“Leave off, Mary,” Prudence demanded. “You’re just being hurtful and spiteful. Besides, it’s not done to stop in the middle of the road and talk to a man. It looks gauche and common, and Chastity was quite right to rebuff the baronet’s presumptive behavior.”
Mary sent Prudence a horrid glare. “A tip of the hat and a bland ‘good day’ is presumptive? Dear me, Prudence, you must come down from your tower room and live amongst the real world. I vow, you would have a fit of apoplexy at some of the things that have been whispered to me by the opposite sex.”
“Well, then,” Mercy said cheerily, changing the course of the conversation. “Shall we stop at the baker’s and have a Bakewell tart? I will buy them, for I have brought my pin money.”
Chastity glanced at her youngest sister. Mercy. The virtue of kindness, trying her utmost to make her sisters the best of friends, not to mention lessening the sting of Baron Graham’s painful assessment of Chastity.
“Come,” Mercy pleaded, “we shall all have a little sweet for the walk home.”
“We really shouldn’t dally,” Chastity replied. “Although, a quick stop for a tart to eat on the way wouldn’t be a bother, would it?”
Prudence, the second eldest, who was always restrained and temperate, declined. “None for me, thank you. But naturally the three of you may indulge.”
Chastity nodded in understanding before fixing her gaze on her three sisters. They were paragons. Everyone thought them utterly perfect. Yet each of them knew of the other’s desire to be anything but what they were. On the outside, they were ethereal models of the womanly ideal. Inside, they were empty vessels, trapped by the virtues they were born to embrace and embody.
“Well, come along, then,” Mercy said as she held her bonnet in place with her hand as a stiff wind gusted up, threatening to take it from her flaxen curls. “My mouth is positively watering at the thought of a tart.”
Within minutes they were in the cramped little baker’s, inhaling the fresh aroma of pastry and almonds and sweet-cream icing. “Oh, heavenly,” Chastity found herself murmuring. Her stomach rumbled in response to the scents. Or perhaps, she thought, glancing over her shoulder at Prue, who waited by the door, it was her sister’s long-denied belly she heard. She could see the hunger in Prue’s eyes, and Chastity tilted her head, indicating the wooden shelf where countless treats awaited them. Typical of Prudence, she pinched her lips and shook her head. Denial was all Prue knew.
“There,” Mercy announced, passing them each a tart as they stood outside the baker’s. She had bought one for Prue, but she refused it, so Mercy handed the tart to a small child who stood beside her mother, who was busy selling irises from a wicker basket.
“Oh, thank you, luv,” the woman said gratefully as her daughter reached for the tart and shoved it hungrily into her mouth.
“'Tis no trouble. The eve of May Day,” Mercy replied, “is not complete without a Bakewell tart.”
As Chastity smiled at the little girl, her gaze caught something radiant in the middle of the road. A man riding a pure white horse that was adorned with a glimmering gold bridle.
He was handsome, more striking than any man she had ever seen. He was tall and fair-haired, and his clothes appeared as though they were spun of gold gossamer threads. His tailoring was richly embroidered, embellished with layers of lace and cloth-covered buttons. He did not resemble a puffed-up peacock like so many gentlemen did in the current fashion. He was every inch a man, a feat nearly impossible to achieve considering his elaborately embroidered frock coat and waistcoat.
As his white horse trotted elegantly by, his eyes caught Chastity’s stare. The stranger inclined his head and moved along, forcing Chastity’s gaze to follow him as he made his way through the carts and carriages that littered the high street.
Who was he? she wondered, still entranced by the stranger. He didn’t live in the village. She would have seen him before now. Heavens, all the village women would have been talking about him. She would have seen him at the assembly rooms, or at a tea or luncheon or something.
As he made his way up the steep incline of the road, he glanced back at her once more over his shoulder. He did not stare at her like other men did, with a mixture of intrigue and lust. He was a gentleman. A polite gentleman.
But then he was gone, and Chastity realized that she had fallen behind her sisters. Catching up, she stayed to the rear of them, content to eat her tart and contemplate the stranger on horseback. He carried himself as though he was a prince. An ancient prince, she mused, the kind who had also been a knight, leading his men into war.
Fanciful thinking, she reflected. But what more in life did she have to do than think whimsical thoughts as she waited for the future to unfold?
“The village green looks remarkable, does it not?” Mercy said. “I adore Beltane. One day I would love to take part in the festivities. I wish it could be tonight! The weather is very fine and the moon is full.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you had a dance around the maypole,” Prudence murmured.
“You know what will happen if I go to the green,” Mercy replied as she tied the long pink satin ties of her bonnet. “Everyone will run away as though I have the plague.”
No one replied. What could they say? It was the truth. The villagers were superstitious and as a consequence gave the sisters wide berth. The only ones not afraid to speak to them were rogues and rakes who were far too bold and who wanted nothing more than a bit of immoral fun. Which was something that their inherent virtues forbade.
But Mercy, with her virtue of kindness, was more easily forgiving of their lot in life. For her, it was easier to accept. At least, Chastity believed it to be so, for Mercy never complained.
“It is for the best that they are wary,” Prudence reminded them. “We aren’t like the others. And the fact has never been made more clear than now that we’ve reached our womanhood.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” admonished Mary, “you make us out to be pariahs. We’re not, you know.”
Chastity cast a glance to Mary, the eldest of the four, as they walked down the high street. Mary was not like herself, Mercy or Prue. She was altogether different. What virtue Mary possessed had never been very clear. She was far from humble, so the virtue of humility was out; so too was charity, for Mary was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to sharing. Perhaps she was the virtue of diligence? She certainly did have a very great enthusiasm for the opposite sex, and her pursuit of them.
“We are pariahs, Mary,” Prue’s stern voice intruded on Chastity’s thoughts. “It is a fact that cannot be denied.”
“Well, I have no difficulty whatsoever in finding friends, male or otherwise.”
Indeed, she did not. There were always circles of men around Mary for she was the prettiest of them all. Although they had been born within minutes of each other, they all looked different from the other. Mary possessed startling black hair and dark eyes. She was exotic and breathtaking. Chastity could not help but notice just how breathtaking as she walked alongside her. The men, it seemed, preferred Mary’s dark looks to Chastity’s fair hair and green eyes.
“I fear that you all will die old maids,” Mary admonished. “You put too much stock in what you should be instead of what you could be.”
“Have you not listened to anything Father has told us?” Prue asked, censure in her voice.
“I don’t believe in Father’s absurd stories about a faery queen bequeathing to him daughters who bore the virtues. It’s nonsense.”
Mary had never been a believer. But then, her sister felt unrestrained joy and mirth. She felt desire when a male caller came to tea, or when a rogue asked her to dance. Mary had experienced things that her other three sisters never had. Life.
Perhaps