Prudence Pursued (2 page)

“I do not believe so,” Margaret replied with a skeptical frown. “Surely, there will be a physician. I wish I knew how Sir James convinced Lady Oldenfield to host the affair in the first place,” she said. “I am dreading it.”

“Meg, you are fretting a good deal over nothing, I assure you,” Prudence tried to cheer her. “My own father performed nearly all the vaccinations upon the members of his congregation with my help and that of his curate. It is quite a simple procedure and so effective. Papa hopes one day in the near future, the christening and vaccination of small children will be performed on the same day.”

Margaret appeared so aghast at this hopeful suggestion Prudence could not help laughing. Then she gave her cousin a heartfelt hug. “While you change your gown, I will look in on Aunt Judith and tell her we will be leaving soon. I shall ask her to have the carriage brought around too.”

As Prudence made her way down the drafty corridor to her aunt’s room, she glanced outside the window. Such a bleak and dreary July day! This summer had been unseasonable chilly. Prudence, who reveled in the warmest weather, did not approve. Noting the gooseflesh on her arms, she wished she had first stopped by her own room for a shawl. She suspected her aunt would not have a fire in her room. Aunt Judith lived as though she were penny pinched—much to the inconvenience of her guests. Prudence considered her to be thoughtlessly stingy, although her mother insisted her widowed sister-in-law was merely frugal.

She tapped on the door to her aunt’s room and opened it when she heard her call, “Enter.” Prudence found her aunt sprawled upon her chaise, indisposed. She was built upon thick and sturdy lines, which belied her frail health. Her thinning dark hair appeared heavily streaked with silver strands. Her long, plain face sadly resembled that of a horse, Prudence thought. Two small tables were within her aunt’s reach—one with a lovely Wedgwood tea service, the other littered with bottles containing various elixirs for one ailment or another.

“My dear Prudence, it is so good to see you!” her aunt declared, holding out a tremulous hand to her. “I do beg pardon for not greeting you upon your arrival yesterday. I am positively burnt to the bone socket. My headaches are quite debilitating, as you know. I trust your dear mother and father are in good health?”

“They are fine indeed,” Prudence assured her.

“Oh, Prudence, I am so grateful you have come. I do so need your help,” her aunt told her with a lachrymose expression.

“I am always pleased to be of assistance to you, Aunt Judith,” Prudence replied, squeezing her aunt’s hand as she bent to kiss her pale cheek. As she did so, Prudence glanced sidelong toward the hearth. No fire, as she feared. Then noting the purple bruises beneath her aunt’s eyes and her sallow skin, Prudence felt a stab of guilt for having assumed Mrs. Leyes had merely been indulging herself with another imagined illness, a common habit with her. But no, the woman did indeed look haggard.

“If anyone can talk Margaret into seeing reason, it would be you. She has always admired you—you have been more like an elder sister than a cousin. I am so grateful.” Mrs. Leyes sniffed into her handkerchief.

“I am quite as fond of Margaret as she is of me,” Prudence assured her, sitting down upon a small chintz-covered settee.

“Margaret cannot afford to pass up this opportunity. In truth, it is like manna from Heaven. You must make her see it, Pru.” With a sigh, her aunt sank back against the chaise. “How could I bear it if I should die, leaving my only child a spinster?” she wailed. “Margaret, an old maid!”

Prudence lowered her gaze, focusing her attention upon the ornate garnet ring her grandmother had given to her on her sixteenth birthday, more than a decade ago. Her distraught aunt, realizing what she had said, quickly begged pardon and gulped a swallow of tea from a dainty cup.

“I’m sorry, Prudence,” she sputtered, her pale face flushing. “I did not think. Oh, my wicked tongue! I do rattle on. Giles always said so, and it is lamentably true.”

Clearing her throat, Prudence replied, “It is also true I am—as you say—an old maid. I’m nearer thirty than not and still unmarried. I am resigned to my fate and contentedly so.”

She forced a smile and admitted on most days, this was indeed true.

Love and marriage were not part of God’s plan for her life. She had come to accept it—most of the time. She felt blessed to have the loving support of her parents, as well as the modest inheritance left to her by her grandmother, which became Prudence’s to manage when she had reached the age of twenty-one. And although Mrs. Pentyre often hinted how delighted she would be to see her youngest daughter happily married, as were her other children, Patience and John, neither she nor the vicar persisted in this and seemed pleased to have Prudence remain with them to help with the church work.

