If people thought that Mr. Davies had an interest in Prue and that she had some hope of an engagement, the news of Eliza’s betrothal to him would reflect shamefully on Prue. She would be pitied for her disappointment. She would be an embarrassment in Society.
No one would believe that she had never wanted him. Why shouldn’t she? He was moderately wealthy and respectable, with good connections, a fine house, and she was a spinster with a fortune she had no business inheriting. She ought to have been grateful for his attentions.
Would they look at her with Camden now and find something wanting?
“Prudence, you have shamed me,” her mother said, quaking where she stood. “You have shamed me, and you have shamed this family. He was yours for the taking! He was there, in the palm of your worthless hand! His mother and I spent hours discussing your future, all the things you and he could accomplish with your fortune and his intellect. He. Wanted. You.”
Prue winced as the words fell upon her like a lash, stinging her skin, turning her embarrassment into complete humiliation. “I’m s-sorry…” she whispered, her throat clogging.
Her mother released a screeching growl. “Stop stammering! Stand up. Stand up, you stupid, simple, worthless girl!”
A weak sob escaped Prue, her chest aching with its cry, and she stood, holding onto her bedpost.
“Come here!”
Shaking, steeling herself, Prue took the three steps towards her mother.
“Look at me.”
She opened her eyes and met her mother’s livid countenance, her eyes filled with hatred, disgust, and shame.
Her mother shook her head very slowly. “You are worthless, Prudence. A waste of fortune and effort. No one will want you now.”
The cold, flat tone of the words did not make them any less painful, and Prue found herself trembling, nearly swaying with the effort of remaining upright.
“No one,” her mother insisted, her voice rising in volume and timbre. “No one will want you now. Do you see what you have done? Do you see?”
A hand cracked against Prue’s cheek, jolting her and making her stumble back. “M-m-mother!” she protested.
“Don’t stammer!” her mother screeched, backhanding her with the same hand, the rings on her fingers cutting into Prue’s skin, the force sending her into the chest of drawers. “I wish to God that I’d had a mute child instead of a bleating goat of a daughter! I wash my hands of you.”
Prue whimpered, hands coming to her stinging, burning face, cradling her cheeks as tears began to fall upon the tender skin.
“Stand before me, child,” her mother snapped.
Once more, she moved before her mother, her lower lip and jaw quivering.
Her mother shook her head slowly. “Your father would be ashamed of you, Prudence Westfall. Ashamed.” She slapped her one more time, then turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.
Prue waited for the footsteps to fade in the distance, and then let her knees give way as she crumpled to the floor, covering her face with her hands and sobbing. She stifled the sounds as best she could, not wanting to give her mother any additional reason to punish her, but she couldn’t contain them completely.
She curled up on the floor and cried. She cried for her mother, who had never been happy with Prue; for Camden, who had no idea what he was caught up in; for Mr. Davies, who would be married to a vindictive wife who did not feel anything for him. She cried for the shame her family would feel, for her inability to stand up to her mother, for her shyness, her stammer, the inheritance that had ruined her life…
And then she cried for her father, who wasn’t here to hold her until she was better.
Eventually, her tears had all dried up, and an overwhelming weariness set in. She was supposed to go to Izzy’s and meet the other Spinsters, but she could not bear to see them like this. She couldn’t tell them, couldn’t show them…
She pulled herself up and sat at her toilette, looking into the glass.
The cuts on her cheek were not deep, but they were visible and were beginning to bruise. Her other cheek would bruise a little, but not nearly as bad. The blood was sluggish now, and a small bit trickled down her cheek, echoing the tracks of her tears.
Prue reached for the bowl and pitcher of water she used at night, poured a small amount, and dabbed a cloth in it. She winced as she sponged the blood away, the cuts stinging in protest.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry more. She reached up and rang for a servant, and a maid was there rather swiftly. Prue looked up at her and saw the pitying expression.
“I need you to send three notes,” she told the maid. “One to Isabella Lambert, one to Miranda Sterling, and one to Mr. Camden Vale.”
Camden was pacing again. It was beginning to worry him how frequently he was doing this now; how familiar pacing had become for him.
But at this moment, there was nothing else to do.
A missive had come to him hours ago from Prue, but not in her hand. Why she shouldn’t write in her own hand, he couldn’t know, but a feeling of dread had welled up within him.
I must see you tonight in private at Miranda Sterling’s ball. I will meet you there. Do not come here.
Recalling the words now sent a chill down his spine. He knew the moment he had entered Miranda’s home that something was not right. While the other guests proceeded into the ballroom, a servant had nodded at him and beckoned for him to follow, though Miranda was nowhere in sight.
Now, he paced in a study, his thoughts veering into terrible, tremulous places.
He’d almost ridden to Prue’s home a dozen times earlier, but her warning to not come kept him there. He wished to God he hadn’t waited. He should have gone, he should have ignored it, should have saved her from whatever this was.
Whoever said ignorance was bliss was clearly out of their mind. Ignorance was madness.
