The Spinster and I (The Spinster Chronicles, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  The Spinster Chronicles

  Book Two

  REBECCA CONNOLLY

  Also by

  Rebecca Connolly

  The Arrangements:

  An Arrangement of Sorts

  Married to the Marquess

  Secrets of a Spinster

  The Dangers of Doing Good

  The Burdens of a Bachelor

  A Bride Worth Taking

  A Wager Worth Making

  A Gerrard Family Christmas

  The London League:

  The Lady and the Gent

  A Rogue About Town

  Coming Soon

  Spinster and Spice

  Text copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art by Tugboat Design

  http://www.tugboatdesign.net

  All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Phase Publishing, LLC first paperback edition

  November 2018

  ISBN 978-1-943048-71-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961299

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Acknowledgements

  To Steph, who shares my love for a good love story, who loves the shy girl romances, and who played a key role in so many of my adventures. No one sings in the car with me like you do, and I’m grateful for all the times people got us confused. Sláinte!

  And to Claire Foy, my key inspiration for Prue, and one of the most elegant, talented, incandescent actresses of our day. Can we please be friends? Think about it. Get back to me. Thanks much.

  Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?

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  www.rebeccaconnolly.com

  Index

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Mayfair, 1815

  “Miss Westfall, we have an idea.”

  Prue turned to look at Miss Lambert and Miss Allen, both hurrying towards her. She wasn’t entirely sure why they bothered with haste, it was not as though she was going anywhere. She was perfectly situated in her usual chair, as she always was, and no one would have to work hard to find her even at a ball like this.

  No one ever sought to find her anyway, for which she was most grateful.

  Imagine having to talk with people for an extended time, or perhaps to even dance with them!

  Her face flamed just at the thought of it.

  “Oh dear,” Miss Lambert simpered as she sat down beside her. “We haven’t even told you, and we’ve embarrassed you already.”

  Prue shook her head quickly, feeling the ribbons in her hair shift within the too-loose curls. “N-not at a-all.” She frowned, her brow puckered, and she gripped the fan in her hands tightly. “F-forgive me, it’s n-not you.”

  Miss Lambert looked sympathetic, no doubt hearing the nervous stammer Prue had never managed to be rid of, even with her mother’s scolding.

  “You can say that, dear, but it’s all over your face.”

  “We don’t mean to be intimidating,” Miss Allen agreed from her other side. “We’ve just had an idea and wanted to include you in it.”

  Prue looked at the fairer of the cousins in outright bewilderment. “Me?” she asked, too shocked to even stammer.

  Miss Allen nodded quickly, smiling almost mischievously. “We’ve already got Miss Asheley and Miss Wright to join us, and with you, we will have five, which is quite a pretty number.”

  “For w-what?” Prue inquired, looking between the two.

  Miss Asheley was nice enough, but Miss Wright was quite a terrifying creature, being both beautiful and bold without being scandalous. Prue wasn’t sure she wanted to be in the same circles with her.

  “For a group of spinsters, if you’ll forgive the term,” Miss Lambert gushed, her cheeks coloring in excitement almost to match the color of her hair. “And if you’ll permit me to ask… how well can you write, Miss Westfall?”

  Chapter One

  Ladies who play the wallflower have earned themselves quite an unfair reputation in their time, though their existence is quite timeless. Society would label them as plain, tiresome, and occasionally unpleasant. This, more often than not, is untrue. They are quite often good, sweet girls with much to say and much to offer. They just aren’t quite sure how to go about it.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 7 December 1817

  “Smile, Prudence. Whatever else you do, you must smile.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “No, you don’t, or you would do it!” she snapped, fluttering her fan in agitation as she speared Prue with a cold look. “And don’t be a mouse. This is a grand opportunity for you, and I will not see you waste it on being a corner-dwelling potted plant.”

  Prue bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her chin dutifully. It would do no good to respond to that, and her mother would not hear it even if she did. She could agree with her mother and still be scolded for it. She had certainly been scolded for less, and at times without any reason.

  Prue never did the right thing, and receiving a scolding had become second nature to her now.

  She could only hope and pray that her mother would contain her distaste for her, and her instinct to correct, now that they were more observed than ever. Prue had enough to be getting on with on her own, but to have her mother draw even more attention to them, and in such an unfavorable light, would only make things worse.

