by Anne Gracie
“Me, too!” agreed Faith. “If you send that letter, Prue, you might as well just leave us here, to molder and be miserable with Grandpapa.”
“And be beaten and tied up,” Grace added dolefully.
“Stop talking like that, Grace,” Prudence ordered. “I told you, no one will beat you again! And nobody is ever going to tie Hope’s hand behind her back again! Now, trust me, all of you, and consider these points: Firstly”—she ticked the point off on her finger—“Great-uncle Oswald has lived in London for years, so he must like it there. And he hasn’t been to Dereham Court since we’ve lived here, so obviously he doesn’t like it here.”
“Who does?” Hope muttered.
Prudence grinned and continued her list. “Secondly, we know from Phillip’s mother that Great-uncle Oswald goes to the opera, is terribly fashionable, and goes to a great many parties. Thirdly, we also know that he had a great falling-out with Grandpapa and that Grandpapa calls him an irreligious dog and a frivolous fop and a great many other such insulting epithets.”
“Old Cook says the young Master Oswald she remembers was kind and nice and good for a laugh,” Charity objected.
“Exactly,” Prudence said triumphantly. “If Great-uncle Oswald is half the man I think he is, he’ll be so incensed at Grandpapa’s instructions that he will positively hurl us into a sea of balls and parties and all kinds of frivolous wickedness, and let us meet lots of delightful young men—just to spite Grandpapa!”
All five sisters contemplated the notion. “If you are right, Prue, it would be wonderful,” Charity whispered.
“It is bound to go wrong,” Grace predicted gloomily. “Everything always does.”
“Nonsense!” Prudence hugged her little sister. “Try to be positive, my love. I am certain I have thought of everything.”
Chapter Two
“Oh what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive.”
SIR WALTER SCOTT
“YOU SAID WHEN WE CAME TO LONDON WE WOULD BE ABLE GO TO parties, Prue!” Hope said in an aggrieved voice. “And to balls and routs and Venetian breakfasts!”
“And the opera!” added Faith plaintively.
“I know.” Prudence winced. “But—”
“And you said I could dance the waltz with a handsome young man—”
Prudence winced again.
“At least we all have had dancing lessons—” Charity began.
“Pooh! Who cares for dancing lessons! Next you shall say Monsieur Lefarge is a handsome young man!” Hope declared scornfully.
All the sisters giggled, thinking of the fussy, mincing, middle-aged Frenchman whom Great-uncle Oswald had engaged to teach the Merridew girls their steps. But Hope was not to be distracted. “In five or six weeks, Grandpapa’s ankle will have healed enough for him to leave his bedchamber, and then how long after that do you think it will take him to discover we have run away? One of us must find a husband before then, Prue, and so far the only person who has met a man—an eligible man—is you! And what good is an eligible man to you?”
“You said nothing would go wrong,” Grace said, “but it has.” She heaved a lugubrious sigh. “I said it would. It always does.”
Silence fell in the back parlor that had been set aside for the young ladies’ use while in London. Prudence slumped in her chair. It had gone wrong—and it was all her fault.
Great-uncle Oswald had lived up to every one of Prudence’s hopeful expectations and more. He had been everything that was kind and avuncular. Far from expressing any reluctance to receive the five young females foisted on him with no warning, the elderly widower had welcomed his great-nieces into his large, elegant London home with every evidence of pleasure.
In some ways he had exceeded their most optimistic expectations. A man who even the most countrified and ignorant young ladies could see at a glance was a veritable pink of the ton, though rather elderly, he had taken one comprehensive and horrified glance at their plain, gray, homemade gowns and declared they must instantly have complete new wardrobes.
“For whilst I have not the slightest objection in the world to housin’ you and takin’ you about, I cannot and will not have my great-nieces—and such dashed pretty creatures you are!—goin’ about dressed in such atrocious garments!” He shook his head. “Tomorrow I shall take you to visit mantua makers and milliners and glovers and haberdashers and the rest.”
The girls’ mouths had dropped open in amazement, accustomed as they were to Grandpapa’s nip-farthing ways.
