Chapter Three

Prudence Pettibone was in a bad mood. The source of her malcontent was not the dolorous drooping of her prized Dracula simia orchid, or the unexplained chip on her Royal Doulton teapot—she was convinced that was the work of Hannah, her clumsy oaf of a maid. Nor was it the unrelenting string of dull, rainy days hanging over the village of Kirkbymoorside with the grim stubbornness of the Yorkshire countryside and its people. Prudence rather liked wet days, as they were an excuse to sit inside with a cup of tea and a book—preferably something by Jane Austen, about Jane Austen, or inspired by Jane Austen.

The source of her irritation wore absurd feathered hats and floral print dresses more suitable for upholstery than haberdashery, had been recently elected president of the Northern Branch of the Jane Austen Society, and went by the name of Sylvia Pemberthy, née Westcraven. It pleased Prudence to think of Sylvia’s maiden name, because the first Westcravens were peat farmers, and she liked to picture Sylvia’s ancestors bending over soggy fields of sod. In spite of her posh airs and affectations, Sylvia sprang from lowly harvesters of dirt, a fact that delighted Prudence to no end. Sylvia’s presence in her consciousness was like a slow leak in a bathroom faucet, wearing away the enamel of her patience with its insistent drip drip drip.

The first thing Prudence did after supper that night was pick up the phone and call Hetty Miller, her closest ally in the society. After half an hour on the phone with Hetty, Prudence was relieved to find she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t abide Sylvia—according to Hetty, she had plenty of enemies within the ranks.

“She just ignored you when you tried to get a word in edgewise?” said Hetty. “Who does she think she is? And what on earth was she thinking, picking on Jonathan like that? The last thing she should be doing is alienating someone like him.”

“Exactly!” Prudence agreed. “Such bad manners.”

Jonathan Alder was one of the few single men in the society, and the reason for the regular attendance of more than a few female members. It was Prudence who had convinced him to accept the post of chairman of the Events Committee, and now Sylvia was about to chase him away with her ridiculous nattering.

“No wonder Owen and Kurt went at it,” said Hetty, “with her setting the tone like that. She won’t last long as president at this rate.”

Prudence could hear the sound of running water and clattering pans in the background. Hetty was probably making tea, and that made her want some, to stave off the creeping chill of the October night. She padded into the kitchen and switched on the light, cold and bright on the tile counters. She hated the new energy-saving light bulbs her husband had talked her into buying, which brought out the thick blue veins in her hands.

She opened the tea cupboard warily—as usual at this time of year, there was an infestation of field mice, as they crept inside in search of a warm place to ride out the winter. She had been nagging Winton to pick up some poison at the store, but the poor darling was so tenderhearted she supposed she would have to do it herself.

She smiled when she saw the plate of homemade brownies on the counter, with a note from Winton. THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE PECKISH WHEN YOU GOT IN. XOXO WINTY. He was such a dear, always looking after her.

“How can she get away with such behavior?” said Hetty.

“It’s shockingly uncivil, if you ask me,” Prudence replied, cradling the phone on her shoulder as she held the teapot underneath the faucet. Of course she owned a mobile phone like everyone else nowadays, but there were precious few cell towers this close to the moors. Reception was spotty in the village, and most people still relied on their landlines.

She chose a decent if undistinguished Darjeeling, warming the pot before pouring in the boiling water.

“Thinks she’s high and mighty,” Hetty said.

“A regular Lady de Bourgh,” Prudence agreed.

“And she’s doing us such a great favor by holding the meeting here.”

Most general meetings were held in the city of York, thirty miles away, but as newly elected president, Sylvia had persuaded the members to meet in Kirkbymoorside, where she and her husband had recently relocated, presumably to live a quieter life than in the bustling university town.

“Lord it over us, she does,” Hetty continued. “But she’s no better than she ought to be, if you ask me.” Hetty was rather common and had a vulgar way of speaking, which made Prudence feel better about herself by comparison.

Tea tray in hand, Prudence tiptoed back to the living room with its low-beamed ceilings and rough-hewn stone walls. The house was one of the oldest in the village—possibly in all of Yorkshire—and her husband was inordinately proud of its historical significance. Legend had it that Robert the Bruce had once stayed there while fleeing English soldiers. Like many Yorkshiremen, Winton was no great fan of the British Crown and loved to regale people with the Scottish rebel’s exploits. He had already gone up to bed—a creature of habit, he was rarely awake the other side of ten PM. The air rippled with the sound of his gentle snoring from the upstairs bedroom as she settled herself in the tattered green armchair before the fire, the phone handset cradled on her shoulder.

