by Anne Gracie
“He’s been carried to his bedchamber, and Dr. Gibson is with him now. He won’t touch any of us again, I promise.”
There was a long silence in the room. None of her sisters believed Prudence could keep such a promise. They knew empty comfort when they heard it. Grace’s face crumpled afresh and she turned back to her big sister’s arms. “Oh, Prue, why does he hate me so?” she sobbed.
Prudence hugged her little sister to her. “Oh, darling, he confuses you and me with our mother. Because we have the same red hair that she did. “
“Was Mama so very bad, then?”
“No! She wasn’t bad at all! It’s just that when Papa fell in love with her, he left the Court and he never came back, so Grandpapa never forgave her.”
“Tell us about Mama and Papa again, Prue,” Grace said, leaning into her.
Their parents had died when Grace was just a baby. The twins, too, had been very small. Charity had been nine when Mama had died, Prudence, eleven. The young ones had few memories of their parents and it comforted them to hear the tales, over and over.
“Mama was very beautiful. You all take after her. Charity is her image, except for the golden hair. And you twins and Grace look so much like her, too. You all take after Mama’s side of the family—the beautiful Ainsleys.” She pulled a wry face. “I was the poor unfortunate to be saddled with the horrid Merridew nose and the horrid Merridew eyes. I just wish I had the Merridew height and thinness, too.”
“Your nose isn’t horrid, exactly, it’s just…a little long,” Faith said.
“It’s a very nice nose,” Grace defended her hotly, “and your eyes are lovely and gray and kind and—”
“Oh hush,” Prudence said, laughing a little. She gathered her sisters around her on the bed. “I don’t care about my silly old nose. We were speaking of Mama, anyway.”
Her voice adopted the singsong quality of a beloved tale, oft repeated. “Mama was a great beauty, though her family was in trade, and Papa took one look at her and fell instantly in love. And although she had hundreds of admirers, and he was by no means the handsomest, nor the richest, nor the one with the grandest title, Mama fell instantly in love with him, too.” All five girls sighed, blissfully.
“But both the Ainsleys and the Merridews opposed the match,” prompted Grace, “and that is why Mama and Papa ran away to Italy and got married and had us. Keep going, Prue. Tell us about Mama’s hair.”
Prue wriggled back against the pillows. Her sisters drew closer; Grace snuggled like a kitten at her side. “Mama was golden, all golden,” she said. “Her hair was red, but it was like it had just come out of the smithy’s furnace—all red and gold and full of life—like yours, Grace. And Papa loved Mama’s hair—I want you to remember that, Grace, whenever you think your hair is bad or ugly! Papa was always playing with Mama’s hair, stroking it, loving the way it would curl around his fingers. He used to joke that Mama wound him ’round her little finger, just the same way. And one day you will find a man who loves you, and your hair, the same way Papa loved Mama.”
Grace sighed. “The way Phillip loves you?”
Prudence smiled and smoothed back her little sister’s curls. “Maybe.” She continued, “It wasn’t only Mama’s looks that were golden—she had the most wonderful, soft voice, like honey, like Faith’s voice. She would sing to us all for hours. And when she laughed it was like the music of sunlight—”
“I remember her laugh,” said Charity suddenly. “So happy. It made me want to laugh with her.”
“You did, too,” agreed Prudence. “We all did. Mama and Papa adored each other. They were always touching each other, holding hands, kissing, hugging, laughing…”
All the sisters sighed. It was a far cry from the cold and loveless regime they’d grown up under.
“And they loved us all, too, so very much. Papa was always picking us up for a cuddle and a kiss and he never cared about sticky fingers or grubby faces. Mama always carried the baby—that was you, Grace—with us when we went walking along the beach or through the village, even though Concetta—she was your nursemaid—said it was bad for a baby to be outside. Mama said she wanted all her little sunbeams with her…”
She looked at her sisters squeezed together on the big, old bed. They didn’t look much like sunbeams in the chill gray light, their faces pinched and pale and their beautiful eyes still red-rimmed from weeping. Love was their birthright. Mama had promised. Prudence had to make them believe it, she just had to!
