Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “Do you see the difference?” Mrs. Northgate removed the dress fabric then put it back again. “This is not the color for you, Miss Howard. You will have to return it.”

  “It’s already been cut. Mr. Clark will not take it back.”

  Mrs. Northgate raised a brow. “We shall see about that. Sterns!” The door opened and the maid who had shown Pru inside appeared.

  “Yes, Mrs. Northgate?”

  “I am going out. I want my coat and my walking stick.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Northgate.” She held the door open and Mrs. Northgate started out, still holding the yellow fabric. “Come along, Miss Howard.”

  Pru moved to follow then dashed back to collect the paper for the fabric. By then Mrs. Northgate was in the vestibule and Sterns was assisting the older lady in donning her coat and hat.

  “Where are you going?” Pru asked, feeling as though she had opened a book to the middle instead of the first chapter.

  “We are going,” Mrs. Northgate said. “Put on your hat and coat and come along.”

  Pru looked at the maid, hoping for some assistance or explanation, but Sterns merely stared back at her. Pru shoved her arms into her coat, hastily buttoned it up and grabbed her hat just as Mrs. Northgate was gesturing for the maid to open the door.

  “Grandmama,” said a high voice. “Where are you going?”

  Pru looked back to see Miss Eliza Northgate standing in the doorway of what was most likely the family drawing room. Like her sister, she had blond hair, though hers was pinned up. She wore a pink dress that was somehow feminine but not too frilly and which showed off her figure to perfection. Pru glanced at her face, judging that the color of the dress suited Miss Northgate’s complexion quite well. Perhaps Mrs. Northgate knew what she was about.

  “I will be back before dinner,” Mrs. Northgate said, not looking at her granddaughter. “Your mother needn’t worry.”

  Miss Northgate’s blue eyes landed on Pru. “What are you doing here?”

  Pru opened her mouth to answer but then was struck with self-consciousness. She did not want to tell this stylish creature that Mrs. Northgate was helping her with her dress. It was too embarrassing. But the girl was looking at her and even Mrs. Northgate had paused, waiting. Pru took a breath. “Mrs. Northgate has graciously agreed to help me make a new dress.”

  Miss Northgate’s pale brows went up. “How kind of you, Grandmama,” she said, making it sound as though Pru was a charity case, which Pru supposed she was. “I daresay we have all been wondering when someone would help poor Miss Howard. I just did not think it would be you, Grandmama.”

  Mrs. Northgate turned steely gray eyes on her granddaughter. “Are you quite done?”

  Miss Northgate curtseyed in response, directing a small sneer at Pru.

  “Good.” Mrs. Northgate took her walking stick in one hand. “Then we shall be off. Come along, Miss Howard.”

  Pru followed, tying the ribbons of her sagging bonnet under her chin as she followed. She wished she could return to the vicarage. She didn’t know what had possessed her to listen to Mrs. Blimkin and go to Mrs. Northgate in the first place. She did not want anyone’s charity or pity.

  “You needn’t go out of your way or to any trouble on my account,” Pru said, as she followed Mrs. Northgate toward town. The older woman walked quite briskly for her age, and Pru had to increase her own pace to keep up. Mrs. Northgate made no indication she had heard Pru, so Pru felt compelled to go on. She often felt so whenever there was a silence. She did not like silences. “I do not want your charity or your pity. I had only thought to ask for your advice.”

  “And I am giving you my advice,” Mrs. Northgate said. “I call that neither charity nor pity, though I cannot entirely rule out pity for I did pity that awful dress you wore yesterday. It should be burned. Why on earth would you or your mother purchase material in that shade of...” Words seemed to desert her. She made a gesture with her hand and finally said, “In that color?”

  Pru explained that the dress had come from the bin for the poor and that since it had fit her, she had been given it to wear. “My parents give almost all of their money to the church, and there was seldom ever any left for frivolities.”

  “I hardly think a decent dress a frivolity. How many dresses do you have? Four?”

