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Peg didn’t come around to the subject until she’d had three cups of tea, four sandwiches and a tour of the flowers. There wasn’t much blooming, but Prudence did her best, showing her sister each shrub and bed with fretful care while she waited for Peg to spit out what was on her mind. As they examined the pruning that would need to be done on one of the hedges before the full autumn freeze, it suddenly burst out.
“Pru, I… do you think you could take Phryne for a few weeks?”
“Are you traveling?” Her sister’s face, hard and haunted, stared resolutely at the hedge.
“I lost another one. And Henry was so sure that would be his boy… He’s at upends right now. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure, but when he’s back, it’s just that a toddler in the house right now, well I…”
“Peg, you and Phryne are both welcome,” Prudence cried. “Nanny Phillips and Nanny Carson are more than capable and I wou--” But Peg cut her off.
“I couldn’t. Henry… he needs somewhere to land. It’s my fault, and I should be home when he comes back.” She wrung her hands hard enough that a knuckle cracked. “It would just be for a little while. And she’s almost out of nappies, so that wouldn’t be so hard and…”
“Of course,” Prudence conceded. “It wouldn’t be any trouble to watch her. And she’d have the boys to play with.” She held her tongue on her opinions of a man who went to the track because his daughter needed watching and his wife had suffered a sadness. She wished her sister had promised to love, honor, obey and endow her worldly possessions with someone other than a fifth-until-baronetcy man with wide shoulders and empty pockets. Instead, she put her hand lightly on her sister’s shoulder, and Peg didn’t flinch away. “Do you have her things, or should I send someone out to the flat?”
---
Guy came tumbling into the playroom with a shout, to the delight of his brother and cousin. He had draped a worn horse blanket over his shoulders and drawn a black beard on his face with coal. “Yarrr! Which of you scoundrels stole me treasure?”
Arthur and Phryne answered in unison: “Meeeeeee!” and Guy lunged with his stick, being careful not to poke Arthur, who couldn’t roll away with the same agility as Phryne. But the tiny dark-haired girl was ready to defend him anyway. She wrapped her still-too-skinny frame around the larger boy and dragged him to the safety of their blanket cave. Arthur’s round face peered out, grinning widely as three-year-old Phryne faced down seven-and-a-half year old Blackbeard.
“Oo, no get us piwate!” She crawled back out, stick of her own at the ready. “I fight you wif my big sword poker!” They dueled for a few moments until Nanny Carson, attracted by the noise, bustled in. She was a stout, stern woman, with curls fiercely tamed and the timeless quality of all children’s nurses, in that they could be twenty or sixty without material difference to their charges. Hers was a voice with only a bit of porcelain in it, not sharp brass or pure steel.
“Now Guy, Phryne, are you including Arthur? Are you being careful of him?”
“Yes Nanny,” they chorused.
“Blabbeard was gonna poke him, Nanny!” Phryne added. “I gots his treasure but we gonna chare it. I’m a sk- sk- skoundel!”
“Well, good,” she said, indulgent smile threatening. “But it’s time for Arthur to have medicine, Guy to wash and go to his lesson, and Phryne, your auntie wanted Nanny Phillips to bring you up so she could trim your dress together.”
A groan went up from the three, but there was no real sorrow. Phryne had been promised a new frock for sitting nicely at ten dinners in a row, which had been an appalling challenge hard beaten. Dutifully, she straightened her plaits, put Arthur’s blanket back on his cot, and gave her cousin a gentle kiss. “Bye Arthur. Be sweet to Nanny.”
Arthur nodded, and one wobbling hand reached out for her to squeeze. As Guy led Phryne out of the nursery so he could go to his tutor, Nanny Phillips walked past, carrying the bottle with Arthur’s medicine. Nanny Phillips was much shorter than Nanny Carson, with a strong Irish brogue that made her the preferred storyteller, and strong Irish arms that made her the natural choice for carrying Arthur about when his legs refused to work, and coaxing steps from him when he was afraid. At her approach, Arthur’s face broke into a wide grin.
“Oh, Master Guy,” she said as she marched to her charge, “could you take the little Miss up after you wipe your face? I need a moment.”
“Yes Nanny,” he said, the picture of innocence. But as soon as her back was turned, he winked wickedly at Phryne. He dipped a face cloth into the bowl and wound up to flick it at the nurse’s backside.