The door to the study opened, and Miranda entered, dressed for the evening’s entertainment.
“Miranda,” Camden said with relief, striding over to her. “Thank God. What…?”
Miranda held up a hand, her expression somber. “I received a note a few hours ago from Prue. She asked if she might prevail upon me to invite her to my home early before the ball, and that once she was here, she would need my help. Of course, I accepted, but… Camden, darling, you need to prepare yourself. You need to be steady. Can you?”
“Good lord, Miranda,” he breathed. “You’re terrifying me.”
She smiled sadly. “It’s not as bad as you are imagining, I assure you. But it is bad enough. She wanted you to see her in private before the ball, just in case.”
Camden swallowed with some difficulty. “In case what?”
Miranda watched him for a moment, then sighed and turned for the door, cracking it enough to reach a hand out. “Come here, love.”
Camden watched as she gently led Prue into the room, and for a moment, he was distracted by the pure white dress, free of embellishment or finery, tied with only a thick white ribbon under the bodice. A matching ribbon was in her hair, accentuating its shade, a pale chestnut color that he had never quite seen anywhere else. She was lovely and fresh, her wide blue eyes paler than usual, and more striking.
He didn’t see…
Prue saw the moment he noticed the color of her complexion and her eyes lowered.
Camden stepped forward slowly, his eyes trained on her face. She was pale, paler than she should have been, paler than natural for her. And yet her cheeks bore some color. A rosy shade, expertly applied, but again, not natural for Prue. No one would know with a cursory look, but he, who could have drawn her face from memory, and had done time and time again in the privacy of his home, knew better.
Why would she have need for cosmetics?
Her right cheek caught his attention first. Along her cheekbone was a thin mark, not hidden at all by the cosmetics, and when he looked carefully, he could see darker colors around it.
Bruising.
H
e reached two fingers up to touch the mark, and Prue winced silently with the faint pressure. The discoloration spread across the entire cheek, nearly to her eye, and while not enough to make anyone gasp in horror or recoil, it was certainly enough.
Camden’s lungs constricted, his chest aching, his stomach in knots as he took Prue’s chin gently in hand and turned her face towards the light.
Bruising on the other cheek, though not to the same degree as the first.
It was a masterful job of disguising the injuries. Cosmetics were not quite the thing anymore, but one still occasionally saw them. And anything as well done as this would certainly not draw comment.
All these rather logical thoughts passed through Camden’s mind rapidly as his emotions took a moment to fully engage.
He had been in enough fights to recognize injuries sustained by blows when he saw them.
And Prue had them.
Anger roared to life within him, and his hold on her chin tightened, her eyes widening at the pressure. He dropped his hand quickly and turned away with a hoarse growl. He shoved his hands into his hair, gripping the strands tightly. The tide of rage and fury surged, giving him the desire to tear the room to shreds, to roar with indignation, to rip off the garb of a proper gentleman and take to the streets to fight whomever he could get his hands on. Anything to relieve this pain, this clawing need to lash out, to protect and defend…
“Cam…” Prue whispered, the sound breaking, soft as it was.
He gasped as though he had never breathed in his life, his lungs wracking in their efforts to breathe and find calm.
“Cam,” Prue said again, a little stronger.
He exhaled slowly, then turned to face her, his hands on his neck, his expression tortured.
Miranda was gone, and only Prue stood there. A tear fell down her painted cheek, smearing the work, revealing more of the truth.
Camden shook his head, his eyes burning. He came to Prue, pulling her into his arms, cradling her gingerly. He couldn’t even speak, couldn’t bear to vocalize anything at all.
He just held her, burying his face against her, sweeping his hands gently up and down her back. She curled into him, burrowing against his chest, her frame trembling.
“Tell me,” he finally whispered into her hair. “I don’t know if I can bear it, but if I’m holding you, I might… I might…”
Prue held him tighter, silencing him without a word. Softly, she related the entire story, relived the experience anew, how her mother raged at her about Eliza, about Davies, about Prue herself, before striking her. She told him about begging off of her Spinster meeting, claiming a headache rather than admitting the truth, reaching out to Miranda for help, telling him to meet her there…
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” she admitted quietly, leaning against him. “They already say enough about me, what’s a bit of cosmetics? But I… I didn’t want to pretend with you. I wanted you to know.”
Camden released a heavy breath, churning inside with questions and simmering rage. It killed him that he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t take her away, couldn’t thrash her mother as he would have done if she was a man, couldn’t defend Prue properly…
He couldn’t do anything.
He kissed Prue’s hair and moved them both to the desk nearby, leaning against the edge and holding Prue close. “Does this happen regularly?” he forced himself to ask.
Prue shook her head. “No. Almost never.”
He leaned back and gave her a look. “Almost,” he repeated.
She swallowed once. “It’s been years since she struck me.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he cried, his voice rising.
“No!” she replied, her voice breaking again as she stepped out of his hold, pacing a little before facing him again. “I just… don’t w-want you to see me as a v-victim.”