  “Three,” Pru said.

  “The third is your Sunday dress,” Mrs. Northgate stated. “Is it any better than the two I have seen?”

  “It is a great deal itchier.”

  “Ah, here we are,” Mrs. Northgate said as the road widened, and the buildings came into view. “I am an old woman, Miss Howard.” Mrs. Northgate slowed her pace to a dignified stroll.

  “I would not say that, ma’am.”

  “Oh, yes, you would. And what you will learn, should you live as long as I, is that with age comes liberty. I spend my days as I like.”

  “Mrs. Blimkin said you do not go to church.”

  Mrs. Northgate cackled. “Are you worried for my soul, girl?”

  “Are you not worried?” Pru was always worried for her soul. She was always forgetting to say her prayers and was forever committing some sin or other. Even when she repented of singing inappropriate songs or reading novels, she knew she did not really mean it and would do it again the next day. “I, myself, find it very hard to be good,” Pru admitted.

  “So do I,” Mrs. Northgate said as they entered the village and received waves and curious looks from the people out and about. “And to tell you the truth, I have quite given up trying to be good. I do not believe in charity and good deeds.”

  Pru’s eyes widened. “You don’t?”

  “No.” She gestured ahead. “There is Clark’s, just there. So you see, you need not worry I consider you a charity case. You are something else entirely.”

  A few men were gathered to one side of the general store, and Pru glanced at them briefly. They seemed quite intent on their conversation, though, and took no notice of her. She recognized one or two of the group of six or seven from church, but the man in the center, who seemed to be doing most of the talking, was quite unfamiliar.

  “Something else entirely,” Pru repeated. “What is that?”

  Mrs. Northgate turned to Pru, pausing before the door to Clark’s. “You, Miss Howard, are a project.”

  Pru was not quite certain what to make of this description, but she had no time to question it as they were soon inside the store and Mrs. Northgate was demanding attention. Pru wanted to stand back and hide, but Mrs. Northgate insisted on pushing the fabric beside her face in order to show Mr. Clark and his wife what a bad choice it had been and to question their judgment in allowing Miss Howard to buy the fabric in the first place.

  She caused quite the commotion, and Pru could only watch in awe as she not only harangued the shopkeepers into taking the material back but also into bringing out their best fabric so she might hold it beside Pru’s face and determine which colors might suit her.

  Finally, after what seemed hours but was most likely only a quarter hour at most, Mrs. Northgate decided on a thick russet-colored fabric which would be warm enough to see her through the winter and which, she claimed, brightened Pru’s complexion so it was almost pretty. Then came the haggling. This material was slightly more expensive than the material Pru was returning, and Pru was worried she would have to explain that she did not have money to pay for the difference, but Mrs. Northgate told her to leave the negotiations to her and shooed her out of the shop.

  Pru stepped outside, pleasantly surprised that the drizzle had abated—though the sky was still gray and colorless, at least she would not have to hunch under Clark’s awning to stay dry. She strolled to the window and peered inside, watching as Mrs. Northgate gestured grandly and pointed her finger at Mr. Clark.

  “I’ll pay you at the end of the week,” a man’s voice was saying. “Work sunup to sundown, rain or shine, and you’ll receive a fair wage.”

  Pru glanced down the walk and noticed the group o
f men who had been clustered in front of Clark’s had shifted one or two shops over. It might have been a different group of men now, but the man speaking was the same stranger she had spotted earlier. Of course, many people in Milcroft were still strangers to her. She hadn’t lived here long enough to know everyone, but he was the sort of man she would have remembered if she’d seen him before.

  He was big and brawny. His chest was wide and his shoulders broad. He dressed in a way that was better than some but not so well that he would stand out among the townspeople. He stood out anyway because of his size and his short dark hair. He wore a hat low over his forehead, and she could not make out his eye color. He sounded like a Londoner, though. She had lived there long enough to recognize the accent.