“COUNSIN GUY NO!” Phryne shouted, so loudly the boy jumped. “You don’ snap Nanny. You be sweet TOO!” She shook her finger with such authority that both women had to stifle chuckles. Chagrined, he scrubbed his face and bolted from the room, forgetting Phryne in his embarrassment.
“Well thank you, Miss,” said Nanny Phillips. “I didn’t want to get wet.” She smiled warmly.
“He should be sweet. He be naughty.” She folded her arms. “I go Auntie now?”
“Just one more moment, love.” She turned to Nanny Carson. “Such a sense of justice. For all she’s been here just a year and some, she certainly has the whip on the young master. Did you need both bottles or just the one?” The pair discussed Arthur’s doses while Phryne scurried about the room, tidying in her small-child way. She had absorbed, almost instinctively, the same sense of protectiveness that Prudence and Edward and all their staff had for Arthur and had taken it upon herself to be his voice when he stammered and his assistant at the family table. The nannies encouraged this sense of duty, knowing that while the young miss came from blood relations, she would likely be going into service unless the Stanleys adopted her. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if she did stay,” Nanny Carson often said over coffee with the maid, Maria. “Mrs. Stanley dotes on her so.”
With the plush pig and rocking horse arranged to Phryne’s satisfaction, she insinuated her hand into Nanny Phillips’. “Now?”
“Yes love, we’ll go,” she said. They went downstairs hand in hand, though Nanny Phillips’ sedate tread was painfully slow compared to the eager little girl’s hopping, skipping and twirling. The soft carpets rustled under her feet, and Miss Phryne never missed her chance to scuffle the rug and make little trails along the pile. Much of the house was a bit behind on care, with the money going for Arthur first, but it was a fine home still.
In the sunroom, Prudence had laid out the pieces for a pale sea green dress, with several different bottles of buttons and small snips of trim. When the pair reached the doorway, her face lit to see her niece. Her cheeks were rounder than they had been eighteen months ago, her hair glossy, her energy higher and happier. At the door, Phryne could stand it no longer. “Auntie!” She burst into the room and flung her arms around Prudence with a hug so fierce it nearly staggered the adult. “We played piwates! Arrrgh!”
“Did you now? Well I hope you didn’t break anything.”
“No Auntie Mama, we beed careful.” Prudence felt her heart skip. The nickname was just that, a child’s tangled nomenclature. But Phryne made her smile so, she couldn’t bear to make her little niece pick a different title.
“Well that makes me glad. Now,” she said, gesturing at the notions and trims, “shall we pick your dress trim?”
“I wear it now?”
“It’s not done,” Prudence explained patiently. “You need to pick buttons and lace and a ribbon. One each.”
“Oh.” Phryne screwed up her nose intently. “Then I wear it?”
“I will sew them on, and then you can wear it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. Suddenly, she was no wild youngster, but a meticulous seamstress. She picked up each jar of buttons and shook them, then held them in the window to see if they were shiny or plain. Some buttons merited a second jingle, but never too rough that they might crack against the glass. She ran her finger along each piece of lace with a delicate touch, mimicking her aunt and holding it against her wrist or cheek. “These an’ this and this ribbon. It’s greenblue. I wuv greenblue.” Prudence nodded.
“Fetch your sewing stool and we will do it right now,” she said. Phryne’s eyes were wide. She was not often allowed in the sunroom, but sewing with Auntie Mama on a sunny day seemed to be the most perfect treat she could have been offered. She threaded the needles in the cushion with green thread, and solemnly passed each button to her aunt. With her tiny fingers, she pinned trim to her gown while Prudence held the hem taut for her, offering out the pins one at a time. The gleaming windows were open, and birdsong skittered through, bringing the scent of spring blossoms with it. But even sunshine and birdsong and attention and the beautiful thread and buttons weren’t quite enough to keep Phryne still. Her feet began to kick at the stool, and suddenly, she turned her full face to Prudence.
“Auntie Mama, will I stay when Mother has the baby?”
“Baby?” Prudence pricked herself in the palm hard, but kept her face even. “Your mama is having a baby?”
“Father said. He- he said she would bring me a n- n-ew brovver when they came on outs.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. He said outs tomorrow and baby laters…umm I forget.”
“Well, you will at least stay until after the baby comes. It’s very hard on a woman to have a baby. But you will be Mama’s helper if she asks for you.”