Fixing her niece with a tender gaze, Judith added, “I do hope you will not think me impertinent, Prudence, but I cannot help wishing you were credibly established—like your sister Patience, married to a kind and generous husband.”

“I have not yet met the right gentleman, Aunt Judith, nor am I likely to do so—at my age,” she replied with a quick shrug. “Thankfully, my parents have allowed me to make my own matrimonial decisions.” Prudence winced then as she realized how condemning the comment must sound to her aunt who, indeed, wanted to force her own daughter into a marriage of convenience.

But her aunt had not noted the condemnation in her tone, and Prudence, eager to change the subject, said, “I must confess, I am surprised to learn Margaret is not yet officially betrothed. In your letters to Mama, you intimated the match had been made. We expected to see the announcement in the
Times
before I left for Bath.”

“No, it is not official yet,” her aunt replied with a tragic sniff. “And through no fault of Brownell’s, I assure you.
He’s
come up to scratch. Margaret is the one balking at the fences,” she went on with a lamentable mix of metaphors. “I don’t know what to do. I am at my wit’s end. She says she wants to carefully consider the offer. But there is nothing to consider, as far as I am concerned. I have never known Margaret to be so stubborn. She has always been such a good, biddable girl. But now…” Judith’s shoulders slumped with despair.

“Perhaps Meg’s affections are engaged elsewhere?” Prudence suggested.

“I do not believe so,” she replied, her forehead creasing with perplexed wrinkles.

Recalling her cousin’s less than enthusiastic comments about the gentleman, Prudence added, “Perhaps she finds Sir James repugnant in some way.”

“How can that be?” her aunt queried. “The man is rich, attractive, and personable, even though his manner may be considered…” she paused to find the right word.

“Brusque?” Prudence prompted.

Her aunt frowned. “Perhaps, but his lineage is impeccable. He came to Bath for the express purpose of recovering his health and securing a wife. He fixed his attention on Margaret almost at once.”

“After first being rejected by the vicar’s daughter, I understand,” Prudence pointed out. She regarded her aunt with arched brows.

“Not
our
vicar’s daughter,” Judith replied, as though this made all the difference in the world. “Margaret has never had an offer before, you know. To be quite honest, she is not likely to have another. Although I love my daughter dearly, I must admit the child is lamentably plain.” Mrs. Leyes shook her head. “Even if Margaret should receive another offer, which is doubtful as I have said, it would surely not be as advantageous as this one. It is why I have sent for you, Prudence. You must convince Margaret to marry Sir James!” She raised a languid hand to indicate the teapot.

Prudence shook her head, declining the offer of tea. “I’ll try to be helpful to you, Aunt Judith,” she replied. “I wish Margaret all the happiness in the world, but I will not urge her to marry someone she finds repulsive.” She fixed a candid gaze upon her aunt’s pale face.

“Then you must convince her Sir James is
not
repulsive,” Judith said stiffly. “He is an excellent man with a superior mind. He has many fine…er…qualities besides his fortune. For Margaret, this will be a most splendid match.” After a moment’s pause, she frowned and asked with quiet hesitation, “Did Margaret
say
she is repulsed by him?”

“She complains he is rather an odd fish,” Prudence replied frankly. Licking her dry lips, she added, “Margaret also thinks he is old and unattractive.”

“Old? Bah! He is not yet thirty-five years of age,” Judith insisted. “I will admit, he is not handsome in the conventional way, but he has a rugged, manly appearance. And he is rich. I believe I mentioned it, did I not? His father invested heavily in the East India Company. Sir James himself has done considerable business in the East as well, importing antimony, I believe. It is my opinion he should be commended for increasing the wealth of the estate left to him by his late father.”

“And yet Margaret doesn’t seem impressed. I’m not sure she even likes the man,” Prudence pointed out.

“What’s not to like?” her aunt protested. “Sir James has wealth. He’s generally admired and has none of the usual vices—like gambling and excessive drink. Truly, Prudence, he has quite turned everyone’s head with his tales of dining in foreign palaces with sultans and Oriental princes. He brought back with him many curious mementos of his journey to the East. It is true he is not debonair. But he cuts quite a romantic figure nonetheless. Bath society has embraced him.”