“Never, ever forget that we do not belong in Grandpapa’s grim and loveless world,” she said. “We were all born in Italy, in a house filled with sunshine and laughter and love and happiness, and I promise you, no matter how bad it seems, one day we shall all live like that again. With sunshine and laughter and love and happiness. I promise!”
Outside, the bitter wind whistled around the eaves, as if mocking her words. Prudence ignored it. She had a plan.
Dr. Gibson placed his bag on the side table and sat down. “Lord Dereham has a severe concussion, and his ankle is broken in several places.”
Prudence poured him a cup of tea. “But he will recover?” She might despise her grandfather, but she didn’t want to be the cause of his death.
Dr. Gibson sipped the hot tea cautiously, then said, “His injuries are quite severe, but I believe his faculties to be intact. I feel certain he will recover, though it may not be speedy.”
“How long will it take?” Prudence leaned forward and passed him a plate of buttered scones. She had a particular reason for asking.
It was wild. It was audacious. It was risky. But it might work.
It was the only solution she could think of to their problems.
The doctor munched on a gingernut. “The head injury will take a few days, possibly a week. He will need to lie in a darkened room, in absolute silence.” He sipped at his tea and added, “The ankle will take longer to heal, however. It is broken in several places. He will have to keep his leg immobilized for six or seven weeks at the very least.”
Six or seven weeks! Prudence hugged the knowledge to her breast. Six weeks or more would make all the difference in the world to her plan. But she would need the doctor’s help. She set her cup aside, took a deep breath, and said, “Dr. Gibson, do you know how Grandpapa’s accident came about?”
He sniffed and reached for another gingernut. “The groom who fetched me told me some wild tale but you know how servants are apt to exaggerate.”
“I doubt he exaggerated. Have you not heard how severe my grandfather’s rages—”
The doctor waved his hand. “Bah! I hope I know better than to listen to village gossip.”
“The tales are true,” Prue said vehemently, “and we cannot go on like this. Can you not see for yourself how very…extreme Grandpapa has become?”
“He has never been one to spare the rod, I grant you, but a man must be strict—”
“Strict! It is more than that, I promise you. Poor Hope has spent most of her life with her left hand tied behind her back to prevent her using it—he says it is the devil’s hand. Faith lives in fear of inadvertently humming under her breath, for that would merit a beating. And you should see how he regards my little sister Grace. He is convinced she bears the stamp of Jezebel, all because of the color of her hair.”
The doctor’s gaze strayed to Prudence’s own fiery locks, and she nodded. “Yes, me too. He has tried to thrash the evil out of me since I was eleven.” Prudence’s voice shook with distress and anger. “And I will not have it—do you understand? He shall not thrash my little sister the way he thrashed me.”
The doctor shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hope’s left-handedness needs to be corrected, though I can see it distresses you. But Faith and Grace are such quiet, good little souls.”
“Grace made this.” She thrust the Egyptian-style reticule toward him.
Bemused, the doctor took the decorated reticule. “This Egyptian stuff was all the rage in London some years ago. I know,
for my wife was mad for it, too.”
“Is your wife a filthy heathen?” asked Prudence bluntly. “Given to idolatry? Blasphemy? Filth? Rank obscenity?”
The doctor looked taken aback. “What the—”
“Because that’s what Grandpapa called Grace for making this—a filthy little heathen. And he beat her unmercifully with his whip until I stopped him. That’s how the accident happened. He was chasing me down the stairs. With his whip. Luckily for me, he tripped.”
The doctor put the reticule down, his composure shaken. “He beat her for making this?”
“Severely. He seizes on any excuse. I want you to help us leave here.”
The doctor sighed heavily. “Prudence, you know I cannot. He’s not an easy man, I grant you, but I’m his doctor, girl! Do you expect me to look him in the eye and lie to him? Deceive him—”
“Little Grace’s body is covered with red welts simply because she made that reticule,” Prudence said with quiet emphasis. She was determined to stir his conscience to action and force him to face the truth now. Grace had always been his favorite. “It is not the first time Grace has been severely beaten for no good reason. He beats all of us. We have never been allowed to call you when he has injured one of us before, but I want you to come up to her bedchamber and see for yourself.”