“But I Auntie Mama’s helper now!” Phryne protested. “I help with Arthur!” Prudence felt a pang equal to the needle, but this one behind her eyes, where tears were suddenly threatening. She laid down the dress and gathered Phryne into her arms in an instant. Befuddled, the girl pressed a kiss onto Prudence’s cheek.
“You are an excellent helper, my girl.” Then, recalling herself, she moved Phryne onto her knee, keeping one hand clasped around the wiggly child. “Do you want a baby brother?”
“No,” she replied instantly. “I have Arthur an Guy. I wanna sister.”
“I liked having a sister,” Prudence agreed.
“Will you make me a sister?”
“Oh, no my girl.” Seeing Phryne’s face fall, Prudence searched for the words to explain. “Because Arthur is unwell, Edward decided that we should only have him and Guy. But,” she added gently, “that is why I am so happy you came to stay with us. You are family and are like their sister.”
“I a good sister. I always be a good sister.”
“Of course, my girl. Now, if you will put that last pin in, I will take your frock to the machine and you can watch Maria sew it up.”
---
When her Father came to take Phryne on “outs,” as she called them, the green dress with its white pinny was nowhere in sight. Prudence had noted that while Henry’s clothes only showed signs of hard wear, Peg and the child’s garments sometimes went missing altogether when he was on a run with the horses. Still, Edward, out of some blasted sense of manly unity, insisted that Henry still be allowed to take his child whenever he had the whim. Thus Prudence, starched to the chin and with an ivory pin thrust through her hair like a dagger, greeted her brother-in-law with all the civility breeding would allow and ushered him into the piano room, where Phryne was practicing. Nanny Phillips sat beside her, murmuring gently as the girl plinked out her scales.
“Piano, eh?” Henry was in a jovial mood. He wore an appalling silk neckerchief and a bowler trimmed with a copper ribbon, but his eyes were sharp and merry. “Well that will round her out nicely until her figure comes in. Perhaps we can marry her to an Earl.”
Prudence was saved from an acidic retort that perhaps his child should be allowed to exist as a child for a few years before punching her ear like a sow for market, because Phryne leapt up when she heard Henry’s voice.
“Father,” she curtseyed. The dress was an old one, but Henry didn’t seem to notice.
“Good girl,” he nodded. “Remembered your manners this time have you? Well, good. Tell your aunt goodbye and we will be back at supper.”
“Goodbye and we will be back at supper,” Phryne parroted. Prudence narrowed her eyes.
“Are you going back to the house by tram? Should we pack you some sandwiches for Peg?”
“Oh, Margaret is out at work,” Henry said breezily. “But mayhap I’ll take a packet or two. We can eat as we go.”
“She’s already had her nap,” Prudence began, “but---”
“Well then she had better mind.” Phryne nodded soberly, almost fearfully, and Prudence had to force her hands to stay still, to not snatch the child away from this man and sprint up the stairs with her to where a good strong door with a Yale lock could stand between them.
“Of course she shall.” Prudence said. “She’s been preparing all week for your visit.” Her voice was steady, disinterested, even. But inside, the words coiled and stung like a viper. She hoped that Phryne would not mind her father. That she would have one of those attacks of belligerence that often afflicted three-year-olds, and then Henry would give up in disgust and go far, far away and leave the child where she was safe, with her. Phryne nodded again, shifting on her tiny shoes. Guy, the rascal, had hidden them so that his cousin could not leave, and only returned them when the girl had sat upon his foot and threatened to eat it for dinner. Prudence grimaced, then forced a polit e line to her face. “If you go with Doughty, he will get you settled, and I will get Phryne her things.” Henry loped away, as she knew he would. The man would always cadge, if one let him. Prudence looked down, and addressed the wide blue eyes of her niece seriously as they walked to fetch her coat in the front hall. One hand fussed with her own hair, avoiding clinging to Phryne’s small, round head that came only to her hip. The front hall loomed longer and longer as they approached, and the coat rack was like a lurking criminal, faceless and shrouded in shapeless garments.
“My dear, if anything happens, anything at all – if you are frightened, you go right to the nearest constable. And—” Prudence stopped. Was there really any likelihood of a policeman being around Henry, should he stop to play monte, or collect a slip, or engage in…? “And you take this,” she continued. She turned and retrieved her motoring bonnet from where it hung, the steel pin still attached to the straw. “This is your secret sword, my girl. You keep it right with you and stab like a pirate if you feel afraid.” Carefully, she slipped Phryne’s hat over her head and pinned it so that the plain silver ball was right where the girl’s little hand could reach it. “Is that all right?”