  “What’s a fair wage when you’ve a hole through the head?” one of the men from the village asked. The other men grumbled their agreement.

  “I personally guarantee your safety,” the big man said.

  That silenced the grumbling. The big man looked toward Pru, and she turned her head back to the window and the continuing scene inside Clark’s. Mrs. Northgate was no longer gesturing widely. Now she was watching Mr. Clark measure the russet fabric.

  “It’s harvest time,” one of the men said. “I can’t afford to be away from my land.”

  “Then don’t come,” the Londoner said, sounding unconcerned. “But if you could do with an extra few coins in your pocket, then we’d be happy to have you.” He tipped his hat and the men dispersed slowly, speaking amongst themselves in low voices.

  Pru thought how unfair it was that she was not a man. She had time and would like a few coins in her pocket instead of having to ask Mr. Higginbotham any time she needed funds. Yes, he’d given her the money for a new dress, but how was she to ask him for a few coins for a new chemise? The one she had was frayed and patched. Her shoes were another issue. Like her pea-green dress, they had been rescued from the donation bin. They had been serviceable when she’d first received them two years ago, but now the sole was coming apart and her stocking had gotten wet when walking in the rain this morning.

  Even if she asked Mr. Higginbotham for the money, she did not know how much her parents had left for her. For all she knew, the money he’d given her for the dress fabric was all they’d left. Pru hated being a charity case, but that’s exactly what she was. It was what she’d always be since she didn’t have the education, references, or skills to be anything else.

  “Do I have a wart on my nose?” the Londoner asked, moving toward her. Pru jumped, realizing he was speaking to her.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “You were staring at me.”

  She waved a hand, feeling her cheeks heat. “I was thinking and have a bad habit of staring off into space when I think. I wasn’t looking at you so much as through you.”

  “That’s a disappointment.” He moved close enough that they could converse without raising their voices but with plenty of space between them.

  She tilted her head. “Why?”

  “A man never likes for any young lady to look through him.”

  Pru rolled her eyes. “So it’s like that.”

  He raised his brows in question.

  “You are a charmer.”

  “I do try.” He took off his hat and she saw his eyes were green. Quite a pretty green too. “Allow me to introduce myself, Rowden Payne.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Payne. I am Prudence Howard.”

  “And what were you thinking so hard about, Miss Howard?”

  “Money,” she said with a sigh.

  “Not romance?” He smiled.

  “Gads, no. Romance won’t buy me a new pair of boots.”

  He gestured to the store window. “Were you thinking of going inside and inquiring about a position?”

  “No. I’m waiting for...a friend of mine to come out. She’s purchasing fabric.”

  “Ah.”

  “Are you here from London?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He brightened. “You’ve heard of me?”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Rowden Payne? The Royal Payne?” he asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  He laughed, seemingly in spite of himself. “You are most direct, Miss Howard. I am staying at Wentmore, helping Mr. Pope to repair the old pile.”

  Pru straightened. “Then you are friends with Mr. Pope?”

  “You know him?” His brow furrowed in surprise.

  “I’ve met him. Is that why you are hiring laborers? To repair his house? I am ever so glad to hear that. I think it must have been a beautiful house in its time.”

  “It will be again, I’m sure.”

  There was a pause in the conversation, and Pru glanced through the window again. Mr. Clark was wrapping the fabric in paper. She turned back to Mr. Payne. “How will you guarantee their safety?”

  “Whose? The laborers?”

  “Yes. You know Mr. Pope shot a Scotsman just a few months ago.”

  He smiled. “I had heard that, yes. But he won’t be shooting anyone while I am here.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Miss Howard.”

  She shrugged. “Everyone says that. Oh, here comes Mrs. Northgate. Step over there or I shall have to explain why I am speaking to a man I don’t know.”

  “But I introduced myself.”

  “Over there!” she hissed. Obligingly, he stepped aside, and Pru went to the shop door, opening it for Mrs. Northgate. She handed Pru the fabric.

