The King's Evil

Penelope Northcott sat on the edge of the bed and held the objects in her hands. She had not dared to show them to her mother. It had never even occured to her to share her discovery with George Strype. Whether from fear or consideration of another's feelings, she kept them hidden and lied to her mother about their existence. Found during her search of the Westminster house, they had caused her intense unease yet she could not bring herself to throw them away and forget that they ever existed. They were too important for that. As she laid them on the bed, she saw the objects as yet another part of a troublesome legacy. If she gave them to her mother, she suspected, they would only end up on a fire in her beloved garden.

Lady Northcott was quickly learning to live without her husband. It would be cruel to open yet another gaping wound in her past. Penelope elected to carry the revelation inside her until it could be divulged to the one person who might find it instructive. Sir Ambrose Northcott was a private man but even his daughter had not expected this level of secrecy. She wondered how long this particular deception had been sustained.

A tap on her door forced her to abandon her contemplation.

'Penelope!' called her mother. 'Are you there?'

'One moment!' she answered, hiding the objects under the pillow.

'May I come in?'

'Of course, Mother.'

Lady Northcott entered with a look of concern on her face.

'Why have you stayed in your room all afternoon?'

'I was tired.'

'Well, I expect some company this evening,' warned the other. 'I would like to continue the conversation we had in the garden yesterday.'

'Yesterday?'

'About George.'

'Indeed?'

'I think that you should consider postponing the wedding.'

Penelope nodded. 'It has been at the forefront of my mind.'

'Have you reached a decision?'

'No, Mother. It would be unfair to do that before I speak to George.'

'And when is that likely to be?'

'I am not sure.'

'You cannot tarry forever.'

Penelope nodded, moving to the window in thought. She looked into her future with trepidation then remembered the possessions of her father which she had just concealed beneath her pillow. When she came back to her mother, there was an apologetic note in her voice.

'Would you mind if I did not join you this evening?' she said. 'I will retire early so that I can leave at dawn tomorrow.'

'Where are you going, Penelope?'

'Back to London.'

Her mother stiffened. 'To see George Strype?'

'No,' said her daughter. 'Mr Christopher Redmayne.'