She took deep breaths and tried to be still; every movement made the nausea worse. She loved Nev. She would have told him so, last night. She was pitifully grateful that he hadn’t let her.
Still, he must know. She had barely stopped touching him the whole evening. Everyone must know. Edward must know. Oh, God, had she really tried to take her hair down in the carriage? Had Nev really had to cajole her into propriety as if she were a spoiled child? Had she really told him his hair was like cinnamon? That he made her dizzy?
Her mouth tasted like acid and her head ached. She planted her hands on either side of the washstand and stared in the mirror, her chest still heaving. In the brutal light of morning she saw her plain face and slight form swathed in blue and gold and felt sicker than she had ever felt in her life. She looked like a sparrow borrowing a peacock’s feathers, and she had let herself feel pretty. She had let herself feel beautiful, because Nev had said she was. Dear, sweet Nev who must have said that to a million girls. Who must have made a million girls believe it.
Nev cares about me, she reminded herself. He respects me. Well, he did before last night. That was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? A marriage based on reason and compromise and mutual esteem?
Reason and compromise and mutual esteem were shadowy intellectual conceits. Her love for Nev was blood and bone and sinew. It was all true, all the poetry and the damn Minerva Press novels. She really did feel as though she would die without him.
But the idea of living with him, like this, knowing that she loved him, was far worse. God, her head ached! She wanted someone else to fix it, to comfort her, to smooth back her hair and give her cool water to drink. She wanted Nev.
She shied away from that, searching for something safe, and thought of her mother. What would Mrs. Brown say? She wouldn’t understand, that was certain; she wouldn’t see that it was complicated. She’d say, What a lot of fuss over nothing, Penny. Just tell him how you feel!
Penelope could tell him. Perhaps-perhaps he felt the same way. Perhaps she could be happy. He liked her, he cared about her, he’d told her again and again how much-
But she couldn’t even think it without a sense of impending horror so strong she could not get round it. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t let herself believe that he might return her feelings. What if she were wrong?
Knowing that she burned for him while he thought her a very nice girl was bad enough. But if he knew it and pitied her and tried to be kind-and if he knew, moreover, that she had hoped-
She had to compromise. She would stay and see him every day and never tell him how she felt.
But she knew that she couldn’t do that either. She couldn’t compromise on this. Always before she had been in control of herself, the one thing she could have mastery over, and now she was come to the end of that control.
Nausea washed over her again in dizzying waves. She needed time. Time to think, time to come to terms with herself. Time to hide, she told herself scornfully. And, What of it? she snapped right back. Her head felt like it was inside out; she just needed a little time-
Nev opened the door between their rooms. She turned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She had never felt more unglamorous. He looked fresh and rumpled and happy and handsome beyond bearing, and she could not speak.
“Have a head, do you? You didn’t drink much, it shouldn’t be too bad. After you’ve drunk some tea and had breakfast, you’ll feel right as rain.”
The thought of breakfast made her gorge rise; he must have seen it, because he came forward and brushed her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
“I know it sounds all wrong,” he said, and she thought how very dear his voice was, how it was the first thing she had loved, without knowing it, “but bacon and eggs are just the thing when you feel rotten the morning after drinking.”
Breakfast with Nev. She remembered him licking honey off her fingers, and tears stung her eyes. She felt so sick, and she just wanted to lie down and have Nev read to her. Sing to her, maybe.
“What’s wrong, sweet?”
If she went down to breakfast with him she would stay. “I’m going home.” As soon as she blurted it out, she was choked with longing. Her mother might not understand, but she would hold her, she would stroke her hair, she would love her. And Penelope could lie in her familiar bed and eat familiar English food and feel safe.
There was a moment’s pause; then Nev said, as though he must have misheard her, “What?”
“I need some time to think. We both do-Nev, you know things have been awful. And I’m the one who got all your people arrested, it’ll be easier without me. I’ll go stay with my parents for a while. I can’t think here, Nev, everyone hates me-” Oh, God, she sounded like a child. She sounded pathetic and she wanted to slap herself. But it was the truth.
“I don’t hate you!”
She turned her face away.
“Surely this isn’t necessary. Tell me what’s wrong. Surely we can compromise-”
She flinched. “No,” she said. “No. I’ve been compromising all my life.”
“I just-I don’t understand. Last night-” He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.
Last night I made it plain to the entire neighborhood that I worship you passionately? Is that what you were going to say? she wanted to shout, humiliated. Instead she said, “I’m very sorry for my behavior last night. I know I must have embarrassed you sorely.”
“Penelope, what is going on? What happened? Are you really serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious!” she said angrily. “Why is it so hard to believe?” She knew the reason was her own foolish behavior. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She couldn’t even look at him, not when his disbelief and hurt were plain in his voice. Take it back, a voice whispered. Apologize. You’re being selfish and foolish and all kinds of irrational. But she wanted to be selfish, damn it. She wanted to do what was right for her, just this once. “I can’t stay, Nev. I need to think. I’ll just go home, for a while, and then we’ll see. We’ll talk. Whatever happens, I’ll make sure you keep the money, I promise-”
“Hang the money! This is your home!”
She stared. He stalked toward her, looking as if he would grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Backing hastily away, she trod on a wilted chrysanthemum. The smell made her gag.
“Just tell me one thing. Last night, if I had let you tell me how you felt, is this what you would have said?”
God, his eyes were blue.
“Are you telling me that-that was a goddamned goodbye present?”
She was against the wall now, trapped. She couldn’t let me believe that, but-
The door opened and a white-faced Lady Bedlow flew in. “Louisa’s eloped!” She took in the scene. “Penelope, dear, what on earth are you wearing?”
And so, for the second time in twelve hours, Nev found himself making the carriage ride to Greygloss. But this time, Louisa wasn’t with them. How had everything gone so terribly wrong? It was worse, even, than those two weeks after his father had died, before he had proposed to Penelope. Then there had been hours of books and faulty arithmetic and a faint, persistent grief; now there was a jagged hole inside him. He had thought he had fixed everything. He had thought that with Penelope by his side, everything might come out all right in the end. Just last night, it had seemed as if, maybe, everything was all right.