My Sister's Intended Read online

  Table of Contents

  Book Information

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  © 2018 Rachael Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of HEA Publishing, LLC. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  Cover image credit: Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion images

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-941363-22-5

  Published by HEA Publishing

  FOR JEFF

  MY CONFIDANTE

  MY FRIEND

  MY HERO

  A SHRILL VOICE grated from across the room. “Prudence Edith Gifford!”

  Prudence quickly snapped shut the book she had been reading and tucked it beneath the pillow sitting on her lap. Over the years, she’d learned to discern her mother’s mood from the sound her skirts made. A slow and airy swish meant she had nothing to fear, but a hasty scroop, as Prudence heard now, was another matter entirely.

  Drat.

  Her mother stepped into view wearing her orange taffeta with yellow lace around her pale neck. Combined with her flushed face and blonde curls, she looked very much like the large dahlia growing just outside the study’s window. Prudence’s father was away from home for a week, and she had thought this room the safest place to read without discovery.

  She had been mistaken.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Prudence managed a bright smile.

  In answer, her mother’s eyebrows formed a displeased V. Without a word, she snatched the pillow from her daughter’s lap and revealed the book Prudence had procured only yesterday. The title, The Romance of the Forest, seemed to rise from the cover in an accusing fashion, as though saying, Yes, this is the nonsense that is sullying the mind of your daughter.

  Prudence scowled at the book until it, too, was snatched from her lap.

  “You are supposed to be practicing the pianoforte, not corrupting your mind with this… this rubbish.”

  Prudence nearly blurted, “It is not rubbish,” before she had the presence of mind to clamp her mouth shut. Her mother’s stern expression would become thunderous indeed if her daughter defended such a book. This was not the first time a conversation of this nature had occurred between them—or probably the last. It was a sorry plight indeed to be born the imaginative daughter of the most unyielding stickler alive.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” shrilled her mother’s voice again. She shook the book as though it provided the proof needed to convict her daughter of some dastardly deed.

  Prudence glanced sorrowfully at the book, knowing it would be the last time she saw that particular copy. Her mother had learned ages ago that she could not return such books to the library or they would eventually find their way back into her daughter’s hands. Instead, she would toss it into the fire and require Prudence to pay for its loss with her dwindling pin money. A petition would be made to the proprietress—again—not to lend Miss Prudence Gifford any more novels.

  What her mother didn’t know, however, was that Mrs. Clampton had not loaned Prudence that book. She had loaned it to Miss Abigail Nash, Prudence’s dearest friend, and it was Abby who had passed it along. Unfortunately, her mother would most likely discover Abby’s involvement, and that would be the end of that arrangement. She was nothing if not thorough.

  Prudence blew a puff of air from the side of her mouth and frowned. After today, she would have to find another co-conspirator, but who? Her sister, Sophia, had attempted to borrow a book for her the previous summer, but she had been found out and had promised never to do so again. Perhaps one of the Calloway twins? Did she dare ask such a thing of them?

  Goodness. Ever since her mother had seized control of Prudence’s life, things had been a great deal more complicated. How she missed her governess! The woman had not only been a wonderful teacher, but when Prudence had been a young girl and the sun went down and dark shadows, creaks, and imaginings threatened her peace of mind, Miss Simpson would sit beside her and invent story after story. Happy stories, adventurous stories, romantic stories—stories that helped Prudence forget her worries and drift off to sleep.

  As she grew older, the fears subsided but her yearning for a good tale did not. When Miss Simpson’s services were no longer required and she left the family, Prudence lost both a dear friend and a master storyteller. To ease the sadness, she’d begun to borrow books and create her own stories. It soon became a bit of an obsession.

  “Please do not burn it, Mother,” she pleaded. “It is Mrs. Clampton’s only copy, and she would be greatly saddened to learn of its demise.”

  “She will be greatly saddened?”

  Too late, Prudence realized she ought to have at least pretended to be more concerned with her mother’s feelings than Mrs. Clampton’s. She braced herself for the scolding that would surely come.

  “Do you have any idea how saddened I am to learn that you have disobeyed my wishes yet again?” It was a question Prudence wisely refrained from answering. “I cannot account for it—or you. Honestly, child, I do not know what to make of you. You embroider the loveliest creations I have ever beheld, you sing like an angel, play beautifully, and you speak nearly flawless French. Once Sophia marries and you make your come out, you have the potential to outshine every other debutante. Yet you continually persist in filling your mind with nonsense. You are a child no longer, Prudence. It is past time to start behaving like the well-bred young lady you are.”

  She gave The Romance of the Forest an angry shake before casting it into the fireplace.

  Prudence watched sadly as the dried pages of the book caught flame and slowly shriveled into black, unreadable ash. She shuddered, thinking of all the scribblings she kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her room and what would become of them if her mother discovered their existence.

