Authors: Anne Gracie
“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!”
“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.”
S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT
“Y
OU SAID WHEN WE CAME TO
L
ONDON 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.