The moment she returned to the estate, the sun had fully risen in the sky, bathing the manor in its glorious wake.
Penelope was only getting prepared for the day, when a knock interrupted the hands on her hair, and the movement in the room.
"Miss?" came the cautious voice from the other end.
"Come in," She called, eyes lingering on the mirror before her, catching the reflection of the servant who had paused at the threshold, a silver tray balanced carefully in her hands.
At once, the maids behind her stilled, their hands leaving her hair as the door opened, and a servant stepped inside, bearing a polished silver tray. It gleamed beneath the morning light, and upon it rested a single cream-colored card, its edges glimmering in gold and sealed with royal wax.
Penelope frowned. An invitation?
"An invitation from the royal house, Miss." She announced with a small curtsy, and the red-haired woman stilled.
Did she hear well?
She rose slowly from her seat, surprise flickering across her features as she approached, the silk of her dressing robe whispering against the carpet. Her eyes fell upon the cream-colored card, impressed with the unmistakable crest of the royal house.
For a moment, she stared, doubting the invitation entirely. Had they mistaken her for someone else?
Then she reached out and carefully collected the card from the tray, the parchment cool beneath her fingertips.
"You may leave."
The servants bowed deeply, retreating at once, while the maids stepped back in respectful silence.
Penelope remained standing in the center of the room, holding the invitation delicately in her hands as her pulse quickened with every passing breath.
The royal seal.
Her surprise turned into disbelief. What possible reason could the palace have for writing to her? Her heart gave a startled beat against her ribs.
Or perhaps… a thought surfaced at the back of her mind, sending a shiver down her spine, apprehension taking over.
Carefully, she broke the wax and unfolded the card.
It read: By command of Her Majesty the Queen
Miss Penelope Anderson is invited to attend The Royal Masquerade Ball…
Penelope sighed in relief. Not a summon, she thought, her attention returning to the royal card once more.
It continued:…to be held at the royal palace
on the eve of the full moon, promptly at eight.
Formal attire and mask required.
Attendance is expected.
Tonight, she thought.
For a long moment, she could do nothing but stare. The words blurred slightly before her eyes, not from tears but from sheer disbelief.
The royal masquerade? A ball? For… her?
A soft, breathless, and incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "Me?" She wanted to bury herself in mockery, and for a fleeting moment, imagined herself attending a royal ball.
The withered debaubte.
Her imagination died the moment it came, her eyes returning to the card once more, scanning every detail carefully. She must have read it wrongly.
Penelope reread the words over and over again, as though the decree might change at second or third look. As though it might rearrange itself into something less impossible. But it remained the same; her name was a stark reminder that the invitation was directed to her.
She looked toward her reflection in the mirror, as if the woman staring back at her might somehow provide an answer.
Surely there had been some mistake. Such invitations were meant for ladies at the height of their season, young beauties with eager mothers and half the ton at their feet… and not for a woman whose name had too often been spoken in whispers and bad speculation. Yet the card remained in her hand, undeniably real.
Her pulse quickened. For a moment, she remained still in disbelief until surprise soon gave way to curiosity, something dangerous and preposterous to the smallest, most treacherous flicker of hope.
What business did the royal house have with her?
Her breath escaped her lips. "Mary," The name left her lips almost in a whisper.
At once, Mary stepped forward from beside the vanity, her familiar face touched with concern. "Yes, Miss?"
Penelope turned, still clutching the invitation to her chest. "You can leave," She directed the gentle demand to the remaining servants, who curtsied at once, leaving the room alone with their mistress and handmaiden.
Of all the servants in the house, Mary alone had remained with the family through dwindling fortunes, nasty rumors, and tightening purses. She had dressed Penelope since girlhood, soothed tears no one saw, and kept the household's many humiliations wrapped in silence. They understood why their mistress was so close to her, but it didn't ease the envy in their chest.
The moment the door shut with a soft click, "I have been summoned to the royal masquerade." Even speaking the words out loud made them seem absurd.
Mary's eyes widened. "Tonight?"
Penelope gave a slow nod, the movement a quiet sign of disbelief.
"Well… that's good, Miss!" Her enthusiasm was contagious but Penelope was rather wrapped in sheer stupefaction… and an obvious doubt.
"I doubt,"
Mary's expression fell. Her eyes fell on the card in her mistress's hands, which clearly portrayed the unmistakable seal of the royal house; elegant and powerful. "May I?" she requested. Penelope handed it over.
She read its content. Just like Penelope did earlier, she reread the elegant script carefully. Different emotions flickered across her face; surprise, shock, awe, and disbelief, all at once.
"You were invited! By Her Majesty herself!" Mary squealed, her eyes brightened. Penelope wished she could rejoice the same way, or react similarly, but there was some kind of looming dread holding her still.
Then Mary's expression shifted into something more practical, and more knowing. "We have little time."
A humorless smile touched Penelope's lips. "And even lesser coins,"
Those words hung between them like a bitter truth, that transformed the room's excitement into a quiet misfortune.
Her gaze drifted towards the wardrobe standing against the far wall, filled not with new silks of the current season, but gowns carefully preserved and endlessly altered.
"We cannot go to the modiste," Penelope said softly. It was a royal invitation, which means the ball would be extravagant, and in such cases, many would love to dress in their finest silks and adorn themselves in delicate masterpieces. After all, this was no ordinary ball. It belonged to the royals.
Mary hesitated only a moment before answering, "No, Miss, but the silver gown from last winter may yet be saved. With new lace at the sleeves and fresh ribbon at the bodice, it might pass."
Might pass, she thought. For a royal ball.
Penelope exhaled. As much as she would've disliked the idea of attending such a grand ball, there was barely an option to refuse.
An invitation from the royal house was a privilege, a long-lasting grace befalling on any household. Even the crippled would crawl to make haste, and the blind will do the same. And yet she was privileged to receive one.
Indeed it was an honor, especially on her own accord. There she might be lucky enough to capture the attention of eligible suitors, wealthy and powerful enough to close the rift of her family's finances.
And since it was a masquerade ball, there was hope. Although, the thought of encountering Lord Bexley again sent a cold shiver down her spine.