He had examined each astounded girl with the eye of an experienced man of fashion. “Such coloring, such exquisite complexions as you all have, and such bearin’—Charity, my dear, you are a diamond, positively celestial! That golden hair, those eyes. And the twins—divine, the pair of you—I daresay I will learn which of you is which, but really it doesn’t matter, so stunnin’ as you are! And even little Grace, buddin’ fair to outshine your sisters, even yet. Oh, it will be a pleasure to see you all dressed as your beauty demands.”
He’d rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “There’ll be no trouble findin’ husbands for you gels—I don’t think it’s exaggeratin’ to expect some ducal interest…yes, a duke at least, to be sure, with such visions as you are.” He’d beamed around at them. “I do not remember when four such lovely gels have ever come to London at the same time. And all in the same family—my family!” He clapped his hands in excitement. “It will be a sensation! The ton will not know what hit ’em!”
And then his eyes had come to rest on Prudence, and his smile had slowly faded. He’d pursed his lips and frowned as he examined her thoughtfully. And the longer he looked her over with that troubled expression, the more Prudence felt it: she didn’t compare well.
Her hair might be the same color as Grace’s, but it had an unfortunate tendency to frizz in damp weather. It didn’t compare to shining, silky, golden curls, like her other sisters’. Her complexion might be smooth and soft, like theirs, but there were five or six tiny freckles that marred it, for she was often careless about wearing a hat in the sunshine. And her eyes were a dreary gray when everyone else in the family had eyes of varying shades of glorious blue.
She felt Great-uncle Oswald’s bright blue eyes dwell on her Merridew nose and saw his mouth purse in an even tighter line. He had the same nose, she thought defiantly, and hers was a lot smaller than his, though it probably looked better on a man, she had to admit.
There were very few looking glasses at Dereham Court, because vanity was a terrible sin. And since they almost never had visitors, and were not allowed out, and since Phillip had been gone for some years, Prudence had never given much thought to her looks.
To tell the truth, it was a bit of a shock to read in the eyes of her doting great-uncle that she was the plain one in a flock of beauties. But there were more important things to worry about, Prudence told herself firmly.
“If you truly believe one of my sisters could be happily married by the end of the season—oh, that would be so wonderful, Great-uncle Oswald. It is—” Prudence looked around at her sisters in relief, “It is exactly what we had hoped for!”
So excited was she at the prospect of the success of her bold plan that she quite forgot herself, jumped out of her chair, and hugged him. “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Uncle Oswald! You are so very kind, so very generous.” Her voice choked a little. “I cannot tell you how happy you have made us.” She kissed his cheek.
He’d blushed and beamed and pooh-poohed her nonsense about generosity and kindness, and said they’d made a lonely old man very happy! What were uncles for, after all?
Her sisters, having recovered from their astonishment at Great-uncle Oswald not only allowing Prudence to hug and kiss him without retaliation, but even seeming to welcome such shocking forwardness, also crowded forward to hug the old gentleman and plant shy kisses on his cheek and balding dome.
But when the girls resumed their seats and addressed themselves tentatively to th
e herbal tea and seed cakes Great-uncle Oswald had ordered for their refreshment, he’d regarded Prudence for a long moment, frowning.
Prudence, foolish female that she was, hadn’t realized that she was the fly in the ointment.
It was the mantua maker who put it most succinctly. Measuring her sisters for their new apparel, the elegant Frenchwoman had gushed, “Such beautiful figures ze mademoiselles have, so graceful, of an elegance, like young gazelles, veritably!” And then her eyes had fallen on Prudence and her mouth got that familiar pursed look. She frowned for a moment and then said with brutal Gallic frankness, “You, mademoiselle, will be a leetle more difficile. You are no gazelle; you are more of ze leetle pony. But I do not despair, I do not despair. Me, I can make anyone elegant!”
Prudence was inclined to be indignant. She ate as much as her sisters—in fact, generally a lot less than the twins—so it really wasn’t fair that they should all be slender and sylphlike and she should be…a round, little pony.