With a heavy sigh, he put down his cup. “Very well, I’ll take a look, but I make you no promises.”
The doctor examined Grace in grim silence. He noted the weals on Charity’s face, and those on Prudence’s. Afterward, in the room downstairs, he sat heavily in his chair, clearly shaken. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And you say this is not the first time?”
Prudence nodded. There was no point in dwelling on the past. She had her eyes firmly fixed on the future. “When I turn one and twenty, in eight weeks’ time, by my father’s will I shall become my sisters’ legal guardian.”
“Well then—”
“However, we can only gain access to the money our mother left us when we marry. We have no money. Only enough for a few months. After that, unless Grandpapa gives us our inheritance, we will starve.” She fixed the doctor with a look. “He will not give us the money. He says he will never let any of us marry. On that point he is adamant.
“We go nowhere, not even to church anymore. We see no one. And no one sees us. How can any of us marry? Yet, you know how beautiful my sisters are, what a crime it is to shut them away from society.” Prudence scanned his face, trying to gauge whether his conscience was well and truly stirred. She took his hand and said, “Dr. Gibson, we must escape. We have been given this small piece of time, while he is confined to his bedchamber, as if it is meant to be. But if Grandpapa is not to discover it immediately, you have to help us.”
The doctor sighed heavily. “What do you want me to do?” It was capitulation.
Prue frowned over the words she had penned with a critical eye. The crabbed copperplate script looked just right. Perhaps a shade less flamboyance in the loops and a more precise dotting of the i. Grandpapa always dotted each i very precisely.
“Has the doctor gone? What did he say?” Prudence’s sisters entered the room.
Charity peered over her shoulder. “Who are you writing to? Phillip, again?”
“No, not Phill—”
“Oh, who cares about Phillip?” interrupted Hope. “You’re always writing to him. What did Dr. Gibson say about Grandpapa?”
“The letter is not to Phillip.” Prudence blotted the ink carefully. “It’s to Great-uncle Oswald.”
“Great-uncle Oswald?” Hope exclaimed in amazement. “Grandpapa’s wicked brother?” She frowned. “Is Grandpapa going to die, after all?”
“No, he should recover in about six or seven weeks.”
“Then why are you writing to Great-uncle Oswald?” Charity asked. “He won’t want to comfort Grandpapa on his sickbed. There is no brotherly love between them at all.”
“I am counting on it,” said Prue. “As for why I am writing to him, I am not. This letter is from Grandpapa.”
“Whaaat?” came a chorus of voices.
She read,
“My Dear Oswald,
I know we have not always seen eye to eye, as brothers surely should, however I am willing to let Bygones be Bygones for the sake of the Girls.”
In the stunned silence that followed, she lifted the letter between two fingers, waving it in the air to dry the ink. “In short, Grandpapa is asking his brother to give us a season in London. And find us husbands.” She laid the letter down carefully. “We’re escaping. We’re never coming back to the Court!”
“Prudence!” Charity exclaimed. “That letter is worse than a fib. It’s forgery!”
Prudence shrugged. “Yes, but what choice do we have? I am resolved that Grandpapa shall never lay a finger on any of us again.”
“It’s wicked, Prue,” Faith whispered.
Prudence tossed her head. “Well, Grandpapa has always said I’m wicked, so at last I shall prove him right! We are all going to London. And we are taking Lily and James with us; Lily because Great-uncle Oswald is a widower and may have no maidservants, and James because Grandpapa will never forgive him his part in this day’s work.”
Her sisters glanced at each other, stunned by the audacity of the plan. Prudence carefully scribed Great-uncle Oswald’s London address in a crabbed-looking copperplate.
“Grandpapa will never let us go,” Hope said.
“He won’t know. He’ll think we’ve moved to the dower house—”
“That moldy old place! Why would—”
“Because by the time his headaches have subsided, Grace will have contracted scarlet fever and we shall all be in quarantine. Dr. Gibson is going to aid in the deception. You know what a horror Grandpapa has of infection. He won’t come near us. Mrs. Burton said as housekeeper she could vouch for the cooperation of the other servants, and she and the doctor will give regular, albeit false, reports to Grandpapa of our progress.”
