“Ye done good today, ma’am,” Tom declared. “Davy says so too, don’t ye, Davy?”
“Aye,” the child agreed. “Not near so many tangles today as when ye first began.”
“Thank you,” Prudence murmured. “But I am still very slow.”
“Jimmy don’t mind,” Tom assured her. “I heard him tell Dick the Devil that the very day you came to the mill, his spinners began to work twice as fast. And along with you came the master’s order for tea and cakes too. Jimmy thinks you’re good luck.”
“Me?” Prudence shook her head.
“Ye mean to help us, ma’am,” Tom said. “If our lot goes better, it won’t do Jimmy no harm neither.”
Prudence groaned. Struggling to put one foot in front of the other, she could hardly imagine doing anything to improve the workers’ lives. Though the tea and cakes were a feast to the others at the mill, they hardly touched the hunger that gnawed at her stomach day and night. The swiftly spinning wool threads had blistered her fingers. Her palms had become callused. Her shoulders ached, and her feet felt like blocks of ice on the unheated floor. Each night she dropped into her bed, only to be shaken awake before the first light of dawn.
Bettie was kind and cheerful, even though her houseguest had once been attached to Mr. Walker, the man she most dearly loved and intended to marry. It pained Prudence to see the two of them together, sharing meals, laughing over incidents from the day, enjoying the antics of the children. But it was best. Let Mr. Walker have a wife and a family of his own, she told herself again and again. He deserved only happiness.
“I had treacle on my cake today,” Davy piped up. His high-pitched voice carried through the chill night wind. “Did you, ma’am?”
“Treacle?” Prudence realized she had been nearly asleep as she stumbled along the road. “I suppose I did have treacle, but I—”
“Whisht!” Tom placed a warning finger over his lips as he caught her arm. “’Tis him! ’Tis the master!”
And now Prudence saw what those around her had already discovered. In total silence, William Sherbourne had been riding alongside the river of people moving down the trampled roadway. His dark steed was almost invisible in the night, only the tapping hooves and the snuffle of the horse giving him away.
Stifling a gasp, Prudence tugged the mobcap lower on her forehead and wrapped her black shawl more closely around her shoulders and neck. William had visited the mill several times in the past fortnight—more often, she was told, than he had done before she came. Each time, she found reason to be absent from her post. Her fellow spinners made excuses for her to Jimmy.
But it was whispered and feared that Mr. Sherbourne knew. That someone had divulged the great and wonderful secret. That a turncoat had betrayed Prudence, their champion of hope, and that her identity could be revealed at any time.
Head down, she shivered as the horse slowed, now moving at an even pace with her stride. “Good evening to you all,” William called out.
“Good evening, sir,” a chorus of voices responded.
“And how were your cakes today?”
“Lovely, thank you, sir,” people shouted.
“My cake had treacle!” Young Davy’s squeaky voice cut through the threads of tension woven across Prudence’s spine. She sagged, suddenly longing to fall at William’s feet and confess her deception, then beg to be taken to Thorne Lodge, poured a hot bath, given a cup of tea—
“Treacle?” William’s horse stepped toward the boy. “Did everyone have treacle?”
“Yes, sir,” the refrain rang out.
The river of humanity had ceased its flow. Now William dismounted, his focus on the child who had spoken out of turn. Prudence debated whether to try to sink further into the shadows of the nearby public house or step into William’s path and declare her presence.
“Is that you, Tom Smith?” William approached the two boys who stood beside Prudence. “I believe we have met before. This must be your brother?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “Davy Smith.”
Though Prudence kept her head bent low, she cast a sideways glance to find William standing but an arm’s length away.
“I am pleased to meet you, Master Davy,” he said, giving the boy a bow.
To Prudence’s consternation, Davy giggled. His twisted legs almost buckling beneath him, the child tried to copy his master’s bow. “And me too. Pleased to meet ye, sir.”
“But who is this lady, Davy?” William asked, taking another step nearer to Prudence. “Madam, may I know your name?”
“Polly,” Tom put in. “’Tis Polly, sir. She is . . . she is my . . . my cousin.”
“Ah, your cousin. Miss Polly, what is it that you do at my mill?”
“She’s a spinner,” Tom responded. “She spins very well indeed, sir.”
“And you answer for her, Tom? Is your cousin mute?”
“I am not mute.” Prudence stared at her feet as she spoke. “My cake had treacle too. I thank you.”
“I believe I remember you, madam,” he said. “You are new at the mill.”
“Two weeks, sir.”
“You had quite a tangle near the beginning of your employment, I think. But you worked it out quite swiftly.”
“Yes, sir.”
William stood in silence before Prudence. She felt his eyes on her, and it was all she could do not to look up at him. Her heart ached to see the man’s familiar face again, to set aside this dreadful drama and return to her former life.
“Did you have tea today?” he asked her at last. “With the others?”
“I did.”
“Was it to your liking?”
“It was . . . hot.” She wrestled for a moment. “But the milk was not fresh. It had curdled.”
“Had it? And you found that distasteful?”
“Anyone would.”
“Was the sugar pleasing?”
“Lumpy,” she said. “But sweet.”