“It’s good,” said Phryne, standing as straight as she could. “I be a secret piwate.”
“Come along Phryne,” came Henry’s broad tone. He had snaffled a good tin of food from the kitchen, which he shoved into his daughter’s hands roughly. “You bring those and follow close, there’s a good pet. We’ve got a lot to do, and I’ll need you to carry the things.” He took her out of the house without a backwards glance, and made straight for a cab calling for it to take them to the dog tracks. The small hat with the silver decoration was just apparent over the window frame, joggling heavily as the horse picked up its feet. Prudence watched from the window upstairs until they were out of sight, then put her head down on her dressing table and wept herself out.
---
Henry did not bring Phryne home. Instead, the night and Prudence’s vibrating anxiety both broke open with a policeman’s rap on the door. Doughty, not yet out of his uniform, flung the door open to allow a soaked constable to stamp in, pulling along with him a little girl, hatless, with her hair sheared almost to the scalp. Phryne’s face was wet, defiant, and freckled with blood. In the child’s hand was a silver hatpin, clutched with an unmatched iron grip.
“Auntie Mama!” She shrieked. The hatpin clattered to the floor. Prudence did not cry – she didn’t dare frighten her little niece with her own fear – but her face, when she pulled it away, was damp with more than rainwater. They clung to each other, two shaking vines in a storm.
“What happened?” Doughty enquired of the constable, using his considerable dignity to shield his mistress and little miss both from intrusive questions while they embraced.
“He took my hair!” The little girl shouted. “He cutted my hair and he tried to take my shoes because he- he- he-”
“The man who had this child was in the process of selling her hair, I believe,” the constable said. He had taken off his helmet and was wiping water out of his eyes. The drips rolled down his cape and puddled, and Doughty shifted to the side so the constable would as well, moving the dripping onto the rug. “When he tried to pawn her shoes, she produced that hatpin, slashed the pawnbroker in the face and escaped. I didn’t think it wise to attempt to return her to the original guardian, so once we were able to determine your name, I brought her here.”
Doughty and Mrs. Stanley looked at each other. If Phryne said the word “father,” the constable could well have changed his tune instantly. If she said it now, he might whisk her back out into the rain to find the bastard. “Doughty,” Prudence said, standing, “take Phryne up to the nursery and have Nurse Phillips check her for injury. If she is not hurt, put her to bed. I will talk with constable…”
“Constable Woods, Ma’am,” he said. He watched Phryne be caught up into the butler’s arms willingly, and seemed to relax. The noise of Doughty’s footsteps, mixed with soothing words and shaky, childish babble, receded into the house. “Your Miss Phryne Stanley is a miniature hellcat, if you don’t mind my saying. We took the pawnbroker into custody for affray with an officer, and almost her as well. She would have run my superior through, I think, if she’d felt he wouldn’t listen to her demands to go to her Auntie. Thank goodness someone wrote her name and address in her shoes, for we would have never dragged another word out of her.” Prudence gave a long sigh with a shaky laugh at the back. Guy…
“Henry was supposed to be taking Phryne to her mother,” she said. “My sister is in a delicate condition and we’ve been caring for her daughter, but well…” She let the constable fill in the blanks as he saw fit. And she watched with satisfaction as he relaxed still more. The unity of men did not, it seemed, extend from constable to criminal, nor override the image of a blood-streaked child running in fear out of a pawn shop in some grubby alleyway.
“Does this Henry have a last name?”
“Fisher,” she said. The viper that had chewed on her all evening spat the word out for her. “He’s known to you, I’m certain.”
“I’m familiar with the name,” Woods replied grimly. He made a note in a small book, and looked around. “Well, I shan’t intrude any longer. If we need her for evidence, might we call here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It may be a day or two, but we’ll be in touch.” Woods shook out his sleeves and stepped to the door. “Ah,” he said, looking out the side window. “I was hoping this was a squall, but I shall have to dash through. Take care, Ma’am.” He rushed out the door, and Prudence was almost as quick as he, racing to the stairs.
Up in the nursery, Prudence sent the nurse away and examined Phryne minutely herself. The little girl stood upright, but Prudence could see her tremble. “Did he touch you wrongly or hurt you, my girl?”
