The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  With a genuine smile of pleasure, she took a fan from her bag. “You have a marvelous pianoforte, sir,” she addressed Randolph. “I am delighted with the purity of its sound. Indeed, this has been a lovely evening—a great boost to my spirits after my earlier mishap.”

  “My wife and I are pleased to welcome you at Thorne Lodge as often as you like, Miss Watson. But I fear you are eager to return to London and deprive us of your company.”

  “I abhor the city. Balls and receptions fatigue me, and I take little joy in shopping for bonnets or ribbons. My sisters find my indifference dreary. Mary adores being always in society,and Sarah has learned to like it well enough. But I should much prefer riding across the moorland over carriage rides in Hyde Park. While I do enjoy dancing, I would rather spend an evening walking along a country lane. Can you disagree with my preference?”

  “Not at all. Indeed, William was just saying how much he enjoys the country. Like you, he prefers it to town. Were we not discussing that, William?”

  “With zeal. I daresay we could have gone on about it for another hour at least.”

  At this comment, Randolph shot his brother a glare. But when Prudence turned to him again, he brightened.

  “My brothers and I all fancy the out-of-doors, Miss Watson. William is a particularly skilled rider. Everyone admires his form. Nor does he object to shooting and foxhunting in season. I have known him to swim often in pools and streams on our estate. There is little in the way of sport and exercise that he does not enjoy. I cannot think of anything you dislike, brother.”

  “I am not fond of idle chitchat.”

  “Oh, come now. Verbal jousting is one of your greatest talents.”

  “I will not argue that. Were there a contest in irritating and infuriating one’s family and friends, I should win first place.”

  “Champion of the world, no doubt.” Randolph addressed Prudence again. “Miss Watson, I fear you know little of our beloved Otley save a mud puddle and a vexing rogue. My wife and I wish to welcome you and your sister to stay here at Thorne Lodge for as long as you like. Have you any fixed engagements in town?”

  “Well, we . . . we . . . ,” she began, clearly fumbling about for excuses. “We have been very long away from my sister’s young daughter. I am sure she misses her mother. And our eldest sister has sent several letters to inquire when we shall return to London. Sarah is anxious to see us again.”

  “But you asked about fixed engagements, Lord Thorne,” Mary Heathhill pointed out as she and Olivia joined the others near the fire. “Prudence has none. Her family and friends can do without her very well for at least a fortnight. Perhaps even a month.”

  “Dispensable, is she?” William muttered, perhaps a little too loudly.

  “Prudence is dearly loved, I assure you, Mr. Sherbourne.” Mary favored him with a forced smile.

  She did not like him. William saw the aversion plainly written on her face. Yet somehow he had become the object of her matchmaking endeavors. Mary must have decided that Prudence should marry William, though she herself could hardly endure him.

  “Our dear sister brings us such pleasure,” Mary continued, “that we are quite gloomy when she is away. Yet her contentment is always our aim. We gladly surrender her company on the many occasions when she is invited to stay in the country.”

  “Then you must join us here for another month, Miss Watson,” Olivia offered. “Spring is nearly upon us, and summer will follow very soon after. You will take great joy in exploring the moors as the heather blossoms and the birds begin to nest. Many of our closest friends stay in the country all year, and they would love to know you. Perhaps we shall give a ball to introduce you.”

  “I adore a ball,” Mary spoke up. “There is nothing I like better than dancing.”

  “Then you must stay too, Mrs. Heathhill,” Olivia insisted.

  “We keep a stable of many fine riding horses. As you enjoy the exercise so much, Miss Watson, I am sure William can take you out for several short excursions.”

  “My goodness . . . such generosity.” Prudence glanced at William, then quickly looked away. “You are all so kind. Were circumstances different, I should eagerly agree to your invitation. But I fear our long journey has fatigued me no end.”

  She stood abruptly. “Indeed, I am so tired, I fear I shall become as irritating and infuriating as Mr. Sherbourne claims to be.”