He chuckled. “I am glad to hear my sugar was sweet. At least in that I may take comfort.”
Prudence knotted her fingers together, praying that William would leave without discovering her identity and at the same time hoping he would. He had not moved since speaking to her. The crowd around them hovered in expectant silence.
“Miss Polly, may I inquire what you like best about your work at the mill?” William asked now.
Prudence stiffened, mentally grasping for anything good to say about the endless torturous hours, the dry oatcake and water porridge, the chill that numbed her feet, and the bits of lint she inhaled each time she took a breath.
“Polly is pleased to earn her wages,” Tom Smith spoke up. “We are all glad of that.”
“Indeed,” Prudence concurred. “I am most grateful for my wages.”
“But what do you dislike about your work?” William asked.
“The long hours? The noise?”
“Yes, sir. All of it.”
“All of it?”
“Except the wages.”
“Miss Polly, I should very much like to hear more about these dissatisfactions that plague you. You remind me of someone I knew once—a lady who was slow to praise and swift to find fault. Tell me where you live. I shall send a carriage for you and your two young cousins tomorrow morning. We shall meet for tea at Thorne Lodge and discuss the conditions in my mill.”
Prudence quaked. “Tea at Thorne Lodge—no, I couldn’t possibly,” she blurted out. “I’m needed elsewhere. Wages, you know. I must earn my wages. Under such circumstances, one can hardly think of tea and a chat.”
“Tea and a chat? Upon my word, you speak very well for a woman in such a station in life. You have attended school, have you not? Perhaps you were brought up in a condition unlike the one in which you now find yourself.”
“I was . . . not always so humbly situated, sir. But I . . . I—”
“Never mind,” William said over her stuttering speech. “I accept your rejection of my invitation to tea, Miss Polly, and it is probabl
y for the best. I go to London tomorrow. Several matters of business demand my attention, and I mean to call on friends. Young Tom will remember two ladies who recently kept rooms at the inn in Otley. I mean to visit them and discover how they have fared since departing Yorkshire.”
At this news, Prudence stifled a yelp of dismay. But before she could find her tongue to make a response, he continued.
“Thank you, Miss Polly, the young Masters Smith, and all those in my employ—I have kept you from your hearths long enough. Good evening.”
“Good evening, sir,” came the chorus from the throng.
As William mounted his horse and rode away, people crowded around Prudence.
“He’s going to London to look for her!” one cried.
“He knows who she is!”
“He has uncovered the truth!”
“We’re doomed!”
Fully awake now, Prudence pushed ahead until she caught up to Mr. Walker. He was walking with Bettie. When Prudence called his name, he paused. She reached for his hand, but noting the eyes watching her, she drew back.
“I must return to London this very night,” she told him. “I have not a moment to lose. My sisters know almost nothing of my activities here, and they will betray me to Mr. Sherbourne with no intention of harm. You must engage a coach. Or find me a carriage. I shall pay any amount. We must—”
“I have a wagon and two good horses,” he cut in. “We can leave within the hour.”
“A wagon? But a wagon is too slow. He will pass us on the road.”
Her protests went unanswered as the blacksmith turned from her and spoke a few low words to Bettie. Then he strode away to make arrangements.
In an agony of dread, Prudence allowed herself to be led into Bettie’s cottage and plied with a cup of warm milk and a slice of black bread. As she swallowed the last bitter bite and rose to pack her trunk, the truth of the situation finally made itself known. For the next two days she would be alone in the company of Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker and none else.
“It was she,” William said, pacing before the fire in the drawing room that evening. “Of that I have no doubt whatsoever.”
Seated nearby, his brother was enjoying little success in his effort to read the thin volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets his wife had given him for Christmas some three months earlier. Olivia was miffed that he had ignored the book so long, and William had taken much delight in sabotaging Randolph’s efforts to make amends.
Now William’s focus lay in another direction. Frowning, he shook his head. “Prudence Watson feigned a departure from the inn and took lodgings elsewhere in Otley. She secured a position among the spinners at my mill for the express purpose of fomenting rebellion. I have suspected her duplicity for some time, but now I am certain the pitiable creature to whom I spoke this evening was none other than Miss Watson. She pretends to be someone she is not, and all the while she plots my downfall.”
“Miss Watson should save herself the trouble. You have nearly managed the deed all by yourself.”
“Thank you, Randolph. Your sympathy for my dilemma is remarkably true to form.”
“Oh, bosh.” Randolph tossed the book of sonnets onto a table. “I met the lady, and I have little doubt that she is too accustomed to luxury and comfort to surrender it in favor of such a wild scheme. But what if Miss Watson truly has done all these preposterous things? Any effort to rally a revolt at the mill will have no consequence, for you now maintain iron control of the place through its overlookers. Furthermore, Miss Watson can have no effect on your heart, for you continually declare it sealed, locked, and hidden away from any passion that might threaten your blissful state as a bachelor.”
“Do not make light of this, Randolph. You know too well how that lady has tangled my well-ordered plans. I love her. I cannot deny my feelings, and I will no longer attempt to stifle them. But Prudence Watson is no ordinary woman.”
