Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “Something about sweeping the front room.”

  A-ha! That was what he’d asked her to do.

  “I told him I swept it this morning as I always do.” Mrs. Blimkin pressed the edges of the dough, creating scalloped edges. “But he obviously thinks I can’t do even the simplest tasks anymore.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that, Mrs. Blimkin. No doubt Mr. Higginbotham feels I need some responsibility.”

  Mrs. Blimkin gave her a sideways look that implied she thought the same. Pru sighed and made her way to the front room with the broom. The door to Mr. Higginbotham’s library was closed, which meant he was either sleeping or working. Pru would have wagered he was asleep in his chair with a volume of sermons resting on his chest.

  Pru began to sweep the already clean floor. She liked the vicar well enough. He was a kind man, although old-fashioned. This was to be expected, considering he was old enough to be her grandfather. He had ideas about what young ladies should read and what dinner topics were acceptable conversation. He thought Pru should make an effort to call on the families in the village—in particular those who gave generously to the church—and have tea with their daughters. Pru had tried to make friends when she’d first arrived, but her overtures had not been welcomed or returned.

  Still, she couldn’t spend the next few years sweeping a clean floor. She had to find something to do. And it was probably best if that something was not calling on the dashing Mr. Pope. She was already planning when she could sneak away and return to Wentmore. She wanted to hear about those peacocks, but more than that she enjoyed spending time with Mr. Pope. He was so serious and rather dangerous, and she had a bad habit of showing too much interest in dangerous men. But Mr. Pope wasn’t a crime lord or a stolen antiquities dealer. He was a former soldier trying to adjust to a new life without his sight. He was scared and uncertain, though he tried valiantly to hide it.

  Pru leaned on her broom and sighed. Perhaps this time it was the man’s vulnerabilities that drew her more than the danger he posed. He wouldn’t really hurt her. Not intentionally, at any rate. She could be mistaken, but she thought he enjoyed their conversations as much as she. Mr. Pope could certainly use more of her visits. The poor man was all alone in that tragic, moldering house. But the vicar was unlikely to countenance her spending any time with Mr. Pope, and so she needed to find a more acceptable pastime.

  She enjoyed visiting the tenant farmers in the area. The vicar visited on a monthly rotation. He had consented to take Pru with him when she’d first arrived, but lately he said her incessant chatter made it hard for him to think and insisted she stay at the vicarage.

  Her parents had given the vicar a bit of money for Pru’s upkeep, and she had asked him for enough to buy material for a new dress. He had initially refused, saying it was vanity, but after a week, he had seen all of her dresses and handed over the money without her even having to ask again.

  Pru looked down at the dress she currently wore. It was the color of smashed peas after they had stewed in the pot for a few days and had to be scraped off the sides. Pru would have never chosen it for herself, but her parents rarely ever bought their children or themselves anything new, and this had been in the donation box at the church. Pru would have left it there, but her mother had taken it home, made Pru try it on, and since it fit, she had been made to wear it.

  Having swept the floor, Pru put the broom away and went to a chair in the corner where she sometimes liked to sit and read sermons after supper. Which meant, she tucked a novel between the pages of a book of sermons and pretended to read sermons.

  But she also had a book of patterns Mrs. Dawson had lent her, and she took it up now to see if she might be able to choose one and begin making herself a new dress. The problem was that though she liked many of the patterns, she had never made a dress by herself. She had helped her mother, especially after her sister, Anne, had become sick with fever, but completing tasks another assigned was quite different than beginning the project oneself. Not to mention, she had bought only as much fabric as necessary. There was no room for mistakes.

  She studied the book, lifted the material, examined her current dress, and then set it all down again.

  “You look like you just received news the church’s autumn festival was canceled,” Mrs. Blimkin said from the doorway. Pru jumped, not knowing how long the housekeeper had been standing there.

  “It’s not that.” Then she brightened. “Has the festival been canceled?”

  “No.”

  Pru deflated again. Mrs. Blimkin gestured to the pattern book. “Looking to start on your new dress, are you?”

