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
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