Her sisters gaped.
“And in the meantime, we will stay with our great-uncle, see all the grand sights of the capital, go to parties, wear pretty dresses, and go to—oh, I don’t know, Venetian breakfasts and things. Even attend the opera! And with any luck, by the time Grandpapa has recovered, one of us will have found a husband, and I shall have turned one and twenty, and you can all legally live with me.”
“Parties and pretty dresses!” whispered Charity.
“What is a Venetian breakfast?” Grace asked.
“Who cares?” Hope said, shrugging. “It will not be a bowl of oatmeal, that’s certain.”
Faith sighed rapturously. “Oh how I would love to hear an opera.”
“But how can we? We have no money, Prue,” Hope, ever the practical one, said. “We have not even enough between us to get one of us to London.”
“Mama’s jewelery,” Prudence explained. “Her garnet bracelet will fetch us enough to pay for tickets on the stage.” She regarded her sisters a little guiltily. “In fact, I sold it months ago, for just such an eventuality.”
“So we can go to London,” breathed Charity.
“Yes indeed.” Prudence smiled. “And if one of you can find herself a splendidly rich, handsome, kind, and loving husband, she wouldn’t mind handing over her inheritance from Mama to support the rest of us, would she?”
“Oh, of course we would! It sounds heavenly, Prue. You might even find a handsome husband yourself,” Hope added.
“Hope! Have you forgotten Phillip?” Charity looked shocked.
“Oh, yes, Phillip,” Hope amended hastily. “To be sure, Phillip. How long is it since he last wrote, Prue?”
“Six months,” Prudence said with dignity, “but you know how slow and unreliable the mails are from India. The voyage alone takes months and if a ship should founder and sink, bearing Phillip’s letter…”
“Yes, yes. The mails are slow and very unreliable,” Charity agreed. “But when he does reply—”
“I
am sure he will come. And then he and I shall be married, and we shall all be safe at last.” There was a short silence.
“Well, I shall not depend on Phillip,” Hope announced. “I’m going to do my best to find a husband for myself in London. I want to go to a grand ball and wear a pretty dress instead of these horrid homemade ones. And I’m going to dance the waltz in the arms of a handsome man! I’m going to fall madly in love, just like Mama and Papa.”
There was a small silence as the sisters considered the enormity of her aspirations.
Prudence was the first to recover. “Dance the waltz, Hope? Since none of us even know how to dance at all, we cannot be worrying about waltzes.”
“I don’t care. I don’t know how it will happen, but somehow, some way, I will dance the waltz!” Hope declared mutinously.
“Perhaps you should put that in the letter, Prue—ask Great-uncle Oswald to get us a dancing instructor,” Faith suggested.
Grace grimaced. “Then, silly, he would really know that this letter is a forgery. Can you imagine Grandpapa suggesting any such thing?”
Prudence grinned. “Grandpapa certainly won’t ask Great-uncle Oswald to have us taught to dance, Faith. Listen to this:
“And, Brother, since Musick and Dancing are Abominations and the Work of the Devil, I must remind you to ensure the Girls are not Corrupted by exposure to such Evils while in Town. I have brought the girls up according to the most Stringently Correct Principles, and since they are Female and thus Foolish, Frivolous and Easily Led you must watch them carefully and not allow them to Stray.”
“What!” gasped Hope. “Are you mad?”
Prudence winked and continued,
“Therefore, Brother, as Head of the Family, I utterly Forbid you to take my Granddaughters to Any form of Ball, Rout, Musickal evening or similar Wickedness. I merely wish you to ensure they find decent, Sober husbands of an Appropriate Station in Life with Solid Principles and a Good Fortune. Older heads would be most suitable—no young gadabouts.”
“But that is terrible!” wailed Hope. “I don’t want a stuffy old husband with solid principles—a young gadabout sounds lovely. One that’s handsome and nice and young!”