  “We cannot have two irksome characters in one house,” William agreed. He rose and made her a little bow. “You and I are forced to remain apart forever, Miss Watson, lest we exasperate our loved ones. Good evening, then. And, Mrs. Heathhill, how very congenial you are. Thank you so much for deigning to trespass upon us this evening.”

  “Trespass!” Mary gasped out the word, but Randolph, Olivia, and Prudence were swift to surround her, covering the awkward moment with the general hubbub of farewells and thank-yous. In a veritable tempest of chatter, the entire company made for the drawing room door. Randolph called for a carriage. Olivia ordered cloaks and bonnets returned to their owners. Servants bustled about.

  As the sounds faded down the hall, William stepped to the fire. He leaned one arm on the mantel and gazed at the flickering blaze. He felt content. Prudence Watson was beautiful, accomplished, and kind. A better man than he would make her happy one day. No matter what William might wish, he had spurned her for all the right reasons.

  One stolen kiss and his heart had begun to ache. He longed for a life he could never have. He hungered for a happiness that could not be his. Yet once again, he had succeeded in resisting urges and desires that would only make him—and everyone else—miserable.

  The woman had gone. Temptation had been eluded. He was alone again.

  William closed his eyes, leaned his forehead on his arm, and offered up a prayer to a God who long ago had stopped listening. “Thank You,” he mouthed. “Thank You.”

  Three

  “Trespass!” Mary turned from the mirror where she had been admiring the jet brooch at her throat. “Did you hear him, Pru?”

  “I heard him. Every word.” Prudence had opened a diamond-paned window to let in the cool, misty air. It was early, and the two women had breakfasted and packed their trunks before dressing for the day. The coach would arrive at the inn soon to whisk them back to London for yet another round of balls and receptions.

  Leaning against the sill, Prudence observed the market vendors pushing their carts along the cobbled street below. The puddle—site of the previous day’s humiliation—had dried. No one would need William Sherbourne’s rescuing arms today.

  “Horrid man! I detest him.” Mary was adjusting her brooch as she spoke. “He comes from a fine family, but he besmirches their good name with his insolent speech and unmannered behavior. I should be ashamed to call him brother.”

  “You will never have that obligation, I assure you.”

  “No, for Sarah and I would never permit you to become his wife. I liked Mr. Sherbourne at first, I confess. He is uncommonly handsome, and some might call him a wit. But it was not long before his contemptuous and odious character came to light. Your sisters shall settle on a better husband for you, Pru. Have no fear.”

  “I have great fear of your meddling, Mary!” Prudence spoke to her sister in alarm. “How often must I tell you that I shall never marry? How loudly must I shout it until you hear me? It is really too much. You ignore me time and again.”

  “What is that dreadful clatter?” Mary frowned at her sister. “It sounds as if the whole town is falling down.”

  Prudence looked into the street to discover a stream of people pouring out of their homes. Garbed in patched, faded clothing, they carried baskets under their arms and wore wooden shoes on their feet.

  “I believe it is the mill workers,” she told Mary. “They wear pattens.”

  “How many can they be? Is it an entire army?”

  “Enough for Mr. Sherbourne to injure several a week, I should think. Someone ought to—oh!”

&nbs
p; The sudden realization that Mr. Walker might be among the throng brought a gasp to Prudence’s lips. She set her hands on the sill and leaned out, searching for a man who would stand head and shoulders above the others. His dark hair would be threaded with silver. His massive shoulders would—

  There! She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out again.

  Mr. Walker, who had held her in his arms, kissed her lips, whispered his love . . . now walked beside a small woman in a mobcap and cotton apron. He smiled at the woman, saying something Prudence could not make out. His companion laughed. A thin girl held her hand. A taller boy followed close behind.

  “What is it, Pru?” Mary stepped to her side. “I heard your gasp of shock. Let me see.”

  “It’s nothing.” Prudence straightened, blocking the window. “Your brooch is crooked, Mary. You should return to the mirror and try again.”

  “Stand aside, sister. You’re quite pale, and I must have a look at what has distressed you.” Shouldering Prudence aside, Mary peered out the window. “Just as I thought! It’s that boy again. The one who knocked you into the puddle. It appears he does work at the mill, after all. It must be his brother they carry along. Poor child.”