  “I’ve been wanting to start on it for a week.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Blimkin entered, passing a cloth over tabletops and lamps. “But all you do is pick it up and put it down again.”

  Pru had thought of asking Mrs. Blimkin to help, but she was aware the other woman was a servant and Pru was, while not exactly her employer, a pseudo-employer. She couldn’t pay Mrs. Blimkin, and surely dressmaking was not one of the tasks Mr. Higginbotham expected of her.

  “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Northgate to help you?”

  Pru made a face. She had met the Northgate girls and their mother. All three of them had turned their noses up at her. She heard them whispering at church each Sunday, and she just knew they were whispering about her.

  “Not the wife,” Mrs. Blimkin said. “Mr. Northgate’s mother.”

  Pru tried to think back to the Northgate pew at church. There were only the five of them—the husband and wife, the son, and the two girls. “I don’t think I know her.”

  “Probably not.” Mrs. Blimkin was close enough to whisper now. “She’s a heathen.”

  “A heathen?”

  “That’s right. She never attends church, and when the vicar called on her to invite her, not long after he arrived at Milcroft, she told him she didn’t believe in God.”

  “But that must have been thirty years ago,” Pru said. “She’s never attended church in all that time?”

  “No.” Mrs. Blimkin was not even pretending to dust at this point. She looked over her shoulder to make certain Mr. Higginbotham’s door was still closed. “Not a once. And do you know what else?”

  Pru knew she should not gossip, but she was absolutely fascinated. She had never considered not attending church. She had gone every Sunday and more for as long as she’d been alive. She hadn’t realized until she’d been fifteen or sixteen that some people did not attend church.

  “What else?” Pre asked.

  “I have heard—I haven’t seen it with my own eyes, mind you—but I have heard that she does housework on Sundays.”

  Pru sat back. “She cooks and cleans on Sunday?”

  “She must! The servants have the day off—as they should—and when they return on Monday morning, let’s just say that the kitchen is cleaner than they left it and there’s often a pie or a newly baked half loaf of bread that wasn’t there when they left Saturday evening.”

  This was indeed shocking, and also rather exhilarating. Pru liked people who broke the rules. Perhaps because she broke them so often herself—not intentionally, of course. She had been known to forget it was Sunday some weeks as well and accidentally pick up a broom or duster. She always repented of her sin right away, of course. And unlike when she repented for reading novels or uttering a curse, Pru was genuinely sorry for breaking the commandment to honor the Sabbath. She did not want to clean any day, and it was only habit that caused her to lift the broom in the first place.

  “How can Mrs. Northgate help me with the dress?” Pru asked. Mrs. Blimkin seemed to have forgotten all about that suggestion and stared at Pru blankly for a moment before nodding.

  “She was quite the fashionable lady in her day. Made all her own clothes and makes many of the dresses her granddaughters wear. Not that Miss Northgate or Miss Mary appreciate it.

  Pru doubted the Northgate girls appreciated much, but they were always well-dressed. “And
you think she would help me?”

  “I think she’d be happy for the company. You’re an odd one, but you’re pleasant enough.”

  “Thank you.” Pru added, “I think,” under her breath. “Do you think the vicar will mind?” Pru glanced at the closed door again.

  “Not if you drop a Bible verse or two into your conversation. He can’t get near her. If you can, he’ll see it as an opportunity.”

  Pru nodded. “Might I go now?”

  “You don’t need my permission.”

  Pru gathered the material then put it back down. It might be too forward to bring the dress material with her, as though she expected Mrs. Northgate to agree. Instead she took up the pattern book, donned her coat and bonnet, pulled on her gloves, and set off down Milcroft’s main street.