“No.” Her lip pouted out and a foot stamped hard. “But he cutted my hair.”
“The policeman said you did as I asked,” she said, allowing a smile as she gazed at her strong little niece in her nightgown. “You stabbed hard and ran. My brave girl.” Some part of her mind protested – she should not be encouraging violence. She should be telling Phryne to pray for forgiveness for assaulting her own father with a hairpin, not praising her for it! Nevertheless, looking at the cropped head, the shivering shoulders, and the eyes wide that looked up at hers, searching for anchor, Prudence knew that was utterly incorrect.
“I was good?”
“You did exactly right. That’s better than being good.” She enfolded Phryne in a hug and pressed a kiss on her scalp where the hair was gone. “And your hair will grow back, I promise.”
“Will-- will you sleep nursery tonight? Pleease?”
“Of course, brave Phryne. It will be better tomorrow.”
---
The rain, and the trouble, did not relent after that night. Three days later, a streaming messenger brought a note from Peg’s neighbor. Mrs. Coulson had found her in a bad way, panting on the floor after trying to wring dry a batch of laundry, and the baby coming. Pru was in time, but only just. She was there to sweep her niece up into linen much nicer than hospital blankets, to clasp Peg’s hand and reassure her that Phryne was safe, that the baby had lived. “Jeannine,” Peg murmured. “We would have called her James, if she were Henry’s boy.” Prudence lay down on the cot with her sister, as they had when they were children, and drew the crisp white sheets up over Peg like the folds of a gown. They cuddled the little not-boy between them, and Pru stroked her sister’s hair. “She’s beautiful, I think though. Henry will love her.”
“Of course, Peg, of course.” Prudence looked at her sister’s hand. Calloused. Torn nails. Knuckles knobbled and aged by work and worry. They had learned pianoforte together. Trimmed hats with their own roses. Peg had written poetry once, with those wrenched fingers. She had been such a good girl. Pru held her sister’s hand until it grew still and her eyes drooped, and Jeanine began to fuss. She lifted the baby and passed her to the wet nurse, making lists in her head of what they would need at home. But the doctor’s face, when she found him, was grim. There would be no convalescing at home. Margaret would need weeks, months perhaps, in a facility, if they could afford such a thing. She had lost blood, she was near-ruined from exhaustion.
“Nonsense! I’m her sister, I can care for her.” The doctor’s face stayed firm.
“Ma’am? Your sister is married? To a Baron Fisher?”
“Baron? I…”
“He has already said that he will find a place for her. He has indicated that you would be taking the infant, however.” From outside, in the hall, she heard Henry’s voice – charming a nurse passing by, tinged with worry for his wife, unconcerned about the little not-boy who was suckling at another woman’s breast because her own mother had been so ruined.
Prudence felt as if someone had taken a scoop and dragged out her heart. She looked back at the baby, then up at the tall, stern doctor, who was taking her sister away from her to give to another man, like a cruel mockery of a wedding.
“He hasn’t the money—” she choked out.
“Ah, my dear sister, you’re incorrect,” Henry declared cheerfully, striding into the room. “I have received news that my mother, God rest her, has passed, and thus I am once again in the black and able to provide for my wife as she so richly deserves.” He held out a genial hand, and the doctor shook it. “I thank you sir, for your service in preserving her life, and I am in your debt.” The two turned towards the white-draped form, sleeping on the cot, their coats forming a wall that Prudence felt powerless to scale. She struggled – tried to form the words that would demand their attention – found none. Quietly, the wet nurse gestured her over.
“If you are hiring,” said the girl with the soft gray eyes, “I know several young mothers who would be happy to have a place.”
“I am.” The words broke out instantly. Prudence shot one last impotent glare at the wall that stood between her and her sister, and resolved that if nothing else, perhaps she could get one other woman out of here. “What wages would you find acceptable?”
---
It was almost December, Henry was bankrupt again, and Phryne did not know. The money had not helped for long. Some of the inheritance had been gifted outright to “my son Henry’s lovely Margaret, for the maintenance of her lifestyle,” which for now meant paying the hospital where she was recovering. Some jewelry and similar willed to little Phryne “in honor of the woman she will become.” But the baronetcy was tangled in red tape, and his mother had known her son too well to give him a lump sum. And thus Henry had dropped out of sight until his next installment of money was due to be distributed straight through his hands and into the pubs and the tracks. Phryne seemed unaffected, but perhaps, Prudence mused, perhaps she did understand a bit. Her niece was astonishingly clever in some ways. They – Guy, Phryne, Nanny Phillips and Arthur, were decorating the nursery for little Janey, and Phryne, her aunt observed, was secreting away discs of silver paper into her pinny pocket when Nanny was tacking the garland to the wall. Prudence slipped in and chose a low chair, further from the merriment.
