and thoughtful brown eyes. Valiantly, he tried to engage her in conversation, but she simply put out her tongue and looked away. Lord Leicester watched her for a while with keen grey eyes. Despite the drink, he was very alert. Reaching across the table, he put his hand under her chin and he stared directly into her black eyes. He did not like what he saw – hatred, rebellion and rage – and he let her go without a word.

After the meal the ladies retired, leaving the men to continue their celebrating. Penelope sat with her mother before the crackling fire. The Countess worked at her embroidery frame with nimble fingers, occasionally looking up at her sulky daughter. ‘I did not like your behaviour at the table, Penelope,’ she said sharply. ‘My Lord Leicester brought his guest especially as company for you.’

Penelope sniffed and looked away. ‘He need not have bothered,’ she retorted aggressively.

Her mother paled and her lips tightened. But she was too angry to say more.

‘Have I your permission to retire, Mother? I’ve got a headache.’ Penelope excused herself.

‘Yes, you had better retire,’ replied the Countess in acid tones. ‘And in future you will eat in your chamber until you learn to behave.’

Penelope thrust out her chin defiantly and narrowed her dark eyes as she caught her mother’s stare. ‘It is you who should learn to behave, Mother,’ she said icily. ‘My father scarce cold in his grave and already you are bedded with another.’

A slim hand shot out and dealt her a stinging blow on the face. ‘Get out of my sight, you vixen! How dare you speak to me like that?’ The Countess rose from her seat and took a threatening step towards Penelope, who quickly ran from the room, blinded by frustrating tears, tasting the blood that trickled from the cut caused by the rings on her mother’s hand. From the shadows in the corridor, Hawise appeared to comfort her, and back in her room, Anne Dallon gently bathed the wound. ‘You should not provoke your mother,’ the servant said. ‘You know she has a quick temper.’

‘I hate her!’ cried Penelope, wincing from the pain of her cut mouth. ‘I hope she gets punished.’

Anne muttered a furtive prayer. She knew her mistress played with fire and had done so for many years. ‘Now, my lady, calm yourself,’ she coaxed. ‘The ways of the great ones are not for children to question.’

Penelope turned, her head held high, her fine figure upright. ‘You may be correct,’ she said in a low trembling voice. ‘But I am no longer a child; my mother has seen to that.’

 

In the south wing, Lettice lay in the arms of her lover, her slim white body pressed close to his. She was feeling contrite. ‘I struck Penelope,’ she wept. ‘I could not stand that look, the condemnation in her eyes.’

‘You must send her away, madam.’ Lord Leicester stroked her loose golden hair and nuzzled her ear as he spoke. ‘She is wilful and headstrong,’ he advised. ‘She will need a tight rein.’

Lettice shook her head fiercely. ‘I cannot bear to part with her. I don’t mind being parted from Dorothy and Walter,. . .