  Relieved and confused all at once, Prudence joined her sister. In the distance, Mr. Walker and his companions were just rounding a corner, nearly indistinguishable in the flood of other laborers. Pulse pounding, Prudence gripped the sill as he vanished from sight.

  How could he have found another woman so quickly? It was not a year since their sad parting. Prudence had danced with many men and received countless callers since that day, but none could fill the empty place Mr. Walker had left in her heart. No man ever would.

  “You should give him the leavings from our breakfast, Pru.” Mary shook out her skirt as she left the window. “We have two kippers, several buns, a nice cheese, and plenty of fresh butter. Wrap it in a napkin and take it down to him. Make haste, or he will soon be out of sight.”

  Give Mr. Walker their breakfast scraps? Bewildered, Prudence could hardly fathom such an act. Would he not be offended? But Mary was gathering up the remaining items on the table and tying them into a white cloth. She pushed the bundle at her sister and bade her fly.

  “Tom Smith! Tom Smith!”

  Mary’s voice rang out as Prudence left their chamber and hurried down the steps. She burst into the street and came to a halt. At the inn’s front door, Tom stood looking at Mary. He and a little girl supported a frail boy by his arms.

  Seeing Prudence, he tugged off his cap and attempted a bow. “Mornin’, ma’am. If you please, we must hurry to the mill, for if we are late again, the overlooker will beat us.”

  “Beat you?” Shaking off her preoccupation with Mr. Walker, Prudence shifted her attention to the three children. “Here, Tom, take this. It is fish and bread for your dinner.”

  “Thank you. We are much obliged.” He tucked the package under his free arm and was turning away when Prudence stopped him.

  “Is this your sister, Tom? and your brother?”

  “Aye, she be Martha, and here be Davy what I told you about yesterday. The other sisters are gone ahead of us already, five of them.”

  Each arm draped around a sibling’s shoulders to bear his weight, the younger boy was gaunt and pasty white. His great gray eyes, identical to those of his brother and sister, regarded Prudence from under a fringe of long black lashes. Like their brother, Davy and Martha sported a sprinkling of freckles beneath the dirt and grime on their cheeks.

  Prudence gathered her skirts and crouched to face the boy. “Davy, were you truly injured at Thorne Mill?”

  “Aye, ma’am.” He bent and drew his pant leg up to the knee.

  At the shocking sight of twisted bone and scarred flesh, she gasped. “Was Davy taken to the doctor, Tom?”

  “Not yet, ma’am. Until your shillin’ yesterday, we had no money for it.” He returned his cap to his head. “Davy’s leg were caught in a machine, you see, and the skin and flesh peeled off. The bone weren’t broke so much as bent. It happened six months ago, and we all prayed that God would put his leg right again. But our hope is gone now. So we help Davy back and forth to the mill between two of us. I always hold him up on the right side and our sisters trade out for the left.”

  “But how can your brother work when he is in such poor health? He must be in pain every moment.”

  “If Davy don’t work, ma’am, there ain’t enough for us all to eat. As I said yesterday, our father be dead these three years. With him went our garden and sheep, for none could tend them but he. Our mother be ill with mill fever a good bit of the time.”

  “Do you go to school?”

  Tom cast a worried glance in the direction of the mill. “No, ma’am. We work till sundown, and the mill has no school. If these questions lead to wantin’ your shillin’ back, I’ll give it to you, but truly we must go.”

  “The overlooker has a thong and a stick,” Martha spoke up, her voice high and childlike. “I can bear the thong, but Dick the Devil kicked me from my stool last week. If he goes after me with the stick, I may perish.”

  “Dick the Devil? Is that what you call the overlooker?” A shiver of horror went down Prudence’s spine. “Go quickly, then, children. I am sorry to have kept you.”

  “Good day, ma’am. God bless!” Tom called over his shoulder as he and his sister dragged their brother down the street.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Prudence watched the children until they and the other mill workers disappeared around a corner. Tom, Davy, and Martha Smith. Five more sisters besides these three. Eight children laboring from sunup to sundown under threat of a beating from Dick the Devil.

