Die I Will Not by S. K. Rizzolo Page B

encouraged her to use her literary talents in some form, albeit in the Tory cause. What would happen to Mary? Would she experience her husband’s death as a release, a liberation? Mr. Rex had suggested that Mary sought a refuge in wedding her unlikable husband, but this attempt was unlikely to have been successful. To marry for the wrong reasons rarely was, Penelope thought wryly, but then again to marry for love was apt to be just as risky.
    She wondered what her own life would have been like had she herself chosen otherwise, and, unbidden, the image of Edward Buckler rose before her. It had been a relief to see him so full of energy and purpose, for she had sometimes pictured him spending his days in his chambers among his books and papers with little to do but indulge in gloomy thoughts. He was a man who needed to put himself in the current of life. What he really needed was a wife, she decided with a sternly repressed pang.
    Maggie, beginning to nod over her embroidery, gave a wide yawn and folded up the dress. “I’m off to bed, mum. Waxing moon tonight—grand it is. I saw it from the nursery window when I put the children to bed.” She crossed herself unselfconsciously. “ God and the holy Virgin be about me . I see the moon, and the moon sees me . Reminds me of my mam. Best not take chances, she used to say.” Despite her robust commonsense, Maggie had a superstitious streak that revealed itself at odd moments, a trait Penelope shared, her own childhood having been filled with Sicilian lore whispered to her by an old nurse.
    Later, having retired to her bedroom, Penelope listened to faint creaks as the house settled around her, quiet and peaceful. A candle burned on the table, and the room was mostly in shadow. The maid and the manservant had retired to their rest in the attics above, the cook was asleep in her basement apartment, and Jeremy had not yet returned from an engagement. She felt restless, the novel on her bedside table failing to hold her attention. Finally, she tossed aside the bedcovers to approach the window. Taking care not to be visible from the street, she gazed out through a crack in the blind for some minutes, unmoving, her heart troubled. At this hour the street was deserted but for the occasional coach passing by, and she watched the neighbors’ lights blinking out, one by one. For once, the air was clear enough that she could admire the gibbous moon floating among a few visible stars. In this hour of mystery, the chimney pots reminded her of the turrets of a castle in some remote country, and she began, idly, to spin a foolish tale of forbidden love and ancient curses. Then the cry of the night watchman broke the stillness. Penelope let the blind drop and went to bed alone.
    ***
    Noah Packet crept into the Brown Bear as Chase sat over a glass of hot gin and a half-eaten lamb chop. “Hungry?” Chase asked.
    â€œWon’t say no to a morsel.”
    â€œYou’ve earned it.” Chase nodded at the barmaid and sat back to regard Packet. His hat was missing. He was liberally bedaubed in mud from his tousled hair to his cracked, old boots, a smear decorating each cheek. One side of his face was bruised and bleeding, one of his eyes swollen shut. Moreover, the glory of his new blue coat was quite dimmed: it too was covered in filth, and he had lost one of his shiny buttons. Exhausted, he slumped in his chair, avoiding Chase’s gaze and wrinkling up his nose at the musty smell that rose from his clothing as it began to dry in the tavern’s warmth. He looked like a gnome that had crawled out of the earth.
    â€œWhat happened, Noah?”
    â€œI followed the fellow, but he smoked me.”
    When the tavern maid slapped a plate and glass in front of Packet, he paused a moment to wrap his hands around his gin and take a long swallow, his throat working convulsively. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. Chase had to strain to hear