  Not that it could get much worse than it already was, she supposed.

  Her life had been turned upside down only two months ago, and she feverishly wished for her former life once more.

  Not this. Anything but this.

  Her mother clicked her tongue and fanned herself again as they proceeded down the stairs to the dining room. “I still cannot believe that we are even here, Prudence.”

  Neither could she, it was so far-fetched, but her mother hadn’t said much on the subject, so Prue was only too relieved to hear a similar sentiment at last. “I know,” Prue sighed, adjusting her almost blindingly white gloves. “It hardly seems real.”

  “Indeed,” her mother agreed with a brisk nod. “A house party during the Season? What can Mrs. Davies be thinking of? I am amazed that anybody is here at all.”

  The wave of disappointment should have been fairly commonplace, even expected, and yet Prue felt uncomfortable. She should have known that her mother wouldn’t be concerned about the same things that Prue was; she never had been. She would be more concerned about the timing of the house party than the fact that they had been invited to the house party at all.

  Prudence Westfall, by all accounts, did not get invited to private events.

  Marjorie Westfall
did not care about the events her daughter went to unless she was going herself.

  They had managed to do quite well in that arrangement, aside from the moments where she had opted on a public shaming for her only child due to some flaw she imagined. Those had become more frequent of late, despite Prue’s growing more accommodating, and it had begun to draw more notice.

  For a girl used to being neglected, there was nothing more unnerving than attention, and even more so for the negativity of the situation.

  But she would gladly have gone back to such days, and to such neglect.

  It was unlikely she would ever know such bliss again.

  Cursed late Aunt Harriett.

  “Ah, dinner,” her mother huffed, ruffling the lace at her chest in irritation. “No doubt it will be some sort of stew as though we are in the country, despite being just out of the London neighborhoods.”

  Prue closed her eyes and felt her palms perspire. Her mother had done nothing but complain since they had arrived at Tinley House this morning, though she was the one who had insisted on accepting the invitation to the house party in the first place. She had further demanded that she come along as chaperone for Prue, showing a matronly concern that had never been in her nature before.

  Never once had she asked Prue what she wanted to do, or how she felt about matters, which seemed a backwards way to go about things, as Prue was the one who had inherited.

  It was Prue who had a fortune.

  It was Prue who was now an heiress.

  It was Prue who was now one of the most highly sought-after women in London.

  It was Prue.

  And Prue did not want any of this.

  But as Prue had never managed to find either a voice for herself or the will to stand up for anything, they were here.

  Where she could not hide, as she had been doing the past few weeks in London.

  Where any of the men in attendance could find her with ease.

  And if Mrs. Davies had invited the same number of men as she had of women, as was tasteful, there would be several more than Prue was comfortable with.

  Especially considering she was hardly comfortable with one.

  Her cheeks flamed at the thought.

  “Prudence,” her mother chirped at once. “Don’t color so! We are going in to dinner, and your impossible habit is going to make you look unsightly before all the rest, and the other girls are far prettier and more accomplished than you. They don’t have your fortune, but it is a trial to endure your company, so you must work twice as hard.”

  Prue nodded obediently, having heard all of this before. Dinner was not terrifying, considering she could occupy herself with eating without putting anybody off. If she were seated next to a young woman, it would be easier, and she knew most of them well enough that polite conversation over a meal, if necessary, would be comfortable enough. She would feel only slightly nervous, and with luck, she’d endure only moderate stammering.

  If Mrs. Davies knew anything about Prue at all, which was something of a question in Prue’s mind, she would know to do that.

  And she would have her mother at the opposite end of the table.

  Her mother paused outside of the dining room with a frown. “Do we go into the dining room? Or to a parlor where we are shown in?”

  Prue tried her best not to smile. For all her high and mighty ways, her mother did not have the background or pedigree Society demanded and still did not know the ways of things. And she did not listen, as they had been instructed as to the procedure. “I b-believe the parlor, Mother.”

  That earned her a sharp glare. “No stammering!” her mother barked as she marched past her to the parlor.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Prue muttered, following behind.

  Her mother had never had patience with Prue’s shyness and even less for her blushing, but nothing irritated her like Prue’s stammering. Her irritation with any of them only made everything worse, until it was all Prue could do to escape for some solitude to breathe.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Fear in, fear out.

