Penelope by Anya Wylde

hand
automatically shooting out to catch a naughty cupid escaping with
her bottle of holy spirit. In heaven one never suffered a sore
head, no matter how much liquid sloshed in your belly. Smiling
tearfully, she adjusted a halo atop a celestial wolfhound and
leaned back on her seat of clouds to watch the day unfold.
    Back in the
guestroom of the Blackthorne Mansion, Penelope squeezed her eyes
shut harder, trying desperately to sleep for a touch longer.
    The clatter of
cups, someone poking the fire and a cheery tune assaulted her ears
next. She flung the quilt back and glowered at her smiling
maid.
    “Good morning,
Miss Pea,” Mary said, her cheeks pink with exercise, her eyes
bright and sporting a jolly expression.
    Penelope
wondered if women were hanged. If she murdered her maid, would she
get away with it? If one planned things properly, she mused,
blowing a strand of hair away from her face. Her hair somehow
always took time ceding to gravity. Gravity always won, but the
battle left her looking like a fluffy new mop every morning. She
blearily reached for her cup of tea and sipped in silence.
    Mary’s love
affair with the stablehand was progressing satisfactorily. That
morning the stablehand had caught Mary’s hand and given her the
ends of his candle stubs. She explained this entire romantic scene
to Penelope in great detail, stressing the amount of times she had
blushed and how many times he had stammered.
    Normally
Penelope would have asked her for more details and relished the
gossip. She would have been happy for her maid and given her some
helpful advice on how best to woo the stablehand.
    But today was
not a normal day because tiny little creatures created from a
mixture of brandy and wine had made their way up from Penelope’s
stomach to her head. They now sat playing untuned violins and
strident flutes.
    So while Mary
chattered on, Penelope eyed her through bloodshot eyes and
meditated on the number of ways a mistress could kill her lady’s
maid.
    Soon things
became even more trying for Penelope because Mary approached her
with a comb. Mary was clever, she mused. A comb running through
tangled hair atop a head that throbbed was an excellent weapon. She
stared at her cup mournfully. Not a drop remained of the scalding
hot tea which could have been a brilliant counter weapon. Irritably
she allowed Mary to attack. It was better to stay passive and
suffer than attempt to win a war bare handed.
    So Mary combed,
pulled, tugged and struggled. And as Mary battled the knots in
Penelope’s hair, her sparkling chatter turned into disgruntled
silence, the smile faded from her lips, and soon her good humour
was entirely replaced with a glower.
    Nothing annoyed
a lady’s maid more than a nest of wild, disobedient and knotted
hair. Penelope felt revenged and refreshed. She splashed her face,
scrubbed her teeth and wore her new spotted muslin in a more genial
mood.
    ***
    Penelope sat on
an antique chair inspecting her swollen ankle. It was worse; angry
and red. She poked it gingerly and winced in pain. And then a
moment later she poked it again. It was still painful. Mornings in
the Blackthorne Mansion, it seemed, were a time for
self-flagellation.
    Penelope
squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relive the night’s
events. The drunken debacle, the duke’s horrid words and the goat
with the duke’s underthing flashed through her mind in vivid
detail. She did not enjoy reliving these scenes, but past
experience had taught her that recalling the embarrassing memories
soon after the event occurs dampens the cringeworthy feelings a
bit. It is never as bad as you think.
    Unfortunately,
recalling the night’s events did not make her feel any better. If
anything, she was cringing all the more.
    Penelope forced
herself to breathe. Her cold hands tried to cool her heated cheeks
while her brain tried to figure out the fastest way out of London
without being seen. After entertaining herself with thoughts of
running away