“They never are, William. Because we love them, they become unattainable angels hovering at a maddening distance. They appear too far beyond our grasp, and we cannot rest until we have found a way to conquer their hearts.”
“You speak from your own experience, but you do not know Prudence. She truly is beyond me in every way. Yet why has she done this deceitful thing? Why would she toy with me? She professed to love me, Randolph, and I believed her—yet all the while she was plotting to undo my single means of financial gain.”
“Perhaps she was only plotting to help the mill workers. Her scheme might have nothing to do with you personally at all.”
“You are saying she may truly love me—yet wear the disguise of a peasant to foment mutiny among my employees? That makes no sense.”
“Women are not known for making sense, dear brother. They are known for changing their minds. For wavering. For dillydallying. For displaying humors first hot and then cold within the space of a single minute. Women are mysterious and beguiling, but you must know they more often follow their hearts than their brains.”
“Randolph?” Olivia, who had entered the room unnoticed by the men, crossed toward her husband. “Did my ears deceive me, or were you disparaging the sisterhood to which I belong?”
“Your ears deceived you, dearest, for I was merely enlightening my brother on the wonders of womankind. But you must settle the question before us. Is it possible that Miss Watson loves William but hates his mill?”
“Of course.”
“There you have it,” Randolph said to his brother. “Irrefutable truth.” Holding out a hand to his wife, he beckoned. “Come to me, sweet goddess of all that is most delightful. Sit here beside me, and let me whisper my love in your ear.”
“Honestly, Randolph!” she protested. “First you speak ill of women; then you attempt to cover your malicious assertions with beguiling folderol. Do you suppose you can simply charm me out of my current resentment and black humor?”
“I do, my darling. For in the words of the great bard:
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’”
“Well recited, brother,” William spoke up, clapping. “But, Olivia, I beg you not to let your indignation be overthrown by Randolph’s display of poetic facility. I assure you that your husband might just as easily have quoted Hamlet’s famous aside: ‘To be, or not to be: that is the question.’ He learned both verses at the feet of our tutor and understands the meaning of neither.”
“All the same,” she replied, awarding Randolph a pretty smile, “I confess I am utterly charmed. You are reading the book I gave you, and you quote sonnets to me from it. William, when you marry Miss Watson, I hope you will be as good and kind to her as my husband is to me. As Shakespeare expressed so well, Randolph and I have endured tempests, but we are not shaken.”
William watched in befuddlement as Olivia sank down onto the settee beside Randolph, nestled against his shoulder, and set a light kiss on his cheek. Randolph, meanwhile, wrapped his arm about his wife’s shoulders and gave his brother the most insolent and victorious smirk in the entirety of their kinship.
Barely holding in a groan of dismay, William stalked out of the room and started up the staircase toward his rooms. He would leave for London at dawn, ride directly to the row of elegant homes on Cranleigh Crescent in Belgravia, present himself at Trenton House, and ask to speak to Miss Prudence Watson. She would not be there, and his suspicions about her would be confirmed.
It was a good plan, one that could not go awry. His only hesitation was its outcome. Did he really want to know that Prudence was playing the role of Polly the bashful wool spinner? that her purpose was to fuel an uprising among the mill workers? that each word she had spoken to him, every kiss, every longing gaze . . . that everything about her was false?
The jolt of
the wagon’s wheels crossing a rut in the road startled Prudence from her sleep. With a start, she realized she had been resting her head on Mr. Walker’s shoulder. He had kept the rough wood cart moving toward London all night, but try as she might to stay awake, Prudence had been unable to keep him company.
Streaks of lavender-hued clouds now stretched across the orange sky as the sun crept into view. Trees, dusted with pale green buds and pink blossoms, lined the roadway. Rabbits dotted the new grass that had risen from the ground at the first signs of spring. Hungry and heedless, the small creatures hardly looked up as the wagon rattled by. Overhead, robins, wrens, sparrows, and titmice swooped and chittered as they gathered twigs for their nests or fussed at other birds invading their territory.
“You were tired,” Mr. Walker said as Prudence covered a yawn. “Now you understand the lives of the poor laborers who supply the aristocracy with their luxuries.”
Despite her drowsiness, Prudence bristled. “You forget that I was not born into wealth, nor do I revel in the opulence that my father’s fortune might afford me. Moreover, I worked with Anne to build the lace school in France, and I labored alongside the women as they pinned patterns to lace pillows and wove threaded bobbins among the pins.”
“I had forgotten,” Walker confessed. “The months we were apart brought me a numbing agony. I could not think of you except to imagine you dead. And so I taught myself not to think of you at all.”
“Did you forget me?”
His dark brown eyes met hers. “I could never forget you. Why do you think I left Tiverton? Why did I refuse to stay in London with Ruel? You were there. You were everywhere. I needed to escape you before it was too late.”
At his confession, Prudence’s eyes misted. “After you went away, I thought I would never love again.”
“You were wrong. I see the way Sherbourne looks at you . . . and you at him. It will be a good match between the two of you.”
“There can be no serious attachment between us. You know that as well as I.” She studied a small flock of sheep grazing near the road. “I like your Bettie very much. That is the better match.”
The Courteous Cad Page 15