  There was a reason Prudence was so interested in reading what her mother called rubbish. More than anything else in the world, the daughter of the distinguished Mr. and Mrs. Gifford wanted to write rubbish.

  But it wasn’t rubbish, not to Prudence.

  From the time she was a young girl, scene after scene, story after story, played through her mind like acts on a stage. Imagined characters became people with personalities, interests, motivations, and plights of their own. Prudence couldn’t help but get lost to a world more adventurous than her own where anything could happen. She had survived hours embroidering and practicing the pianoforte by shifting her thoughts to this other place. In an instant, she could leave tedium behind and become an innocent maiden who had been trapped in a cellar and forced to do needlepoint at the hand of a villain.

  She entered that imaginative world now, envisioning herself as a bullied daughter of a taskmaster, compelled to mold herself into the likeness of a stern mother. If only a handsome rescuer
would charge through the door and sweep her away.

  Sadly, there would be no rescuer, not today at any rate. Such were the disappointments of reality. Perhaps that was why Prudence loved her imaginary worlds so much. She had the control to shape things according to her wishes. If she wanted a heroine to stand up to her mother, the heroine would. If she wanted a handsome man to enter the room at that precise moment, he would. And if she wanted a book to be saved from the embers, it would have struck the mantle instead of the grate.

  Her mother sighed and sat down next to Prudence on the worn brocade sofa, placing her hand over her daughter’s in a rare show of affection. “These stories you read are not real, my darling, and I worry about the ideas they are planting in your mind. The more you read, the more discontented you seem with your life. It’s as though you’re waiting for a dashing man to waltz into town, romance you, and take you on some grand adventure.”

  Prudence dropped her gaze to her hands, thinking of how many times she had wished for that very thing—how many times she had told herself that it would happen one day.

  The way her mother spoke, however, that day would never come.

  Her mother continued. “I had hoped that when your father and I agreed to let you out in society with Sophia this summer that you would set these stories aside, but the opposite has occurred. I now discover you reading more often, you are in a constant state of distraction, and you seem disinterested in most of the people you meet.”

  Prudence bit her lower lip, knowing her mother spoke the truth—or at least a portion of the truth. “I am not disinterested,” she said. “I adore Sophia and Abby and think the Calloway twins are most diverting.”

  “Sophia is your sister and Abby your dearest friend. Of course you adore them. And the only reason you find the twins so diverting is because they behave like children.”

  Prudence had to concede the truth of that as well, but why did it matter? “I don’t understand why you are so troubled, Mother. When you allowed me out into society, you made it clear that I should blend into the background and not be on the hunt for a husband just yet. Sophia needs to marry first, as we both know, so why does it bother you that I find most people—especially the men—somewhat tiresome? Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “For now, yes,” agreed her mother. “I only worry that you will have the same attitude when you make your bows. You cannot expect to marry a man like one of those heroes from your silly books. Yes, I have read one or two of them and found them ridiculous in the extreme.”

  Prudence frowned, not appreciating her mother’s perspective. Was it so wrong to want to marry a man who was handsome, intelligent, witty, kind, and charming? Her mother made it sound as though that combination did not exist. But surely it did.

  Surely.

  “Once we go to London,” said Prudence. “I’m certain there will be at least a few men among the ton who will not disappoint.”

  “And if you should meet such a man?” her mother persisted. “Do you believe he will want to marry a woman who is often distracted and places greater importance on reading silly books than taking her duties as wife, mother, and mistress of a household seriously?”

  Prudence swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. Her mother had never spoken this plainly before. She had only blustered and commanded and tossed books into fires. But now that her words were hovering over her, Prudence had to wonder if they had merit. Was she too easily distracted? Had she formed unrealistic expectations of what her life should be? Had she grown tired of reality and preferred to live in her imaginary worlds?

  Perhaps in a way, she realized with dismay.

  But how could she give up her dreams and aspirations of becoming published one day? It was so much a part of her that… no, she couldn’t. Nor should she have to. Ann Radcliffe hadn’t given it up. Neither had Fanny Burney, Charlotte Lennox, Samuel Richardson, Walter Scott, Henry Fielding, or Maria Edgeworth.

  Prudence’s brow furrowed as she considered Miss Edgeworth and the fact that she had never married. Why hadn’t she? Did she prefer a life surrounded by books with no one telling her what to do? Or perhaps the woman hadn’t been able to settle for a life outside her own imaginings. Had she wanted to become a wife and a mother but had never found a man she felt was worthy of her—as Prudence’s mother accused her of doing? Was Prudence destined to follow a similar path?

  No. She would never allow that to happen. Although she had dreams of becoming a novelist, she also wanted to be a wife, a mother, a contributor to society. She wanted to have it all and believed she could have it all.