  The pattern was the same as it had been when she was five, and her father had taught it to her. He’d never minded her overwhelming shyness and her nervous stammering; he’d said it was what made her endearing and real. Then he’d pinch her nose, wink, and laugh his growling laugh.

  But whenever she got overworked or stammered up a storm, he would take her face in his hands, and repeat the pattern until she was calm.

  He had been gone for years, but it was his voice in her head when she needed calm. It never worked as fast without his hands on her face, but she was now very much used to that.

  She was always on her own now.

  Always.

  None of the ladies in the parlor talked with Prue, aside from Mrs. Davies, who had greeted her warmly; but, she wanted Prue to marry her son.

  She wanted any of the women here to marry her son.

  Given the variety of said women, fortune aside, it appeared she was not very particular.

  Prue wondered just what Mr. Charles Davies had to say about the matter, being the potential groom.

  Oddly enough, her mother was speaking with several of the other mothers or chaperones and seemed to be getting along rather well with them.

  Either they were the most polite women in the world, or the most ridiculous.

  Dinner was announced quickly, much to Prue’s relief, and they were met by the gentlemen on the way to the dining room. Why they had been separated was as much of a mystery to her as to anyone else. It didn’t make any sense, given that they were spending five days in each other’s company, and the awkwardness of dinner had to be endured before they could get to the freedom of the dance.

  But it was not Prue’s house party, which was something of a contradiction in terms, and she was only here to avoid a confrontation with her mother of heretofore unimagined proportions. She would endure what she must, if she must.

  Which she must.

  Her dinner companions were not interested in speaking with her, and her mother was too far away to notice.

  The gentleman across the table, however, stared at Prue far too often. She searched her memory for his name, knowing they had been introduced at one time, but seven Seasons allowed for a great many acquaintances to pass through her mind without any significance.

  He had paid her no mind before, but she had far more to offer now.

  A great deal more.

  Posture perfect as it ever was, Prue managed to keep her eyes downcast almost the entire meal. Her eyes would raise enough to flick around, searching for any familiar faces, and finding none. But Mr. Stared-Too-Much was not the only one looking in her direction, and she felt the slow burn of her skin beginning at her neck.

  Soon, it would reach her ears, and then her cheeks, and there was no hope once it was there.

  Her tripe earned such focus that any observant individual would think it her favorite meal, which it most certainly was not, but she would swallow anything edible, whether palatable or not, to avoid knowledge of attention on her.

  An unsettled stomach was far preferable to an unsettled mind.

  The conversation at the table swirled around her, everybody jovial and talkative, laughing and excited about the party and its activities. There was distraction enough that it seemed of little importance to anyone that Prue was not participating in any of the discussions, aside from her staring neighbor across the way.

  If she reached for her water with a bit of gusto, she could knock aside the candelabra directly into his face or lap…

  But she found her glass in her grasp without any flicker to the flames, and after a small sip, it was returned to its position without incident.

  She could never cause a scene, no matter how she imagined it. She would never recover from the shame and guilt of such an event.

  She had enough trouble as it was.

  “And how are you, Miss Westfall?” Charles Davies suddenly asked from her left.

  Prue ha
dn’t known he was beside her. She hadn’t paid attention to that, but she certainly had not expected that Mrs. Davies would seat her son directly next to her.

  She must have wanted Prue for her son more desperately than previously anticipated.

  Prue stalled by taking extra care to chew her already soft potatoes, her cheeks flaming. “T-tolerably w-well, thank y-you.”

  A strained look suddenly filled his features, but he smiled, all the same, turning back to the more loquacious girl on his other side.

  The burning in her face raged on, and her throat suddenly constricted, her embarrassment causing her stomach to churn unpleasantly.

  Tangle-tongued little fool. Mr. Davies had only asked how she was, sheer politeness, and yet she had panicked and stammered like a ninny.

  She was a ninny. And she was desperate for home.

  She ate the rest of her meal in silence, refusing to look up even momentarily.

  Soon enough, dinner was finished, and they all moved to the ballroom, despite not having enough in their group to fill it. But the room was small and rather cozy for a ballroom, which Lady Hetty Redgrave would have had something to say about if she were here. But spinsters of seventy-some-odd years were not marital candidates for anybody, though it seemed stammering spinsters of five-and-twenty were.