  Prudence reflected on her own idyllic childhood—riding horses across meadows, swinging from the branch of a great oak tree, sitting on a flat green croquet lawn to study Latin verbs with her tutor. Her stomach had rarely groaned with hunger, for tea and scones were always at the ready. She wore colorful silk frocks and slippers especially crafted to fit her feet. Her bonnets were trimmed in ribbon and lace to match her gowns. Singing and painting lessons, evenings around a pianoforte, embroidery and beading—these had been her leisurely pursuits.

  True, she had known hardship. Like the Smith children, Prudence had lost a parent too early. Her mother had died, and her father grew bitter and cold. Sarah was sent away to school, then married off to a man she did not love. Prudence and Mary mourned their losses. But sorrow had been eased by outings to the theater, expeditions to the lake country, sea bathing at Brighton, and a hundred other pleasures.

  God had blessed her greatly. Until this moment, she had never even known of any man so cruel as Dick the Devil. God’s blessings . . . the devil’s cruelty.

  At the disturbing vision of a world divided cleanly in two—one side good and the other evil—Prudence trembled. A shiver coursed through her. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Is the coach late today?” Mary’s voice rang out. She stepped into the street and looked it up and down. “I shall be quite put out if we do not reach our destination by teatime.”

  Pondering her revelation, Prudence did not respond. Instead, she began walking. At first, her steps were hesitant. But as determination took hold inside her, she gained speed.

  “Pru, where are you going?” Mary called. “I expect the coach just now. What has come over you?”

  She rushed forward and grasped Prudence’s wrist. “Speak to me, sister! Oh, dear, you are very chill, indeed. So much like my poor late husband at the onset of his influenza. You must come out of the mist at once. Return to the inn with me, and we shall sit by the fire until the coach arrives.”

  “Stop pulling me, Mary.” Prudence removed her sister’s hand and began walking again in the direction of the worsted mill. “I am not ill. Not in the least.”

  “But where are you going? Truly, you are not well. Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are glazed. Oh, heaven help us!”

  Prudence stopped. Excit
ement coursed through her as she took her sister’s shoulders and gazed into concerned brown eyes. “Mary, I have just heard the voice of God. Not two minutes ago. In the street. He has revealed my mission.”

  “What nonsense are you talking, Pru? Did Tom Smith do something to you again? I knew he was not to be trusted!”

  “No, Mary, listen to me. I know what I am to do with my life. God has given me a crusade, a battle I must wage for Him.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I am to save England’s children from the worsted mills.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Did that boy offer you tea or a biscuit? Did you drink something?”

  “I am perfectly fine, sister. Indeed, I am happier than I have been in many years. Can’t you see? I have a purpose at last. I am going to save the mill children!”

  “Ah, there is the coach—thank heaven. Return with me and take your seat while I order the trunks sent down. We shall depart this misty, dreary place at last, and you can tell me all about your little crusade on the way to London.”

  “I cannot go home, Mary,” Prudence declared as she set her stride again. “I must stay in Otley. I must help these children—Tom Smith and the others. God has commissioned me to better their lives by giving up my own.”

  “Prudence Watson, you speak not two words of sense together!” Mary stumbled in an effort to match her sister’s pace. Her voice was shrill. “Stop this foolishness, Pru! At once! Get into the coach before we are left behind!”

  “I stay here, sister. Mr. William Sherbourne and his wicked overlookers will rue the day I set foot in their town. The children will have good food to eat, a school, clean clothes, time to play outside. I see it all now, Mary, as though a golden path has been laid out before me. I can do nothing but travel that path, for it is my destiny.”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” the coachman called to them. “Do you mean to take your seats? I’m bound for Leeds and late as it is. I’ve no time to dawdle.”

  “We shall have our trunks sent down to you in a moment,” Mary assured him. She lowered her voice to a growl. “Prudence, you are a silly girl who should be dancing at balls, flirting with men, and finding a suitable husband. Now get into the coach!”