“Phryne?” Instantly, the girl looked round, guilt glowing on her face, her hair still a short black halo that could barely be tamed with tonic, and took three unwilling steps towards her. Prudence drew her niece close. “Are you saving that paper for a surprise?”
Phryne shook her head.
“Do you want to decorate your room?” Again, shamefaced, she said nothing. “Did you need to tell me a secret?” Phryne nodded suddenly. She swallowed hard, then lifted brave eyes to her aunt, ready to face her fate.
“Father needs pennies. I get him pennies so I can keeps Janey and not sell her to the laundry.”
“Oh dear girl,” she murmured. “He asked you to get him money so you could keep Janey?” Another nod. And then, a small hand turned out a smaller pocket. Silver paper fluttered to the floor, along with two real pennies, a tiny copper cross, and an enamel button.
“I didn’t wan’ take it but he- he-“
“Phryne, my girl, you do not ever need to give your father money. For any reason at all.” Prudence poured every ounce of authority into her voice, even as she kept her hold gentle. She felt a seething desperation, to make the little girl understand, make her see Henry as he was. She must inoculate the girl against that man’s manipulations before it was too late. “Your father is in trouble, and has to stay put, just as Guy does when he puts ink in the fountain or pinches Nanny Carson. He does not need money from you, my girl. He needs to learn his lesson.”
“Auntie Mama?” Phryne curled up on Prudence’s knee, like a kitten uncertain of its pillow. “I sorry.”
“Nonsense,” Prudence replied, smoothing the fine hair gently. “He should be sorry. Shaking down a child for bail.” She huffed to herself and grumbled, “Men!”
“Father stays put until he does good?”
“Or until another man thinks he will, at any rate.” Prudence sighed, and lifted the girl back up. “Go play, Phryne. Auntie Mama will worry about the pennies.”
Once Phryne was safely decorating again, Prudence left the nursery and sought out Edward, intending to ask for a cheque to solve the problem of debts of honor and the guilting of children. But as her hand hovered at the door of her husband’s study, her thoughts swarmed in. Edward wouldn’t see it as she did. He would count the costs differently. He knew so little of the day-to-day with the children, and often complained of the expense of two nannies as it was. Henry, paid and free to cavort, would be allowed take the children with him – use them in schemes and scandals. His wife was prostrated in a cold bed in a nursing home, while he would warm other women’s beds and forget his daughters’ birthdays at the bottom of a bottle. Prudence lowered her knuckles. Perhaps after Christmas.
---
Christmas passed. Margaret grew better by degrees and was moved to the nursing home, recovering on beef broth and distance from her husband. They brought Phryne to visit her, but Peg was often asleep, so the little girl would leave tiny presents, press a kiss on her mother’s cheek, and run to check on her little sister with the same watchful-eyed care that she displayed towards her cousin. The soft-eyed wet nurse, her own child weaned, was offered a position with one of the women Prudence had met on the hospital board. Prudence was finding that, far from it making her unhappy, charitable work (and real work, at that) was sharpening her. She felt a better mother to Arthur, listening to the treatments and discussions the doctors passed between each other. The baronetcy remained out of reach of Henry, and he remained a sort of day-trip visitor. Janey had new linen and a plush bear for her first birthday, and they gave her pud with a little silver spoon.
Phryne’s birthday fell on solstice, and the day was high and clear. Edward had written the bail cheque after a heartfelt letter from Henry, promising a quick return of the money, and Prudence had spat sharp words at him for it. He was objectively quite sorry, but “really, Prudence, the man can’t reform behind bars, and he deserves to see his children.”
