picture frame. She turned it over, saw the engraving—and froze.
It was Plate 2 of Wm. Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode series.
Penelope opened the other five packages, but she knew already what they would contain. Plate 1, of course—“The Marriage Settlement”—showed Lord Squanderfield displaying his mortgages and his ancient family tree to the stooped, myopic merchant while their two bored children sat in the corner, the young nobleman preening in the mirror and the merchant’s daughter flirting with another man. The next three plates showed in lovingly gruesome detail the young couple’s idle, unchaste life, chiefly spent apart from each other.
In the fifth plate the bride knelt beside her dying husband as her lover escaped out the window, leaving his bloody sword behind him. In Plate 6—Penelope felt sick—in Plate 6 the widow, back in her father’s house, had taken an overdose of laudanum on hearing of her lover’s execution. A nurse held her syphilitic child as the merchant himself slipped the gold ring off his dying daughter’s finger with an appraising eye.
Penelope picked up the neatly written note in the bottom of the crate and read it. Lady Bedlow—I hope you will accept this small token of my esteem on the occasion of your marriage. I saw them and thought of you at once. I hope you will be very happy as a countess. Fondest regards, Edward Macaulay .
The door opened, and Penelope crumpled the paper in her fist.
“Penny, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Brown asked in dismay.
Penelope straightened. “It’s nothing, Mama.” Her voice quavered. “Only a tasteless joke. A wedding present, you see.”
Mrs. Brown came closer. “Hogarth!” Then she saw which engravings they were. Her smile faded. “Who sent those to you?”
“I don’t know,” Penelope lied. “There was no note.”
“What kind of devil would do such a thing? It’s bad luck! And on your wedding day too.”
“Don’t be superstitious, Mama.”
Mrs. Brown knotted her fingers together. “But—but who could hate you so much?”
Penelope would not cry. “It’s just someone’s idea of a joke,” she repeated mechanically.
Mrs. Brown’s gaze lingered on the crate, clearly marked PARIS. Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment. “Here, come help me choose my pelisse. I bought some new ones.”
“Won’t we be late?”
Mrs. Brown looked at the clock. “We have time. Comeon. After today, there will be no one to laugh and tell me they become me abominably.”
Penelope smiled around the lump in her throat. “All right, Mama. You go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”
The minister’s voice droned on and on. Nev looked at his bride. She looked adorable—her shining brown hair was braided and curled and adorned with about fifty silk forget-me-nots that fluttered and bobbed with every movement of her head. Her light-blue muslin dress was embroidered with more of the small flowers. Yes, she looked adorable—but she had been crying. Nev was sure of it. He had not the faintest idea what to do.
This was not how he had imagined his wedding. Not that he sat around dreaming of it like a girl ; but yes, he’d thought of it once or twice, and he’d always planned a last glorious night of bachelor debauchery, a bride with an indistinct but joyful countenance, and—and Percy or Thirkell at his side, or the two of them grinning at him from the front row and miming toasts and the key turning in a leg shackle.
Instead, he had spent his last night of freedom sitting in his rooms, sober as a judge, gazing at the empty decanter and thinking about Amy. He had gone to bed early. Now, his friends weren’t in the church at all, his mother was sobbing brokenheartedly, and his sister was sitting furiously straight and refusing to look at him. And his bride had been crying.
He couldn’t blame her. Tomorrow night they would be at Loweston. Loweston doesn’t look quite the same anymore.
Trapped in the country on a run-down estate. Far
It was Plate 2 of Wm. Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode series.
Penelope opened the other five packages, but she knew already what they would contain. Plate 1, of course—“The Marriage Settlement”—showed Lord Squanderfield displaying his mortgages and his ancient family tree to the stooped, myopic merchant while their two bored children sat in the corner, the young nobleman preening in the mirror and the merchant’s daughter flirting with another man. The next three plates showed in lovingly gruesome detail the young couple’s idle, unchaste life, chiefly spent apart from each other.
In the fifth plate the bride knelt beside her dying husband as her lover escaped out the window, leaving his bloody sword behind him. In Plate 6—Penelope felt sick—in Plate 6 the widow, back in her father’s house, had taken an overdose of laudanum on hearing of her lover’s execution. A nurse held her syphilitic child as the merchant himself slipped the gold ring off his dying daughter’s finger with an appraising eye.
Penelope picked up the neatly written note in the bottom of the crate and read it. Lady Bedlow—I hope you will accept this small token of my esteem on the occasion of your marriage. I saw them and thought of you at once. I hope you will be very happy as a countess. Fondest regards, Edward Macaulay .
The door opened, and Penelope crumpled the paper in her fist.
“Penny, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Brown asked in dismay.
Penelope straightened. “It’s nothing, Mama.” Her voice quavered. “Only a tasteless joke. A wedding present, you see.”
Mrs. Brown came closer. “Hogarth!” Then she saw which engravings they were. Her smile faded. “Who sent those to you?”
“I don’t know,” Penelope lied. “There was no note.”
“What kind of devil would do such a thing? It’s bad luck! And on your wedding day too.”
“Don’t be superstitious, Mama.”
Mrs. Brown knotted her fingers together. “But—but who could hate you so much?”
Penelope would not cry. “It’s just someone’s idea of a joke,” she repeated mechanically.
Mrs. Brown’s gaze lingered on the crate, clearly marked PARIS. Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment. “Here, come help me choose my pelisse. I bought some new ones.”
“Won’t we be late?”
Mrs. Brown looked at the clock. “We have time. Comeon. After today, there will be no one to laugh and tell me they become me abominably.”
Penelope smiled around the lump in her throat. “All right, Mama. You go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”
The minister’s voice droned on and on. Nev looked at his bride. She looked adorable—her shining brown hair was braided and curled and adorned with about fifty silk forget-me-nots that fluttered and bobbed with every movement of her head. Her light-blue muslin dress was embroidered with more of the small flowers. Yes, she looked adorable—but she had been crying. Nev was sure of it. He had not the faintest idea what to do.
This was not how he had imagined his wedding. Not that he sat around dreaming of it like a girl ; but yes, he’d thought of it once or twice, and he’d always planned a last glorious night of bachelor debauchery, a bride with an indistinct but joyful countenance, and—and Percy or Thirkell at his side, or the two of them grinning at him from the front row and miming toasts and the key turning in a leg shackle.
Instead, he had spent his last night of freedom sitting in his rooms, sober as a judge, gazing at the empty decanter and thinking about Amy. He had gone to bed early. Now, his friends weren’t in the church at all, his mother was sobbing brokenheartedly, and his sister was sitting furiously straight and refusing to look at him. And his bride had been crying.
He couldn’t blame her. Tomorrow night they would be at Loweston. Loweston doesn’t look quite the same anymore.
Trapped in the country on a run-down estate. Far
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