Summerset Abbey by T. J. Brown Page A

extended stay, she’d brought mementos she couldn’t bear to leave. Childhood books she couldn’t part with, the shining jewelry box Sir Philip had given her for her twentieth birthday, and the silver brush and comb set that were her mother’s. She could almost smell Mrs. Harper’s disapproval as she stacked the books on the dresser alongside her jewelry box and placed her comb and brush next to the washbasin. They looked garish in this painfully bare room, like orchids among thistles. She added a small photograph of her mother, set in an ornate silver frame and taken when she was younger than Prudence was now. Mrs. Harper’s nostrils flared as she picked up the photograph. “Who is this woman?”
    “That’s my mother.”
    Mrs. Harper gave Prudence a sharp look and her lips tightened.
    Prudence looked down at the clothes she had brought. Like Rowena and Victoria, she’d had several new mourning dresses made up, but even though they were a plain black, the high quality of the material and their modern style were completely inappropriate for her new position. She reached for her underthings. A princess combination made of fine cambric material with Valenciennes lace at the bust, several chemises with blue silk ribbons threaded through the top, and a soft batiste nightdress with embroidered scalloped edges.
    Mrs. Harper sniffed. “I’ve never seen such absurdity. I don’t know what you did before coming here, but you’ll not receive such gifts at Summerset.”
    With that, Mrs. Harper whisked out of the room, while Prudence’s cheeks burned with shame. Apparently, Mrs. Harper thought her someone’s spoiled and indulged mistress. Apparently, the pursed-mouth woman had no idea that Prudence had been treated no differently than Rowena and Victoria only hours before. Prudence gave her door a hard slam and momentarily felt better. Then a wave of complete and utter loneliness hit again.
    She sat heavily on the bed, crumpling the paper Mrs. Harper had given her. Smoothing it out with her hands, she read:
Never allow your voice to be heard by the ladies and gentlemen of the house.
Answer politely when addressed, but do not speak unless spoken to.
Step aside if you meet one of your employers or betters on the stairs, remembering to look down as they pass you by.
Never talk to another servant in the presence of your mistress.
Never call from one room to another.
Only the butler may answer the bell.
Every servant is responsible for getting his or her own meals at the allotted meal times. The cook will not make up for missed meals for any reason.
No servant is to take any knives or forks or other article, nor on any account to remove any provisions from the Great Hall.
The female staff is forbidden from smoking.
No servant is to receive any visitor into the house.
Any breakages or damage to the house will be deducted from wages.
    As Prudence read each rule she could almost hear doors slamming shut on her old life. What did this horrid list of rules have to do with her? She looked around the barren room, her eyes welling. What was she doing here? She longed to be with Ro and Vic, but she couldn’t let them know the depths of her current misery; they were grief-stricken enough without worrying about her. She folded her arms around her body and reminded herself over and over that she wasn’t really alone, even if this list of rules seemed specifically crafted to keep her apart from her sisters.
    A timid rap sounded at the door. Brushing her eyes, she opened it only to be almost knocked to the floor by Victoria’s desperate hug. A young woman dressed in a fine afternoon gown hung back in the hallway.
    “I’m so sorry, Prudence! I know Rowena never meant this to happen.”
    Prudence heard the wheezing beneath Victoria’s tears. She laid her cheek against Victoria’s shining head. “It’s okay. Don’t cry so, Vic. And I don’t want you to come up here again. Those stairs will be the death of you!”
    Victoria pulled out