The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  As Prudence struggled to answer William’s avowal with anything but the truth—that she loved him too—the music came to an end. The couples bowed and curtsied, joined hand in hand to depart the dance floor, and made polite conversation.

  “Lord Blackthorne’s carriage will depart for London tomorrow at first light,” she told William when he led her to a quiet corner of the room. “My sisters insist on my return.”

  “You go because you are commanded? or because you wish to leave?”

  She knew the real question behind his queries. “I cannot stay. Perhaps I am admired here, but I am not wanted.”

  “I will not deny that. I cannot wish your life to become attached to mine in any way. You deserve better, and you should go to London in search of it.”

  “But who are you to tell me what I should do?” She took out her fan to cool her neck and cheeks. “I am not a child to be ordered about. How I choose to live my life is neither my sisters’ affair nor yours. Believe me, I do not go to London in search of a husband.”

  “But you came here on that quest.”

  “Did I? How so?”

  “Your blacksmith.”

  She bristled. “Mr. Walker is my friend. Nothing more.”

  “You stayed in Otley because you wanted to see him. You went to the mill on that pursuit. You meet him at night under cover of darkness.”

  At this, she drew herself up with indignation. “I beg your pardon, sir! Your accusation is wholly without merit. Mr. Walker is engaged to be married. I am an honorable woman. How dare you charge me with such wickedness?”

  “I saw you,” he retorted. “Some nights ago, I desired to speak with you and rode down to the inn. I discovered you there—outside, near the door. With him. You kissed his hand.”

  Mortified, Prudence snapped her fan shut and pushed it into her reticule. “You spied on me?”

  “Which of us is the spy, madam?”

  At his intimations and accusations—all of which were true—she could formulate no response.

  “Never mind,” she sputtered, “for tomorrow I shall be carried away from this place in Lord Blackthorne’s carriage. Your path and mine will never cross again. I assure you, I shall trouble you no longer.”

  “But you will continue to trouble me,” he growled, blocking her attempted exit and taking her hand in his. “Teach me how to hate you, Prudence.”

  She was trembling now, half in fury and half in desire. But desire for what? She could not say, and so she tarried.

  “Hate me because I hated you first,” she suggested. “Hate me because my every purpose is to bring about the downfall of your enterprise. Hate me because you were not mistaken in what you saw that night. I did meet the man in question, and I kissed his hand. I loved him once. I love him still. Hate me for that. Hate me because even now I shall walk away from you and never speak to you again.”

  “I can hate you only if you say you do not love me.” His hand tightened on hers. “Say I am nothing to you. I am never in your thoughts. I am of little consequence and no importance. Then perhaps I can learn to hate you, Prudence.”

  “Shall I add untruthfulness to the other sins of which you accuse me?” She snatched her hand away. “Do you wish to make me a liar too?”

  He stared at her. “What is your meaning?”

  “You annoy and vex me day and night. You infuriate me. Thoughts of you torment me until I fear I shall go mad. How can a man who causes me such distress never leave my consciousness? You ask to be assured that you are of little consequence and no importance to me. I should be the greatest liar in the kingdom if I said such things. I rue the day Tom Smith pushed me into a puddle. I regret every moment I have spent in your company. Every touch . . . every kiss . . .”

  Clenching her hands into fists, she struck him once on the chest. “Do not love me!” she cried. “Do not make me love you! I cannot endure it. My heart cannot bear the weight of it another moment. You must release me, I beg you.”

  Tears welled, and she saw him turn to one side as her friend stepped into their company. The tension of the moment snapped.

  “Prudence, you have not introduced me to this gentleman,” Anne said, her lovely smile and warm brown eyes comforting as she slipped an arm around her friend. “It is rumored that he is brother to our host and heir to Chatham Hall. My husband and I passed that charming home as we came into Otley this morning.”

  “Forgive me,” Prudence stammered. “My lady, I should like to present William Sherbourne. Sir, I am pleased for you to know my dearest friend, Anne Chouteau, Lady Blackthorne.”