Vanity was a sin, Prudence told herself firmly at the end of the day as she climbed into bed feeling crushed and clumsy. It was shallow to think her looks mattered. What mattered was that one of her sisters would soon find a husband and then they would all, especially Grace, be safe from Grandpapa.
But her looks mattered more than she realized.
The fourth morning at breakfast, Great-uncle Oswald made the fatal announcement. He brought Grandpapa’s supposed letter to the breakfast table and read one part aloud:
“I have other plans for Prudence, the eldest, so there is no need for her to make her coming-out. She can chaperone her sisters and take care of most matters, so that the girls’ Female Chatter will not bother you unduly.”
He’d glanced at Prudence across the table and asked, “You know what your grandpapa intends, don’t you? Always was a selfish one, my brother. Just like him to keep you back to care for him in his old age.” He snorted and put the letter aside. “I’ve watched you with your sisters, missy. You take excellent care of ’em, don’t you?”
Prudence had blinked at the unexpected praise. She could not remember when anyone had said anything so kind to her.
Great-uncle Oswald nodded emphatically. “Yes, you’re a good, sweet girl, Prudence Merridew, and—dash it all!—you shall have your chance! You may lack your sisters’ dazzlin’ looks, but I’m confident we can fire you off well enough. There are plenty of sensible fellows who look for more than beauty in a wife. We’ll find a husband for you yet, little missy, don’t you fret! You’ll not waste your life away runnin’ around after other people and lookin’ after selfish old men.”
“Oh but she alrea—” began Charity, and then stopped, flustered, at Prudence’s urgent look.
“It is all right, Great-uncle Oswald,” Prudence assured him hastily. “Please don’t worry about me. I am very happy as it is. I very much look forward to being my sisters’ chaperone and going about with them. It will be such fun.”
Great-uncle Oswald smiled at her gently, and with pity. “Dear, noble little creature. You lack your sisters’ looks, but you have a truly beautiful soul.”
Prudence gritted her teeth and forced herself to smile. His next pronouncement wiped the smile off her face.
“I’ll fire you off first, without your sisters. Once the ton claps eyes on that bevy of beauties, you won’t stand a chance.” He nodded and beheaded a boiled egg with gusto. “Then, once you’re safely buckled, we can let loose these diamonds to dazzle the world.” He beamed around the table at her sisters, and before Prudence could think of some way to change his mind, the carriage arrived to take them shopping.
But now, after a week in London, it was very clear that Great-uncle Oswald meant exactly what he had said. He wasn’t going to allow Charity, Hope, or Faith to be presented to the ton until Prudence was married! And nothing Prudence could say or do would budge him from that position.
“I am sorry,” she explained to her sisters in a despairing voice one night in the upstairs parlor, “but though Great-uncle Oswald is so very kind and generous, in his own way he is just as stubborn and impervious to reason as Grandpapa is!”
“You have to tell him about Phillip,” Hope said. “It is the only thing. Once he realizes you are already betrothed, there is no reason to keep the rest of us in seclusion.”
“I cannot tell him about Phillip,” explained Prudence wearily. “I promised Phillip that I would not announce anything until he gave me permission, and you know I never break my promises.”
“Could we not explain Phillip to Great-uncle Oswald?” asked Faith.
Prudence bit her lip. “I daren’t risk it. He might defy Grandpapa in small matters, such as dancing and parties, but marriage is a different thing altogether. Besides, he would probably think Phillip unsuitable, too—a younger son of undistinguished family and no fortune!” She sighed. “And since the Otterburys live so close to Dereham Court, he might contact Grandpapa about it…” She shook her head. “We would all be in the suds then. And for harboring us, Grandpapa would probably cut Great-uncle Oswald off without a penny—you know how he complains incessantly of his extravagance.”
“I love Great-uncle Oswald’s extravagance!” Hope declared, twirling around in her pretty new dress.
Charity nodded. “Yes, but let us hope he doesn’t send Grandpapa the bills from the mantua maker. He would know then that something was amiss. But, Prue dearest, Great-uncle Oswald seems very romantical. Would he not rejoice that you have found a man to marry you?”
