unlovelywoman, Miss Trenton, because you have a carping, mean, and unlovely soul,’ and then he strode before her into the inn. Miss Trenton stood stock-still and burst into tears, but it was a lachrymose age when everyone prided themselves on their ability to cry, and so no one even turned around to inquire why she was so distressed.
The passengers were weary, but on the coachman’s reminding them that they were now only twenty-six miles from Portsmouth, all agreed to dine and go on. Benjamin wrote that he felt well enough to stand the rest of the journey.
They dined quickly and then returned to the coach. Now no one was asleep, except Benjamin. Hannah fretted that the journey’s end was near and she saw little hope of making a match between Penelope and Lord Augustus. Miss Trenton was worrying whether her friend would be able to give her a job. Mr Cato was regretting the adventure; the time taken on it probably did mean he would need to wait in Portsmouth for another ship. Penelope was beginning to dread her father’s disappointment. Lord Augustus drearily contemplated a boring stay with his uncle and would not admit to himself that Penelope’s comparing him to a vulture waiting for the old man to die had anything to do with his sudden distaste for the scheme.
The coach finally creaked and rumbled into the yard at the George in Portsmouth. Hannah scrubbed at the steamy glass of the window with her handkerchief to see if she could see the sea, but there was only the light and bustle of the inn yard.
Miss Trenton and Mr Cato said they would put up for the night at the inn, as did Hannah. Hannah wanted to spend some time in Portsmouth, buy Benjamin a new livery and get a physician to examine the wound on his head. Lord Augustus said he would stay at the inn as well. It was too late to rouse his uncle.
Penelope felt lost. Her father, she knew, would have been watching and waiting for news of the Portsmouth coach. He was no doubt waiting for her inside the inn. She would go back to her old cosseted and isolated life and probably, she thought miserably, no more adventures would happen to her ever again.
And as she walked towards the inn, there was her father, small and squat, wearing a tie-wig slightly askew over his weather-beaten face. She ran straight into his outstretched arms, babbling she was so very sorry about the seminary, but that it wasn’t her fault, and she had had such adventures, and a tumbled tale of Benjamin and Lady Carsey fell on the bewildered chandler’s ears.
‘Here now, chuck,’ said Mr Wilkins. ‘Let us go into the inn and take a dish of tea and you shall tell me all, for your mother is sore disappointed in you.’ Which Penelope, through experience, took to mean that he was disappointed, for her mother, she knew, never voiced an opinion on anything.
‘Pray, Papa,’ said Penelope, ‘would you please ask the other passengers to dine with us? They will help me explain what happened.’
Glad to have his daughter safe, Mr Wilkins readilyagreed. By general consent, although Miss Trenton could be heard to sniff loudly, Benjamin was allowed to sit down with them.
Mr Wilkins took the head of the table. He had been introduced to all, and was excited that his Penelope had been having her adventures in the company of a personable young lord. Penelope’s disgrace at the seminary was quite driven out of his mind.
He listened enraptured to the tale of their exploits, his eyes occasionally studying Lord Augustus hopefully, but that young man was lounging at his ease and not once had he even glanced in Penelope’s direction.
Miss Trenton, for once, toyed with her food. She could not believe that Penelope was going to get off scot-free. After all the adventures in which Miss Trenton did not feature were repeated over again to the admiring Mr Wilkins, she coughed genteelly and said, ‘I am sure you are delighted to have your daughter safe with you, Mr Wilkins, and will forgive her for her
The passengers were weary, but on the coachman’s reminding them that they were now only twenty-six miles from Portsmouth, all agreed to dine and go on. Benjamin wrote that he felt well enough to stand the rest of the journey.
They dined quickly and then returned to the coach. Now no one was asleep, except Benjamin. Hannah fretted that the journey’s end was near and she saw little hope of making a match between Penelope and Lord Augustus. Miss Trenton was worrying whether her friend would be able to give her a job. Mr Cato was regretting the adventure; the time taken on it probably did mean he would need to wait in Portsmouth for another ship. Penelope was beginning to dread her father’s disappointment. Lord Augustus drearily contemplated a boring stay with his uncle and would not admit to himself that Penelope’s comparing him to a vulture waiting for the old man to die had anything to do with his sudden distaste for the scheme.
The coach finally creaked and rumbled into the yard at the George in Portsmouth. Hannah scrubbed at the steamy glass of the window with her handkerchief to see if she could see the sea, but there was only the light and bustle of the inn yard.
Miss Trenton and Mr Cato said they would put up for the night at the inn, as did Hannah. Hannah wanted to spend some time in Portsmouth, buy Benjamin a new livery and get a physician to examine the wound on his head. Lord Augustus said he would stay at the inn as well. It was too late to rouse his uncle.
Penelope felt lost. Her father, she knew, would have been watching and waiting for news of the Portsmouth coach. He was no doubt waiting for her inside the inn. She would go back to her old cosseted and isolated life and probably, she thought miserably, no more adventures would happen to her ever again.
And as she walked towards the inn, there was her father, small and squat, wearing a tie-wig slightly askew over his weather-beaten face. She ran straight into his outstretched arms, babbling she was so very sorry about the seminary, but that it wasn’t her fault, and she had had such adventures, and a tumbled tale of Benjamin and Lady Carsey fell on the bewildered chandler’s ears.
‘Here now, chuck,’ said Mr Wilkins. ‘Let us go into the inn and take a dish of tea and you shall tell me all, for your mother is sore disappointed in you.’ Which Penelope, through experience, took to mean that he was disappointed, for her mother, she knew, never voiced an opinion on anything.
‘Pray, Papa,’ said Penelope, ‘would you please ask the other passengers to dine with us? They will help me explain what happened.’
Glad to have his daughter safe, Mr Wilkins readilyagreed. By general consent, although Miss Trenton could be heard to sniff loudly, Benjamin was allowed to sit down with them.
Mr Wilkins took the head of the table. He had been introduced to all, and was excited that his Penelope had been having her adventures in the company of a personable young lord. Penelope’s disgrace at the seminary was quite driven out of his mind.
He listened enraptured to the tale of their exploits, his eyes occasionally studying Lord Augustus hopefully, but that young man was lounging at his ease and not once had he even glanced in Penelope’s direction.
Miss Trenton, for once, toyed with her food. She could not believe that Penelope was going to get off scot-free. After all the adventures in which Miss Trenton did not feature were repeated over again to the admiring Mr Wilkins, she coughed genteelly and said, ‘I am sure you are delighted to have your daughter safe with you, Mr Wilkins, and will forgive her for her