  “Now that’s done. Shall we go home and begin?”

  “If you’re not too tired,” Pru said, watching Mr. Payne out of the corner of her eye. He was paying them no attention, which was a relief.

  “Tired? My girl, I have enthusiasm to spare! Come along now.”

  Still carrying the bundle, Pru hurried after her.

  “I HAVE A LETTER FROM your father,” Rowden said that evening at dinner.

  Nash set down his fork. Up until that point, he’d actually been enjoying the meal. Rowden had purchased bread, soup, and pies in Milcroft and Mrs. Brown had managed to warm them up and present a decent dinner. But now Nash’s stomach tightened. He peered at Rowden with his right eye but could not see the paper Rowden held. He could hear the man rattling it, though. “What does it say?”

  “He’s not sending the men from the asylum. Yet,” Rowden said. “So you needn’t look like you’ve been summoned to a funeral.”

  “Easy for you to say. You aren’t threatened with spending the next twenty years in a strait-waistcoat.”

  “He does say,” Rowden went on, “that he is coming for a visit.”

  “My father is coming for a visit?” Nash asked. This was difficult to believe. At the end of their last meeting, the earl had said he never wanted to see Nash again. The earl never said anything he did not mean.

  “A representative is coming,” Rowden said.

  Nash relaxed slightly. He would not have to face his father again. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  “I thought I had better mention this before the men arrived in the morning and began pounding and hammering. It will be a bad start if you shoot one of them before they’ve made any real progress.”

  Nash’s hand went immediately to his pocket where his pistol lay comfortable against his hip. “Absolutely not. I will not have strangers traipsing about Wentmore.”

  “I’ve already made the decision. The men arrive tomorrow. They’re not strangers. I’ve hired most of them from Milcroft.”

  “I said no.”

  “Nash, be reasonable. For once.”

  “Now you think I have gone mad too?” Nash asked, even as his hand curved around the butt of the pistol. He could hardly blame Rowden if he did think Nash daft. What other man walked around with a loaded pistol in his pocket and felt the need to touch it whenever distraught?

  “I don’t think you have gone mad, but you cannot see what I see.”


  “So you throw that in my face.” Nash stood. “You think I am weak? I might be blind, but I’m not helpless.” He lunged toward the form of Rowden, crashing into him and sending both of them tumbling to the floor. There was the sound of splintering wood—most likely the chair Rowden had been sitting in—and then the feel of Rowden’s large hands pushing Nash off him. Nash rolled away and came up swinging. He missed with his first punch but landed the second. If the blow made any impact on Rowden, the man gave no sign. There was no exhalation of sound or an attempt to move away.

  Nash struck again, but his fist sailed through empty space as Rowden ducked far more quickly than Nash could react. Nash climbed to his feet and Rowden was up too, moving backward and out of Nash’s range.

  “Stand still,” Nash panted.

  “You’re behaving like an arse,” Rowden said. “Hitting me won’t solve anything.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Nash lunged for Rowden, missed, tripped over a chair and cursed as pain shot through his knee.

  “Are you finished?” Rowden asked.

  “Come and fight me,” Nash said. “Or are you afraid of being beaten by a cripple?”

  “You’re not a cripple, and you’re not weak. But you can’t see the state of this house and your father’s representative—whoever that may be—can and will see it.”

  Nash was following the sound of Rowden’s voice and the shadowy form of his large frame. He swung again, missed, and fell forward. Rowden moved out of the way, and Nash crashed into a wall.

  “He will report back that not only do you carry a pistol in your pocket and brandish it at anyone who comes close, you live in a house damaged by fire and falling into ruin.”

  Nash struck again, and Rowden caught his fist in one hand, closed around it and yanked Nash close. So close Nash could feel his wine-scented breath on his face. He was almost ashamed that his first thought was to wonder where the wine was.

  “The kitchen is scorched by fire and so is the back of the house.”