  “The pleasure is mine, I am sure,” she said with a curtsy that answered William’s bow. “I have not seen much of Yorkshire in my life, Mr. Sherbourne, but I am compelled to tell you how very pleasant I find this countryside.”

  “You were brought up in London?” he asked.

  “I was born in Nottingham, and there I lived until sad circumstances sent me to London. My father is a minister, a man who inspires his family not only by his words but also by his deeds.”

  “An ideal father, then,” William observed. “I have visited Nottingham on more than one occasion. It is a lovely town.”

  “I am sure you know it has been home to much of England’s lace manufacture. I am very interested in the production of fine goods.”

  “You are connected to the lace industry in France, I am told.”

  “Indeed, for Prudence and I became quite enamored of handmade bobbin lace during our tenure in Calais.

  We founded a lace school, you know, and we made many improvements to the efficiency of that much-admired craft.”

  “A lace school?” William’s eyes widened as he turned to Prudence. “A lace school?”

  “Dear Mr. Sherbourne,” Anne continued, “you must not fall into the trap of underestimating the talents and determination of my beautiful friend. Men so often do.”

  “My offenses against Miss Watson are legion, I assure you. I can only beg forgiveness if I have committed this crime so recently brought to my attention.”

  Anne laughed. “You cannot be as bad as that, Mr. Sherbourne, for if so, my friend would not like you half so well as she does. But of course you are absolved at once.”

  Still speaking, Anne drew Prudence closer to her side. Though Prudence would have chosen any other conversant than William Sherbourne and any other topic than this, she was glad of Anne’s companionship. But now her friend ran on, introducing the very topic that Prudence had cautioned her against on their way to Thorne Lodge.

  “My friend tells me that some years ago your family constructed a worsted mill. I understand you intend to make many improvements there now that you are returned from sea.”

  William glanced at Prudence. She coughed a little and began an arduous search for a handkerchief in her reticule.

  “Your information is correct, Lady Blackthorne,” he replied. “Today we enjoyed cakes and tea at the mill. If Miss Watson has her way, we shall soon build a school, reduce working hours to ten per day, and ruin ourselves as swiftly as we can.”

  Anne chuckled. “But perhaps your weavers will be more productive if they are not quite so tired.”

  “There is a delicate balance, I begin to see. One must continue production at such a rate and quality as to remain competitive with other mills. Yet one cannot enslave the labor to such a degree that they revolt—as did the Luddites in your own town. I assure you, I should be most displeased to discover anyone smashing my looms and carding engines. Those who fostered and engaged in such an uprising in Nottingham were rightly tried, imprisoned, and banished from England.”

  “Oh, dear!” Prudence interjected as loudly as possible. “I fear I have forgotten my handkerchief and must return to the inn as soon as may be. Anne, you must be weary after your long journey. Let us retire to the carriage, for I find suddenly that I am simply undone.”

  “My father,” Anne informed William as she handed Prudence her own lace-trimmed handkerchief, “was imprisoned
for supporting his parishioners in the Luddite rebellion. They were right to defend their livelihood—the manufacture of handcrafted lace. My father was justified in his actions, as well, and he endured his detention with more good cheer than could be expected. Had God not chosen to bless me with a husband both wealthy and well connected, my father would have faced trial and exile as did so many of his beloved flock.”

  The moment of discomfiting silence that followed this discourse gave Prudence the opportunity to consider her options. She could faint. This would draw attention to herself, however, and she knew she would not fare well under scrutiny. She could flee. An appealing idea, but one unlikely to resolve the issue at hand. She could introduce another subject, but she could not imagine what it might be.