  But perhaps her mother was right about one thing. Perhaps she was too easily distracted and needed to lower her expectations somewhat. Prudence could certainly try a little harder in those areas.

  “I can see your point, Mother,” she finally said. “But you cannot ask me to give up reading altogether. I could never do it. Would you consider a compromise instead?”

  The V shape in her mother’s eyebrows returned, along with pinched lips. She probably didn’t think agreements should be made between mothers and daughters, but she didn’t immediately dismiss the request either, which gave Prudence some hope.

  “If you will allow me to borrow one book every month, I promise to limit my reading to that one book alone. I shall also make an increased effort at being more… aware.” That was a fair compromise, was it not?

  Her mother nodded slowly, as though considering the proposal. Prudence waited anxiously, wondering if there would ever be a day when they could claim an understanding of one another. They had always been so different, both in personalities and looks. Where her mother was tall, sturdy, fair, and excessively proper, Prudence was petite, slender, dark-haired, and decidedly improper. She always thought that she should have been given the name Sophia and Sophia, Prudence. They would have fit a great deal better.

  If only Prudence’s mother would at least attempt to understand her younger daughter.

  At long last her mother gave a curt nod. “Very well. But I shall be the one to accompany you to the library and aid you with the selection of your books."

  Prudence frowned, not liking that stipulation at all. It wasn’t much of a compromise if it could be considered one at all. She opened her mouth to say as much, but her mother had already clapped her hands together as though they had reached a satisfying agreement.

  “Now that we have settled that, I would like you to fetch your gloves and boots and accompany Sophia to the dressmaker’s. As you know, we have accepted the invitation for Mr. and Mrs. Hilliard’s dance on Friday next, and I have decided to splurge a little, just this once.”

  “New gowns for a small country dance?” Prudence asked, thinking it rather odd. Her mother had always been of an economical nature, never condoning the purchase of a new gown for such an unexceptional event.

  “I have learned, only this morning, that Lord Knave is returning to Radbourne Abbey and will most likely be in attendance. Therefore, I would like Sophia to appear to her greatest advantage. You have quite the eye for fashion, my dear, and I would appreciate your assistance in choosing a gown for her. Nothing extravagant, of course—no added lace or embroidery—merely something that will set her apart from the others. Now that she is close to making her bows, I’m certain Lord Knave will wish to further his acquaintance with her.”

  Ah, so it is only Sophia who will receive a new gown, thought Prudence wryly. She should have realized as much, not that she cared. After the harrowing months her sister had endured this past year, she deserved a new dress and any other good thing life had to offer. Prudence would never begrudge Sophia anything. She was alive and well, and that’s all that mattered.

  Prudence did care about the loss of her books, however, and wondered if she needed to uphold the so-called “compromise” she had made with her mother. It had been more of a decree than an agreement, after all, so she shouldn’t be required to comply. She certainly hadn’t promised to do so.

  At the same time,
if her mother were to ever catch Prudence reading an unapproved book, she would be accused of going back on her word. That did not sit well with her. Over the years, Prudence had often defied her mother’s wishes, but she had never broken anything resembling a promise and had no wish to do so now.

  Blast.

  How would she continue to write without her only source of useful information—books? Prudence could never write what she did not know, and at this point in her life, most of her knowledge about love and romance came from the words and experiences of others. She needed to continue reading if she was to continue writing, and if she adhered to her mother’s wishes, she couldn’t do either.

  Oh, what a conundrum.

  “I do hope you will stay out of Sophia’s way at the dance and attempt to blend in more than you usually do,” said her mother with a worried look. “It will be an important night for her, and… well, your time will come in another year, my pet, as soon as we have Sophia wedded to Lord Knave.”

  Prudence stared at her mother in confusion. Stay out of Sophia’s way? Blend in more than she usually did? What on earth had she meant by that? It almost sounded as though she wished her younger daughter were invisible.

  “If you’d rather I not go to the dance, Mother, I am perfectly content to remain at home.” On a hopeful note, she quickly added, “Especially if you allow me to borrow a book of my choosing from the lending library.”

  Her mother’s jaw tightened, showing her displeasure at the suggestion. “We have already sent our acceptance, so we will all be going regardless of whether you want to or not, and we only just agreed that I will be choosing the books you lend.”

  “Actually, we did not—”

  “Now off you go,” her mother said dismissively. “The gowns need to be ordered today if they are to be ready in time.”

  Prudence fumed as she left the room. Her mother wouldn’t even try to understand. She thought she knew what was best for her daughter, but she didn’t. How could she when they were nothing alike?

  Prudence suddenly pictured herself as a puppet. If her mother wanted her to dance, she would dance. If her mother wanted her to perform on the pianoforte, she’d perform. If her mother wanted her to sing, she would sing. And if her mother wanted her to cease reading novels, she would be expected to comply. Because that’s what puppets did. They submitted to the ones who held the strings.