  The vicarage was at the far end of Milcroft, as though the church had been built as an afterthought. The shops were closer to the river and the mill so they might easily cater to farmers who brought their wares to sell or their grain to be milled every week. The wealthier families had homes just outside the town. The Earl of Beaufort’s estate was about three miles outside of town. The Northgate house was only a quarter of a mile. The Northgates had an orchard and exported the apples, pears, cherries, and plums they did not sell locally. Pru had recently learned that Mr. Northgate also sold apple cider during the harvest season, and the congregation of the church was atwitter about Northgate’s promise to bring a cask of it to the autumn festival for all to enjoy.

  It wasn’t until Pru drew close to the Northgate house that she felt the flutter in her belly. She hadn’t felt nervous when she’d gone to see Mr. Pope, even though he might have shot her. She supposed she truly was a vain creature as she was more worried about the Northgate girls laughing at her ugly dress than being shot through the head. It did not hurt that Mr. Pope was so handsome. In addition to her weakness for dangerous men, she had a weakness for dark-haired men. It had gotten her into trouble in Cairo and was the main reason she was here now and not on a ship bound for a port in the Far East with her parents and brothers. Or perhaps they had arrived by now. She couldn’t expect a letter for at least another month unless her mother had mailed one at a port of call. Speaking of letters, she should write to Anne...

  But she was straying from her current task, which was not writing to her sister but knocking on the Northgates’ door. Pru squared her shoulders, took a breath, and made her way up the gravel walk and to the door. She tapped lightly on the door, and it was opened immediately by Mary Northgate. Mary was the younger of the two daughters. She was probably thirteen, but unlike Pru, who had been gangly and awkward looking at thirteen, Mary looked poised and elegant. She had blond hair that cascaded down her back in perfect curls, secured away from her face by a blue ribbon that matched her eyes. She stared at Pru and did not speak.

  “Good afternoon,” Pru said. “Is Mrs. Northgate at home? Your grandmother, that is.”

  Mary closed the door in Pru’s face, but Pru heard her yell, “Grandmama, the vicar’s ward is here to see you.”

  Pru opened her mouth to tell the girl that she was not the vicar’s ward. She was three and twenty and too old to be anyone’s ward. But what was the point? The door was closed, and Miss Mary Northgate was already gone.

  Pru stood and waited for what seemed a long time. She wondered if she should knock again or just give up and go home. Finally, just as she was about to turn around and return to the vicarage, the door opened and a tall woman in a dove gray dress stood before her. Pru was tall herself, but she looked up at the woman, who must have been close to six feet. She looked even taller because of the coil of silver hair piled high on her head. It was quite an impressive coiffure, and Pru imagined the woman’s hair must reach all the way to the floor when unbound.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  Pru curtseyed then wondered why she had done such a thing. She didn’t think she’d ever curtseyed before in her life. “I am Prudence Howard, ma’am. Mr. Higginbotham is my guardian while my parents are away on a missionary trip.”

  The woman looked Pru up and down. “You look too old to need a guardian. Haven’t you a husband?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And not likely to marry with a face like that and wearing a dress a color and style that does you no favors.”

  Pru began to wonder if she had made a mistake in listening to Mrs. Blimkin. “The dress is actually what I came to talk to you about, ma’am. Mr. Higginbotham’s housekeeper, Mrs. Blimkin, said you might be able to help me make a new one.”

  Mrs. Northgate put her hands on her hips. “Oh, so I am the local seamstress, now am I?”

  “I don’t think she meant to imply that at all. I believe she took pity on me after seeing me staring forlornly at this pattern book yet again.”

  Mrs. Northgate glanced down at the pattern book Pru held out in supplication. She harrumphed. Pru thought she would close the door and that would be the end of it, but she stood in the doorway. “Are you the sort of girl who can take instructions or do you insist on having your own way?” Mrs. Northgate asked.

  Pru considered. “I fear I do tend to go my own way, ma’am.”

  “Good. Come back tomorrow after noon—not before. Bring your dress material.”

  Pru blinked. “Thank you!”

  “Do not thank me yet, young lady. I can see we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Should I bring the pattern book?”