Prudence pulled a wry face. “Perhaps, but he is also ambitious and something of a snob—recall those dukes you diamonds are to dazzle! In any case, even aside from my promise, have you forgotten that Phillip works for Grandpapa’s Oriental Trade Company, and that Great-uncle Oswald is also connected with it? Do you really think he’d be delighted by the news that an employee of his, a penniless younger son currently residing in India, contracted a secret betrothal more than four years ago to his eldest great-niece? I think not!”
The sisters sighed gloomily.
“Exactly! Phillip would lose his position and be unable to afford a wife, I would be in disgrace, and we should all be sent back to live with Grandpapa again.”
“Yes, but Great-uncle Oswald is not mean-spirited and nasty, like Grandpapa. Surely he would—” began Hope.
“No, Hope.” Prudence shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the risks are too great. Great-uncle Oswald is a dear, sweet man, but we cannot expect him to put our welfare before his own. You know what it took to convince even Dr. Gibson, and he’s seen the bruises! But I promise you, I shall think of something. And soon.”
Hope sniffed. “You always make these promises.”
“And I keep them,” responded Prudence quietly.
“Should you object if I try to talk the old gentleman around? Because I will die rather than be returned to the Court,” declared Hope passionately.
“Of course not, Hope darling. As long as you respect my secret, I am more than happy for you to try.” Prudence rolled her eyes comically. “The more I argue in favor of letting you make your coming-out, the more noble he tells me I am.”
“No! I’ve said it once, and I don’t intend to waste my breath on repetitions!” Great-uncle Oswald glared at the exquisite matching female faces turned imploringly to him.
“But we are only allowed to stay in London for this one season,” argued Hope. “Grandpapa will surely not allow us to stay any longer. He has given us only a handful of weeks in which to find husbands. And Prudence is already almost on the shelf—”
“She is almost one and twenty, you know,” interpolated her twin.
“—and so is not likely to attract a husband at this late stage—even with her very beautiful soul,” Hope added hastily, aware of the narrow look Prudence was casting her. “If we are forced to wait much longer, we are all likely to remain on the shelf.”
“Fustian!” Great-uncle Oswald snapped from behind his paper. “Beauties like you two will
be snapped up the moment you make your bow to society. Don’t be selfish. Give your sister her moment of glory.”
“But if we all came out—”
“No! Not until your sister has found herself a husband. Our Prudence is a dear, good girl, and one day a man will come along and take one look at her and snap her up—but not if the rest of you are there dazzlin’ the poor fellow instead!”
“I, for one, do not care if Prudence never gets a husband,” announced Grace loyally. “I doubt I shall ever marry. I shall be like Great-aunt Hermione—a sad and lonely spinster, jilted by my one true love. I shall keep cats and live off my memories.”
Great-uncle Oswald snorted. “You’ll marry, my girl, and I’ll hear no more of such nonsense from you. Keepin’ cats indeed! Hermione was always peculiar!”
There was a short silence while each of the girls contemplated a bleak future.
“Does Prudence actually have to marry before Charity can make her coming-out?” asked Hope suddenly.
Great-uncle Oswald plonked down his newspaper in an irritated gesture. “I told you, missy—”
“I mean what if she were betrothed?” Hope explained hurriedly. “And, and what if her betrothed wished to wait for some time until they were wed. If Prudence were betrothed, then could the rest of us, Charity and Faith and me, make our debuts?”
Great-uncle Oswald shrugged. “If Prudence were betrothed, I see no reason why not, but Prudence ain’t betrothed, missy, so cease plaguing me until she is.”
Hope shot a look of triumph at Prudence. “See! We could make our come out. Tell him, Prue,” Hope said fiercely.
If looks could kill, Hope would have been fried where she sat, but Prudence said not a word. How could she when her betrothed’s reputation, livelihood, and future prospects depended on her silence? And besides, she had promised to keep it secret from all except her sisters.
Great-uncle Oswald frowned in sudden suspicion. “Somethin’ you ought to be tellin’ me, girlie?”