LITMIR.BIZ

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of all, she was careful where she stepped.

      When she’d completed her quiet survey of the drawing room, she gave a weary sigh. “Oh, Penelope.”

      “It’s lovely to see you, too, Aunt.”

      Her aunt’s eyes fell on the quilt-lined basket near the hearth. “Is that still the same hedgehog?”

      Penny decided to change the subject. “Do sit down, and I’ll ring for a new pot of tea.”

      “Thank you, no.” Her aunt plucked a tuft of cat hair from the armchair, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger and holding it away from her body. Frowning at the bit of fluff, she released it and watched it waft to the floor. “What I have to say won’t take long, anyhow. I’ve had a letter from Bradford. He insists you return to Cumberland.”

      Penny was stunned. “For the summer?”

      “For the remainder of your life, I believe.”

       No.

       No, no, no.

      Her aunt lifted a hand, barricading herself against dissent. “Your brother has asked me to tell you he’ll be traveling to London in a month’s time. He asked me to be certain you’re prepared to join him for the return journey.”

      Penny’s heart sank. She was a grown woman, and therefore could not be ordered to pick up and move to the farthest reaches of England. However, the snag was this—even if she was a grown woman, she was still a woman. This house belonged to her father, and while her father was out of the country, Bradford had control. Penny lived in Bloom Square at his pleasure. If he demanded she remove to Cumberland, she would have little choice in the matter.

      “Aunt Caroline, please. Can’t you write back and convince him to change his mind?”

      “I’ll do no such thing. I happen to agree with your brother. In fact, I ought to have suggested it myself. I did promise your parents I would look after you, but now that the war is over I intend to travel the Continent. You shouldn’t be living alone.”

      “I’m six-and-twenty years old, and I’m not living alone. I have Mrs. Robbins.”

      Wordlessly, her aunt picked up the bell from the tea table and gave it a light ring.

      Several moments passed. No Mrs. Robbins.

      Aunt Caroline craned her neck toward the main corridor and lifted her voice. “Mrs. Robbins!”

      Penny crossed her arms and sighed, fully aware of the point her aunt meant to make. “She’s always looked after me.”

      “She isn’t looking after you any longer. You are looking after her.”

      “Just because the old dear is a touch hard of hearing—”

      Aunt Caroline stomped on the floor three times—boom, boom, boom—and shouted, “MRS. ROBBINS!”

      At last, the sound of aged, shuffling footsteps made its way from the back of the house to the drawing room.

      “My word!” Mrs. Robbins said. “If it isn’t Lady Caroline. I didn’t know you’d dropped by. Shall I bring tea?”

      “No, thank you, Robbins. You’ve served your purpose already.”

      “Have I?” The older woman looked confused. “Yes, of course.”

      Once Mrs. Robbins had quit the room, Penny addressed her aunt. “I don’t wish to leave. I’m happy living in Town. My life is here. All my friends are here.”

      “Your life and your friends are … where?” Aunt Caroline looked meaningfully at each one of the unoccupied chairs, at the trays of cold tea and uneaten sandwiches, and, finally, at the three kittens shredding the draperies with their tiny claws.

      “I have human friends, as well,” Penny said defensively.

      Her aunt looked doubtful.

      “I do. Several of them.”

      Her aunt glanced at the silver tray in the entrance hall. The one where calling cards and invitations were heaped—or would be, if Penny ever received them, which she didn’t. The tray was empty.

      “Some of my friends are out of Town.” Aware of how absurd she sounded, she added, “And others are mad scientists.”

      Another pitying sigh from her aunt. “We must face the truth, Penelope. It’s time.”

       It’s time.

      Penny didn’t need to ask what her aunt meant by that. The implication was clear.

      Aunt Caroline meant it was time to give up.

      Time for Penny to return to the family home in Cumberland and resign herself to her destiny: spinsterhood. She must take on the role of maiden aunt and stop embarrassing both the family and herself.

      After nine years in Town, she hadn’t married. She hadn’t even entertained any serious suitors. She rarely mingled in society. If she were being honest, she would strike “rarely” and replace it with “never.” She didn’t have any intellectual pursuits like art or science or poetry. No bluestocking salons, no social reform protests. She stayed home with her pets and invited her misfit friends to tea, and …

      And outside her tiny sphere, people laughed at her.

      Penny knew they did. She’d been an object of pity and ridicule ever since her disastrous debut. It didn’t bother her, except—well, except for the times that it did.

      As a person who wanted to like everyone, it hurt to know that not everyone liked her in return.

      Society had long given up on her. Now her family, as well.

      But Penny was not giving up on herself. When her aunt moved to leave, she grasped her by the arm.

      “Wait. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind? If you advocated on my behalf, I know Bradford would reconsider.”

      Her aunt was silent.

      “Aunt Caroline, please. I beg you.”

      Penny could not return to Cumberland, back to the house where she’d passed the darkest hours of her life. The house where she’d learned to bottle shame and store it in a dark place, out of view.

       You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?

      Her aunt pursed her lips. “Very well. To begin, you might order a new wardrobe. Fur and feathers are all well and good—but only when they are worn on purpose, and in a fashionable way.”

      “I can order a new wardrobe.” It wouldn’t include fur and feather adornments, but Penny could promise it would be new.

      “And once you have a new wardrobe, you must use it. The opera. A dinner party. A ball would be preferable, but we both know that’s too much to ask.”

      Ouch. Penny would never live down that humiliating scene.

      “Make an appearance somewhere,” her aunt said. “Anywhere. I want to see you in the society column for once.”

      “I can do that, too.” I think.

      Considering how long she’d been out of circulation, invitations to dinner and the theater would be harder to come by than a few up-to-current-fashion gowns. Nevertheless, it could be accomplished.

      “Lastly, and most importantly”—Aunt Caroline paused for effect—“you must do something about all these animals.”

      “What do you mean, ‘do something’ about them?”

      “Be rid of them. All of them.”

      “All of them?” Penny reeled. Impossible. She could find homes for the kittens. That had always been her plan. But Delilah? Bixby? Angus, Marigold, Hubert, and the rest? “I can’t. I simply can’t.”

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