“Yes, but Margaret mentioned he walks with a limp and wears an eye patch.” Suppressing a smile, Prudence tried to conjure an image of the adventurous Sir James Brownell. The image portrayed by her aunt and the one provided by her young cousin merged into something of a comical figure.

“Poor man! He was injured while fighting with Malay pirates. Why, he was actually shot in the battle! Lady Brownell saved the bullet and keeps it under glass, like some prize specimen to show to everyone who calls.” Judith shook her head, tugging impatiently at her gown. “But to his credit, Sir James is determined to take a missionary back with him the next time he journeys east. As you are a vicar’s daughter, you must approve.”

“You are close friends with his mother, I believe?” Prudence asked, ignoring the comment.

“Yes, Eliza and I were at school together. Bosom chums,” she added with a reminiscent smile. “We shared an infatuation for our dashing art instructor,
Signore
Angelo Roscetti—such a handsome man with black moustaches and flashing dark eyes.”

Prudence gently led her aunt back on course. “Before I do what I can to convince Margaret to accept Sir James’s offer, are you quite sure she has not formed a secret passion for another?”

Her aunt seemed bewildered by the suggestion. “No,” she insisted. She then quickly amended this declaration with, “I don’t know. Margaret has not shown a partiality to any young man I am aware of. Nor has any gentleman singled her out.”

“Could she be meeting someone in a clandestine manner?”

“Prudence, no!” Judith declared. One frail hand fluttered to her throat. “I’ve not heard of it. Someone would surely have noticed and informed me of it, don’t you suppose?”

Prudence thought much went on in Bath that her reclusive aunt would not know about. She could tell by Judith’s flushed face and agitated manner the notion of Margaret meeting someone clandestinely had never occurred to her. Prudence wished she had not mentioned it. Aunt Judith would, she feared, fret about it.

“Poor Margaret has been suffering with megrims of late. Some days, her appetite is poorly," Judith stammered. “And yet on other days, she fairly blooms with good health and high spirits. It
is
puzzling, of course, but I believe it is often so with the young. They can be emotionally intemperate.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Judith. If Margaret does have a secret
tendre
for some other gentleman, I will ferret it out,” Prudence promised. She felt no qualms about doing so as Margaret had not given the slightest indication she nursed a secret passion for another. “Who knows? He may even be in attendance at Lady Oldenfield’s gathering this afternoon. I shall look sharp.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened with apprehension. She blinked. “Did she mention…?”

“No, Aunt Judith, I do not mean to tease you,” Prudence hastened to assure her. “Meg did not confess any such secret passion to me. She is merely indifferent to Sir James—so she told me. She cannot bring herself to accept him as her husband.”

“Do what you can to see she warms to him,” her aunt pressed. “If there
is
someone else, Clarissa Paige may possibly know who it might be.”

“I remember Miss Paige,” Prudence said, immediately recalling the pretty, dark haired young woman, who was Margaret’s true and closest friend. If her cousin had indeed revealed any secret passion to her bosom chum, Prudence would find it no easy task to pry the secret from Clarissa’s loyal lips.

“Be clever, Prudence,” her aunt cajoled, as though reading her thoughts. “You must persuade Clarissa to speak with you regarding Margaret’s confidences—if indeed she has shared such.”

“I fear you overestimate my abilities, Aunt Judith, but I will try.” In a teasing manner, she tilted her head to one side. “I may have to take up a flirtation with Clarissa’s brother, Harry. He might be more forthcoming, under the right circumstances, if he knows anything at all about a secret
amour
.”

Judith appeared mildly astonished. Then realizing it was only a jest, the woman gave her a complacent smile and shook her head. “This is not a laughing matter, Prudence. Nothing must prevent Margaret from marrying Sir James.” Then squeezing her eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose, she exclaimed with sudden warmth, “The child vexes me so! She gives Sir James no encouragement at all.”

“I am frankly surprised this indifference has not cooled the gentleman’s ardor,” Prudence admitted, smoothing her skirt with one hand. She felt even more intrigued about Sir James Brownell than before. Her cousin was not a beauty or an heiress. Why should Sir James be so insistent upon marrying Margaret when surely there were young females who would be more willing? Why did he not give her up, as he did the vicar’s discriminating daughter and move on to more fertile ground?