Chapter One
London, 1868
PRUDENCECABOT SLIPPEDher hands beneath her wool cape and pulled at her shirtwaist. Nerves were supposed to be a thing of the past, so why did she suddenly feel like her clothes didn’t fit? The drizzle had left a fine mist on her woolen mittens, and likely her hat as well. It reminded her of the spring showers back home, but then, there were usually clear skies after that. Not this endless gray. The rain in Minnesota had the decency to start and then stop. London’s was endless.
The door to the modest townhome swung open. A young man stood there, clearly a servant of some type. It still flustered her, which she hated. She’d grown up doing these sorts of duties for her family, and then after her marriage, they’d hired on people to care for the house. But there was something particular about the English servants that made her feel like she was being judged.
But who cared anymore? She was far from anyone whose opinion actually mattered.
“I’m here to see Mr. Moon.” Prudence didn’t bother trying to mask her American accent. She swallowed her vowels sounds and cooed the long doubleo’s in the man’s name.
“And who shall I say is calling?” The young man kept his face aloof, but Prudence could see the interest flaring in his eyes. Young women were not supposed to call on single men.
However, Prudence was not a young woman, at least by her status. She was an American. She was a member of the Ladies’ Alpine Society, and the real reason she could get away with visiting a bachelor was that she was a widow. “A Mrs. Prudence Cabot, of the Ladies’ Alpine Society.”
The flare suitably extinguished, the footman invited her into the foyer to wait while he informed Mr. Moon. Prudence looked down at her boots, still slightly muddy, on the polished hardwood floor. How did Londoners clean their boots? She didn’t see any boot-rakers next to the door like she’d had growing up in Minnesota. And in New York, there were rugs everywhere.
In Spain, they hadn’t needed them, and when she was climbing with the Ladies’ Alpine Society in Scotland, no one worried about dirt. But she so wanted to make a good impression, and Mr. Moon and his mother had seemed so very proper when she’d met them before.
Suddenly, a housemaid came thundering down the steps. “Pardon me, Mrs. Cabot. Mrs. Moon invites you to the drawing room.” The maid cleared her throat and glanced at the door where the footman had disappeared. “First.”
Prudence tried not to raise her eyebrows and round her eyes, because she was tired of every Brit telling her she was too expressive. No doubt she did. But as soon as she nodded, the maid trotted down the steps to take her hat, cape, and gloves. She followed the maid up the stairs to Mrs. Moon’s drawing room, unsure of what to expect.
Mrs. Moon seemed frail, an impression taken wholly from Mr. Moon’s doting on her. She had sat during the one party they’d both attended. In truth, Prudence couldn’t think of why Mrs. Moon would want to see her, other than she might be bored.
The drawing room was like a step back in time. The fashions were outdated, with baroque-looking gold frames around every picture, and dark, bold colors everywhere she looked. Inside the room, Mrs. Moon sat tall in a crushed velvet chair next to the fire. It was April, a month that could hold either a promise of summer or the chill reminder of winter. The fire was roaring in any case.
“Daisy, tea.” Mrs. Moon was erect, giving directions to the maid, and dismissing her with a hand. “Sit, please.”
Prudence wasn’t sure if she should curtsy or bow her head, but she certainly didn’t get the impression that Mrs. Moon wasted time. So she did neither and sat in the chair opposite Mrs. Moon’s, the heat of the fire already uncomfortably warming her leg.
“You are Mrs. Prudence Cabot.” The old lady’s ice blue eyes bored into hers. Her hair was silver white, like an illustration of an ice fairy in a children’s picture book.
“I am.” Prudence did her best not to fidget. She felt all of twelve again, being assessed by the schoolmaster to determine if she would be allowed to continue on in the one-room school.
“A member of that ladies’ mountain group with Miss Ophelia Bridewell.”
“That’s correct.” Prudence maintained polite eye contact.
“You smile too much.”
Prudence blinked. “I wasn’t aware that I was smiling.” But now she couldn’t help but smile. Since crossing the Atlantic, her pleasant facial features were seen as a pathological deficiency.
Mrs. Moon sneered at her expression. “If you think to catch my Leo, you’ll have to be more subtle.”
Prudence blinked again. Catch Leo? Was that the cat? She looked on either side of the chair. “I’m sorry, but wouldn’t one of the maids be better suited?”
A flush swept up the woman’s face. “How—”
“Is the cat—?” Prudence asked, concerned that she’d offended Mrs. Moon.
“What cat?” Mrs. Moon barked.
And then realization dawned. “Oh.” She meant her son. Leo was Leopold Moon. Prudence did what came naturally to her—she tipped her head back and laughed. Which probably didn’t help any.
“Close your mouth! I can practically see your breakfast.”
But Prudence couldn’t stop laughing. This woman thought she was there to capture her son, when she was here on Alpine Society business. And there wasn’t a lost cat. All the nerves that had accosted her earlier washed away in the wave of her laughter. “What an utter delight. Thank you, Mrs. Moon.” Prudence wiped her eyes.