  Mrs. Northgate looked at it again. “Goodness, no. Nothing in there will suit you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tomorrow. Not before noon. You can tell time, can you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then between noon and one, I should think.” And she closed the door. Pru stood on the steps a moment longer, wondering if she should go or if the woman would open the door again and bid her a proper good-bye. After a moment, she backed away and, when she was a sufficient distance, turned and ran back to the vicarage.

  Five

  Pru wore her second-best dress to call upon Mrs. Northgate the next day. She trudged through the light drizzle that had been falling all morning and knocked on the door at exactly five past twelve, and this time a servant opened the door and led her to an upper floor to what she called Mrs. Northgate’s boudoir.

  Mrs. Northgate was waiting for her, seated at a table that had been positioned in the middle of the room and obviously brought in for the purpose of making a dress. The table was sturdy and plain, the sort of table Pru’s family would have owned in their room in London.

  The rest of the chamber was far more opulent. Pru looked about at the dark woods and plush fabrics on the chairs and the reclining couches. The drapes were heavy velvet, open to the day and would, on a sunny day, allow a great deal of light into the room. A closed door on the far side of the room most likely led to the bed chamber. This chamber must have acted more as a receiving room.

  “Your eyes look as though they might pop out at any moment,” Mrs. Northgate said. “Have you never seen a lady’s boudoir?”

  “I confess, I have not, ma’am.”

  “Sit down.” She indicated the sturdy chair across from her. “I asked about you,” she said as Pru took a seat. Pru’s hands froze in the act of placing her dress fabric, wrapped in paper to keep it clean, on the table.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. I wanted to know something about the young lady in whose company I would be spending several days. I understand you are recently from London, and that your parents are missionaries.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And where are they now? These parents of yours?”

  “Bound for the Far East, ma’am.”

  “Do they never take you with them on their pilgrimages?” She gestured for Pru to hand over the dress fabric and Pru did so.

  “They have in the past.”

  “Ah, so you have seen something of the world then.” She unwrapped the paper on the dress and winced. “Oh, dear.
”

  “What is it?” Pru peered at the bright yellow fabric, hoping it had not been damaged or soiled. She saw no imperfections, though. She had been inordinately careful with the material.

  Mrs. Northgate looked at Pru then looked at the fabric. “Go stand by the window, girl.”

  Pru did not particularly like being called girl, but she did as she was told. Mrs. Northgate brought the material over and held it up to Pru’s face in the gray light. “Ghastly,” she said.

  Pru stared at her. “I know I am plain but—”

  “Come here.” Mrs. Northgate took Pru’s wrist between her bony fingers and tugged her to the cheval mirror in one corner. Pru immediately adjusted the dress she wore. It had been white at one time but was now a faded ivory with a pattern of tiny roses sprinkled throughout. The neckline was modest but not buttoned all the way to her neck. A smattering of freckles was visible on Pru’s collarbone. “Look at your face, Miss Howard.”

  Pru looked. It was odd to look at her face with someone like Mrs. Northgate observing. When Pru had been younger she had looked in the mirror quite a lot. She’d hoped her freckles would fade or her brown eyes would lighten or darken or her thin lips would grow plump. But she looked as she always did—a thin, long face, a sharp chin, and wide brown eyes that were almost too big. It was a very ordinary face which might have been acceptable had she not had so many freckles. It was her own fault, really. They would not have been so pronounced had she worn a hat in the sun as she ought.

  Pru’s mother had always scolded Pru for those long gazes in the mirror. She did not hold with vanity. Pru looked a good deal like her, except her mother had deep red hair and always wore a bonnet to shield her skin from the sun. Her freckles were quite pale. Pru had hair the brown of tree bark which she wore in a simple topknot as she had no skill in hair dressing.

  “Now look at your face again,” Mrs. Northgate said as she draped the new dress material over Pru’s chest so it was beside her face. Pru saw the difference immediately. She had looked plain and unremarkable in her dull white dress, but when the yellow fabric was placed beside her skin, she took on a sallow, sickly color. Her freckles looked almost nauseatingly green and the skin under her eyes seemed to sag and darken.