  William cleared his throat. “Lady Blackthorne, you have successfully played me for the fool, and I congratulate you most heartily. It is not easily done, for I have learned to shame and confound everyone around me with all possible haste. You were right to escort me into your trap. I spoke without thinking, an action that invariably leads to disgrace. Now I have only to throw myself on your mercy and beg your forgiveness. But before I do, I must assure you of my happiness at your success in winning such an esteemed husband and at your pleasure in the liberty of your beloved father. Moreover, should my own weavers choose to smash my looms and burn down my mill, I shall know it is done for all the right reasons. Indeed, if I am aware of it in time, I shall issue invitations to you and Miss Watson.”

  He concluded his speech with a congenial smile, as if they had been discussing the pleasure of fresh strawberries in the springtime. Anne looked to Prudence, who forced a laugh.

  “Dear me! I nearly forgot we had come here to dance. Mr. Sherbourne, I see Miss Madeline stands near the door without a partner. I feel certain she would—”

  “Ah, but I have reserved this dance for you.” So saying, he took her by the hand, wrapped his arm about her, and all but pushed her onto the dance floor.

  Unable to resist casting a look of despair at her dearest friend, Prudence moved alongside her escort and quickly found her place in the roundel. She was grateful to discover they were dancing a jig, which ruled out the possibility of serious conversation.

  The moment the music ended, Prudence detached herself from William and hurried toward the hall. She would don her cloak and walk to the inn if no other means of transport could be found. The night had begun badly and ended worse.

  So much for her sad career as a crusader. Prudence could think of nothing she wanted more than to drink five cups of tea in a row while seated by a fire with her dear sisters. She would join Sarah and Mary in eating buttered crumpets, speculating on the latest fashion in pelisses, and reading Miss Pickworth’s most recent report on the scandals and passions currently en vogue among London’s ton.

  It would be heaven!

  “If you leave me now, I shall never sleep again.” William appeared alongside Prudence in her headlong dash toward escape. He caught her arm. “I must know if the feelings and sentiments you expressed to me a few minutes ago remain, or if my unfortunate conversation with your friend has altered them.”

  “Too much has been said between us already,” she told him, still pressing toward the foyer with all the force she could muster. “I want to go home.”

  “‘Do not make me love you,’” he quoted. “‘My heart cannot bear the weight of it.’ Those were your words, Prudence. Now I cannot rest until I know the truth—have I made you love me? Has God somehow looked down upon me with favor and permitted me such a gift?”

  “What does it matter?” She paused in a long corridor and sagged against the wall. “I go home tomorrow. Home where I belong. At last my heart will be my own again.”

  “Then it is true. For now, for this instant, you love me.”

  “Yes.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Yes, but I have always been silly. I drift hither and yon with droves of suitors at my heels. I torment men with my beauty and make them mad with desire. So I am told again and again by everyone I hold most dear. Give no consequence to my words, William, for I am . . . I am . . . I am silly.”

  “You are anything but that.” He stood beside her, his back rigid and his arms at his sides. “You are wise and spirited and good. You are beautiful. You are kind. You are honest. But you are not silly.”

  She looked into his eyes, searching for the spark of mockery and ridicule that so often marked his discourse. She saw none.

  He let out a breath. “Prudence, if you go to London, I must go there too. But you should not go. You will never be at home in town. Your heart is here, on the moorlands, in the glades, in the rushing streams of the country. Stay a little longer. Let us learn what it is that binds us.”

  “I cannot. If I stay, I may find that I am hopelessly in love with you. That must never be, for I have determined that my future is a life without husband, hearth, home, children.”

  “I am unworthy of you, of that there can be no doubt. But if you love me at all, may there not be something of God in it?”

  “God?” She turned to him. “What has God to do with anything so unholy as my dreams of you, my thoughts of you, my heedless desire . . . my wanton, willful longing for you? God is purity and light. But every moment I am with you, William, my mind is torn between right and wrong, good and evil.”

  “God is love, Prudence. There can be no evil in that.”

  She reached for him, touched her fingertips to his cheek, drew them down the plane of his face and over the squared line of his jaw to his neck. William once had told her that nothing in life was truly black or truly white. But could there be something of God in the tumult that filled her heart?