It was as though he could feel his heart cracking in his chest. “Oh, love…”
Prue’s face crumpled slightly. “This is my life, Cam. I can n-never please her. I never have. This is my l-life.”
“It should not be your life,” he said hoarsely, moving to take her hand in his. “You deserve so much more than this, Prue. You deserve a family who loves you and treats you well. You deserve to have your inheritance without any consideration to anyone else. You deserve…” He shook his head and kissed her hand tenderly. “You deserve the best.”
“What if she’s right?” Prue whispered, her eyes luminous. “What if no one will want me? What if my shyness and stammering and everything else are too much for any man to bear?”
Camden shook his head, wondering how much his heart and soul could take. “It isn’t,” he insisted, feeling that she needed truth rather than embraces at this moment. “Your shyness isn’t anything insurmountable. Once you are comfortable, it fades almost entirely. And even if you aren’t comfortable, it only takes patience and understanding.”
She laughed once, a hard laugh, despite the soft timbre and watery nature. “You’ve not seen the way men act around me. Before I had a fortune. It was hardly encouraging. And now… after this? How will anyone want to endure the trial of my nature and my life?”
Camden closed his eyes, gathering what strength and gentleness he could, and then pulled Prue back to him until he could take her face in hand, taking care not to press the tender flesh.
“You listen to me, Prudence Westfall,” he told her, not bothering to hide the rawness in his voice, nor the emotion behind it. “The only trial about you is that your level of perfection is the most intimidating thing in the world. You are beautiful, you are sweet, and you have a wicked sense of humor that is breathtaking with its cleverness. If a man wanted to truly make you his, there would be nothing in heaven or earth to keep him from you. Your shyness is the only slightly less than perfect thing about you, and all it does is make you real, and that is the most fascinating, tempting thing of all.”
Her eyes widened, filling with tears as she stared back at him.
“Do you hear me, sweetheart?” he asked, needing her to understand, to see what he saw.
At her nod, he swore under his breath, his emotions too much to bear anymore. He shook his head and stroked the bruised skin with gentle fingers. He bent and kissed the skin there, his lips dusting the discoloration and mark as though they could heal it. He turned her face and did the same to the other side, and then his lips were on hers.
She sighed, sliding her hand up to his neck, pressing him closer.
He resisted the temptation, could not bring himself to give in to his own desires, to kiss her madly, deeply, until he lost sense of himself and forgot his anger and madness. Until he was immune to all else in this world but her touch, her kisses, her sighs. Until he forgot where he ended, and she began. He could have pulled her more tightly against him, poured the very breath of his life into her, let her sweetness heal every ache in his heart.
But this wasn’t about him.
It couldn’t be.
Very gently, sweetly, tenderly he kissed her, caressing her lips with his own, desperate to soothe her pains, relieve her fears, quiet her anxieties. To let her know with this what his words could not say.
That she was cherished. Beloved. Adored.
His heart suddenly felt as though it caught fire within him as the truth of the matter came to light.
He loved her.
He kissed her again, breathless with the sensation of it all.
Love.
He pulled back and looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. “I need to protect you,” he whispered, kissing her brow and leaving his lips there. “I don’t know how, but I need to. I can’t bear this, Prue. I can’t.”
Prue shook her head a little and reached up to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Cam,” she said in a tone he was terrified to understand, “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Can you take me to the ballroom and dance with me? I just want to smile and laugh. With you.”
Camden swallowed hard, stroking her cheek again. “Will you smile? Will you laugh? Can you?”
“No promises,” she replied in a low voice, trying for a smile.
For once, he hated that answer. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Why do you always say that? You should feel safe enough to promise, and you should expect promises in return. Promises should be fulfilled, not cast aside. You should have promises, and expectations, and vows, and hopes, and dreams…” He shook his head, unable to properly express what was now weighing heavily upon him. He tucked Prue against him closely, love, anger, confusion, and need filling him. “You should have so much, Prue.” He exhaled slowly, kissing her hair again.
Prue held him, somehow comforting him while he attempted to comfort her. “Dance with me, Cam.”
He nodded against her. “I will, sweetheart. But I need to hold you for a while first.”
“And then Miranda will have to fix my face,” Prue whispered, and he could hear her smile.
He chuckled roughly. “Nothing about you needs fixing, love. But if you like, we’ll call Miranda back in.”
That seemed to settle the conversation, but Camden was far from being settled.
Something would need to be done. He suspected he already knew what it was, and it was the one thing he would hate most of all.
But tonight, he would dance.
Chapter Nineteen
A little heartbreak is good for a soul. But only a little.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 14 September 1815
“Prue, do you want to write the main article this time?”
“Yes! It’s been so long since you’ve put your delightful perspective in there.”
“Not that any of your other articles were anything less.”
“Not at all. Your Quirks and Quotes section was so engaging last time!”
Prue sat in silence on the sofa, staring off at nothing, aware of what her friends were saying but not paying any attention.
Izzy took her hand and squeezed it. “Prue?”
The Spinster and I (The Spinster Chronicles, Book 2) Page 24