“She’s just plain selfish, if you ask me,” Hetty said.

“‘Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure,’” Prudence replied. She prided herself on her arsenal of Austen quotes, distributing them liberally like conversational jewels whenever possible.

Sadly, it fell on deaf ears. Though she and Hetty had joined the society together, Prudence sometimes wondered if her friend actually read Jane Austen—or anything else, for that matter. Hetty Miller did not possess the town’s most bracing intellect.

“What do you suppose Sylvia is on about?” asked Hetty. “Could she possibly view Jonathan as a threat to her power?”

“Mind you, he is very popular,” Pru replied. In truth, Jonathan Alder was the subject of more than a few feminine fantasies within the society. But he remained steadfastly unattached, causing Prudence to wonder if perhaps women were not his cup of tea. She hoped that was not the case. Of course, she knew that even without the loyal Winton by her side, she was hardly a natural love object for Jonathan, but she enjoyed the frisson of her fantasies, which she liked to think were the product of her exceptional imagination.

“… I think she’s preparing herself for a coup,” Hetty was saying, and Prudence realized she hadn’t been listening.

“Mm,” she murmured, stirring her tea.

“What do you think?” Hetty asked, and Prudence felt like a naughty child caught out by the teacher for not paying attention. But Winton always said, When in doubt, agree.

“You could be right,” she said.

“That would explain her extreme behavior,” Hetty rattled on, oblivious to Pru’s attention lapse.

“She was so mean to poor Farnsworth, I was afraid she was going to burst into tears.”

“Poor Farnsworth,” Hetty sighed.

“Sylvia is vain, and ‘vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief,’” said Pru, proud of herself for so deftly squeezing an Austen quote into the conversion.

“Well, that’s plain as the nose on your face.”

Prudence wondered if that was a dig at her own rather pronounced proboscis, inherited, alas, from her father.

“What have you heard?” she asked, taking a sip of tea, hot and strong and sweet, just the way she liked it.

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors swirling about?”

“Of course,” she lied, feeling left out once again. After all, she was the club treasurer and secretary, and a member of the Events Committee. Why did Hetty always seemed to know more than she did? She took a deep breath. “Who wants her position, do you think?”

“Some people say you do.”

This quite took her breath away. Winton had said more than once she would be a better president than Sylvia, and he’d been bitterly disappointed when she was not chosen in the last election. She had to admit the idea made her skin tingle, but she tried to console herself with the knowledge that the society was a den of vipers and anyone in power was vulnerable to the fangs of its more toxic members.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “How could anyone think I—”

“I’m only repeating what I’ve heard, mind you,” Hetty interrupted. “Don’t bite my head off.”

“Who said it?”

Hetty sighed, and Prudence could feel one of her headaches coming on, a tightening above her right temple.

“I’ve said too much already,” Hetty replied.

“Very well,” Prudence answered huffily. Hetty was her best friend in the society, and if she couldn’t rely on her, there were indeed stormy waters ahead. “I’m tired,” she said. “It’s time I went off to bed.”

“Don’t be cross,” Hetty whimpered, but Prudence cut her off.

“Good night,” she concluded firmly, and hung up the phone.

Leaning back in the armchair, Prudence gazed at the ship’s clock over the mantel, its polished brass reflecting the yellow glow of firelight, the long, graceful hands almost touching as if in prayer. It was nearly eleven. Winton loved that clock, polishing the case until it shone, winding it carefully every night before bed. Comforted by ritual and regularity, he had lived their entire married life contentedly within the triangle of their house, All Souls, and the George and Dragon.

She wondered idly if she would outlive him, and thought longingly of Hetty’s infinitely more glamorous life. The first thing Hetty had done after ditching her last husband was book a cruise to the Canary Islands, celebrating her divorce by dating men young enough that waiters assumed she was their mother (though if they made the mistake of saying so, they saw it reflected in their tip). Divorce was not an option for Prudence Pettibone—but death, well, that was another matter.

Shaking off her guilt at such uncharitable thoughts, Prudence rubbed her right temple. She had hoped to wring some comfort out of talking with Hetty, but now she was in a worse mood than before. She hated the backbiting politics of the society yet didn’t want to capitulate by quitting. She would just have to cultivate a thicker skin. Tomorrow was the monthly general meeting, and she would have to be prepared for the inevitable infighting and squabbling. Sighing, she stood up and stretched, thinking of a quote from a letter Jane Austen had written to her sister Cassandra: “I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”

In that case, she thought, there would be very little trouble taken at the next meeting of the Jane Austen Society.