  “There you are, Pru!” Anne waved as she and Ruel approached their friend down the long hallway.

  “We are relieved to find you well,” Ruel called out. “Anne feared you were stolen away by the gentleman she endeavored so mightily to insult this evening. And this must be the hapless fellow himself. William Sherbourne, I believe our paths crossed in Plymouth.”

  “Once or twice, perhaps.”

  Ruel and William discussed the prospects for rain on the morrow. They congratulated each other for their fortune in escorting two women so lovely on this evening. They made promises to visit one another at a future date.

  And then Anne was drawing Prudence into the foyer and down the steps of Thorne Lodge. As she ascended into the carriage, Prudence glanced behind in search of William. But he had remained inside the house.

  Prudence fell back into her seat and closed her eyes, praying she could erase everything that had happened on this day. But Anne took her hand and squeezed it tight.

  “Such a man you have found!” she whispered in Prudence’s ear. “Ruel and I are in full agreement that you must stay in Otley and continue your clandestine visits to the mill. You will bring about a revolution, my dearest Pru. A change for the better at that horrid workplace. And a transformation in the soul of a man so very much in love with a woman who adores him, too.”

  Eleven

  Her wooden shoes clattering on the stone steps, Prudence left the mill through the front door along with all the other laborers. She had worked at her spinning machine two full weeks now, and each night she felt more weary than the one before. Her narrow bed with its thin blanket and straw mattress beckoned, though she knew morning would come far too soon.

  Moving into the small cottage that Bettie Barns and her children called home had been Anne’s idea. Prudence must appear to depart the inn with her friends, Anne explained, but she must be given safe lodging in the town.

  With this aim, Lord and Lady Blackthorne had called on Mr. Walker the morning after the assembly at Thorne Lodge. Ruel and the American-born blacksmith had been the closest of companions for many years. It was natural, therefore, for the men to meet again, and their intimate association caused only the mildest ripple of surprise in town.

  After discussing the conditions at the mill with Ruel and Anne, Mr. Walker had sug
gested that Bettie, his intended wife, would welcome the disguised spinner. Prudence’s identity must be kept secret from the overlookers as well as their master. Once she had gathered enough inflammatory information to force improvements at the mill, Prudence would return to London and rejoin her family.

  Now, as she and the other laborers made their way down the dirt road toward Otley, Prudence recalled how vehemently she had rejected the scheme. The risks were too great, and she longed to see her sisters. Worse, she disliked the idea of meeting Mr. Walker so often—as she surely would while living in the home of his future wife. Worst of all, William Sherbourne might find her out. Since their final encounter in the hallway of his home, Prudence could not bear the thought of the disappointment and displeasure he would feel if he discovered her duplicity.

  But Anne had persuaded her friend to reconsider the high calling God had laid out. Had Prudence not vowed that she had heard His voice in her heart? Prudence was to be a reformer, Anne reminded her. A crusader. A woman whose labors would impact the needy for decades to come. And think of the poor mill children. How they suffered!

  Moreover, Mr. Sherbourne must be given due consideration. Despite their disagreement at the assembly, Anne was convinced that the man was ultimately good-hearted. True, the situation at the mill was deplorable. And perhaps Sherbourne once had been something of a rake. But what was God if not a divine reformer? No one must underestimate the power and plans of the Almighty, for look what He had done in Anne’s life.

  Letting out yet another sigh of resignation, Prudence now trudged toward the tiny moonlit cottage at the edge of Otley. Though the throng pressed close, a touch on her elbow startled her, and she looked over to find young Tom Smith at her side.

  Supporting his lame brother as always, Tom tipped his cap at her. Prudence smiled through her exhaustion. Though she constantly dreaded the exposure of her charade, she understood that the entire company of laborers had conspired to keep her presence at the mill a secret, even the children. The overlookers and their master suspected nothing—or so she was assured again and again.