He had not, however, arrived for the birthday trip to the seaside, and Prudence found she was quite thrilled. Prudence wore a new gown in floating peach, Edward, his brown hair tamed and sheltered under his favorite boater, wore a crisp grey jacket, matching his sons. They strolled together on the boardwalk, sun gleaming down and sparkling on the water. Edward held Phryne’s hand on one side, and Prudence on the other. Guy had even come along, pushing Arthur in his chair after Phryne had raised Cain demanding that he be allowed to come to the shore as well, while Janey rode in the pram pushed by Nanny Carson. Phryne wore her green frock, with sandals she had decorated with matching green trim and an enormous bow banded around her head. Prudence caught her looking up every few moments, just to be sure of everyone.
“I still pretty, Auntie?”
“You look a picture, Phryne,” Edward said, with a gentleness to his voice. “It’s a stylish girl who can make short hair so lovely.” She beamed, and Prudence found she had forgiven her husband, watching the spring of Phryne’s step and the glee with which she handed around candy apples bought with the pennies that her aunt had let her keep.
They sat with their legs dangling off the wood of the pier. An ibis flapped by on a salt breeze, then wheeled inquisitively, and Guy hurled a pebble at it. Arthur laughed into his sticky hands, and Phryne dabbed his chin. Then, the ibis turned and began to approach with its head cocked for a theft, and Guy, unable to resist a challenge, rose to chase it away.
“Cousin Guy, it will bite you!”
“Don’t fret, Phryne,” Edward chuckled. “If he can’t listen to wisdom, he’ll have to learn it.” But Phryne would not be restrained. She leapt up and ran as well, her sandals flinging up sand like glitter behind her, while Janey squealed in delight. The boats on the water cut smoothly through the whitecapped waves, and one glistening green-blue sloop tied to the dock bobbed invitingly. Perhaps they might take a sail later, she thought.
Prudence was so engrossed in the sight of the two children playing, she didn’t notice the figure hurrying up behind them. Edward, however, did. He stood.
“Message for you, sir!” The boy was panting and blowing in the heat. “They need you to come up to the mine. They’ve got good news!”
The world, for a little while, was golden all round.
---
And then, Margaret passed. The baronetcy was resolved on Henry, and he married again, to a Katherine Casquette. Prudence wore crepe for Peg and for all the things she could have been, but for her being Margaret and not Michael. For her own grief at not protecting her sister. And she found herself taking Phryne on her knee more and more often. To garden with her, or paint with her, or show her the beautiful jewelry that would be hers one day. To play piano with her and teach her the Latin she learned in her youth. To hold her, the brave, kind, wild little girl who refused to let her hair go past her ears ever again, and who still slept with a hatpin on the days before her father would visit. Prudence knew it would be soon that Henry would demand the girls back, now that he was titled and married. She found them in the nursery that morning, Phryne dressing little Janey in the green frock that had once been her own.
“My dears, I have news,” she said softly.
“It’s Father, isn’t it.” Phryne’s voice held an uncertain note. “He’s coming to take us away.”
“Your new stepmother will be kind, I’m sure,” Prudence began, and then stopped. No. She was done biting her lip about the failings of Henry and couching her criticism in veiled terms. Perhaps it was time to be a bit less respectable about the whole thing. “Girls,” she began again, “I cannot promise that things will be easy with your father. I cannot make him give you to me.”
Janey’s eyes were wide, but she was really still too small to understand. But Phryne was watching her Auntie Mama with an energy that made her seem ready to leap from her skin.
“But girls, you can make him. If it ever becomes too much – or too little…” she swallowed. The reality was grim. Would he remember that Janey loved lace and hated peas, but Phryne could eat her weight in spring peas, and would run from lace pinafores? Would he feed and clothe them at all? “Phryne, you know how to stab like a pirate and run. And if you need to, don’t be good. Be right, and come home.”
Phryne said not a word. But her arms around her aunt clung to like a boat docked on the pier. Like a rose vine to a trellis. Like a little girl who was about to grow up a great deal in a very short amount of time.
---
“Phryne!” Her niece turned, and Prudence struggled with double vision. Before her was not a tiny five-year-old, with ragged hair, but a glamorous young woman, hair the same length, but now fashionable, with blue velvet and fur up to her chin, and the same determined gleam in her eyes, grown brilliant from years abroad, grown sharp from the loss of her own sister. “What makes you think you can rush off in the middle of the night like this?”
“Because, Auntie Mama,” said her niece, knowing smile on her lips. “I’m carrying a gun.” She darted down the steps into the night, and Prudence, suddenly, felt Respectability drop away from her like a heavy coat.
“Good girl,” she whispered. “Good girl.”