The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  “You approve, then?”

  “Do you need my approval?”

  “No. But I would welcome it. You are a woman of insight and wisdom. You saw something in me to love, even though I was an old blacksmith with a stolen youth and a bitter heart.”

  She shook her head. “You had a broken heart, not a bitter one.”

  “It was broken, but you mended it. Your love healed me, Prudence. I will never be able to thank you enough.”

  “I want no thanks. My joy will be found in seeing you happily wed. The father of children. The master of a home.”

  Walker fell silent for some time, letting the horses amble along the road to tug mouthfuls of grass and startle the rabbits. At last, he spoke.

  “Sherbourne’s life will be blessed by you. He is not a bad man . . . nor is he a good man. Instead, he is a lost sheep, and the Good Shepherd has not yet found him.”

  Prudence reflected on Walker’s reference to one of Jesus’ many parables. He had told His followers about a shepherd who owned a flock of one hundred sheep. When the shepherd realized that one had gone missing, he left the ninety-nine and searched for the lost lamb until he found it. Jesus had gone on to explain that in the same way, God—whose love for mankind is greater than the mind can understand— pursues those who go astray. Prudence had always liked the thought of a loving shepherd, but she never imagined that the poor lost lamb had gone willfully astray.

  “How can William be both good and bad?” she asked the man at her side. “Jesus said we cannot serve two masters. We will love the one and hate the other.”

  “Sherbourne serves no master. He is like so many—serving only himself. A man who honors his own desires above all else will one day discover that he is nothing more than bones, skin, flesh—a small worm that has little strength and will soon die.”

  “I know what you say is true.” As she spoke, Prudence reflected on her father, a man who had given away his heart in the pursuit of money and power. Was William Sherbourne like that?

  “The god of self is powerless and imperfect,” Walker was saying. “He is like a badly forged iron rim on a carriage wheel. When the road is rough, the weak rim snaps, the wheel breaks apart, and the carriage falls to the ground in pieces. Sherbourne makes this discovery now, and this is why he needs you.”

  Prudence considered Walker’s words. As always, his wisdom and insight touched her deeply. But in this case, his argument was flawed.

  “You speak as if Mr. Sherbourne and I already have formed an attachment,” she pointed out. “I assure you, we are not engaged. A marriage between us would be a disaster from start to finish. I cannot save him, and certainly he can never make me a happy woman.”

  Walker chuckled. “Miss Prudence Watson, you know so much about everyone—and so little about yourself. Let me tell you what I have observed. You are happiest when the man you truly love is near. And though I have struggled to understand it, that man is William Sherbourne.”

  Twelve

  Mary squealed, leapt to her feet, and threw out her arms as her sister stepped into the drawing room at Delacroix House. “Prudence! You are here! You are here at last!”

  With equal ardor, she clapped her hands to her cheeks and shrieked at the appearance of her younger sibling. “Good heavens, what has happened to you? You look like a guttersnipe!”

  “Pru?” Now Sarah, the eldest of the three sisters, rose from her chair near the fire. “Is it truly you?”

  “It is I,” Prudence confirmed, hurrying forward, unable to think beyond the anxieties that plagued her. “I am so glad both of you are here. I remembered only moments ago that today is Friday, and therefore the two of you would be joining Henry for tea. Or at least I hoped that was still your custom.”

  “But of course,” replied the man in question. “It has been my delight to host my aunt every Friday since my return from sea several weeks ago. When Mrs. Heathhill returned from the north country, she began to join us as well. And today our joy is made complete by your unexpected arrival.”

  Prudence cast a glance at Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix. A tall, well-built gentleman with a mop of curly gold hair and the brightest of blue eyes, he stood near the hearth, his expression one of amused surprise.

  But there was no time for formal greetings. Prudence caught Mary’s hands. “I speak of Mr. Sherbourne. He is on his way to London even now, sister, and he must not learn that I have been staying in Otley.”

  “William Sherbourne sent a message to Delacroix House this morning,” Henry spoke up. “Though I have never met the gentleman, he stated that he wished to confer with me about an urgent matter of some import. He hoped also that I might include in the party my aunt, Mrs. Locke, and her family. As I expected them today for tea, I invited him to join us. We expect him momentarily. Indeed, we believed your knock on the door was his.”

  “Mr. Sherbourne is coming here? Momentarily?” Prudence stifled a gasp.

  “We hoped that you might be in his company,” Mary said. “Sarah and I were certain the reason Mr. Sherbourne requested to meet the entire family was that the two of you had reached an understanding and were coming to London to give us your happy news.”

  “Were we correct in our thinking?” Sarah asked. “Have you become engaged to William Sherbourne?”

  “Upon my honor, no!” Agitated, Prudence shook her hands. “Of course not. Do I look like a woman newly engaged?”

  “Truthfully, no,” Henry replied.

  All three sisters turned to him, their expressions conveying varying degrees of annoyance. But Mary was quick to regain her footing and address her sister again.

  “If you did not come to London with Mr. Sherbourne,” she began, “how are you here? How is he here without you— yet both arriving on the same day? And why are you garbed in these . . . these rags? Your fingers, sister! They are turned to leather knobs!”

  “I have been working in the mill,” Prudence explained. “In disguise.”

  Before her sisters could make further exclamations of shock and horror, she went on. “Mr. Sherbourne knows of neither my masquerade nor my purpose in it. Praying that I might anticipate his arrival, I engaged Mr. Walker to drive me here by horse cart, and I—”

  “Horse cart?” Mary cut in. “You came to London on a wagon?”

  “Mr. Walker?” Sarah cried. “Mr. Walker of Tiverton? The blacksmith? He brought you by horse cart?”

  “It is too much to explain,” Prudence said. “If Mr. Sherbourne is expected at any minute, I must—”

  “Ahem.” A footman stepped into the room, a silver tray resting on his open palm. “My lord, a gentleman calls on you, wishing to present his card. He awaits your pleasure in the foyer. May I show him in?”

  “Who is it?” Henry asked, reaching for the small white name card lying on the footman’s tray.

  “Oh, it must be William!” Prudence wailed, turning to her sisters. “He will see me! I am ruined!”

  “Indeed, it is Mr. Sherbourne,” Henry announced as he studied the card. “His family’s crest is very noble.”

  “Hang his crest—we must leave the room at once!” Mary grabbed Prudence by the arm and began dragging her to the far end of the drawing room. “Sarah, why do you dawdle? Help me wash our sister and try to restore her appearance to some semblance of normalcy. Dear Henry, do your business with Mr. Sherbourne—and take your time about it!”

  “Of course,” the young man replied, the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “I am most eager to see the washed version of my dear cousin.”

  The three women hurried through a side door, rushed down a corridor, and scampered up a flight of steps to the suite of rooms once inhabited by Sarah and her late first husband. She told her sisters she felt certain she had abandoned several items of clothing there after she wed Charles Locke and moved away.

  “Bring us a pitcher of water,” Mary ordered one of three maids who had been summoned along the way. “Warm water, but not too warm, for we must make haste. Go to it at onc
e, I beg you! And you, young lady, what is your name?”

  “Eliza, madam. And she is Jane.”

  “Eliza, please search the drawers and chests for gloves. Anything will do, for we must cover my sister’s woefully spoiled hands. Jane, if you cannot find slippers, clean her shoes as swiftly as may be.”

  “Oh, dear, my memory has failed me!” Sarah’s voice echoed as she peered into an enormous mahogany armoire. “The wardrobe is empty. No, wait—I see a gown near the back. But this is a ball gown. It will never do.”

  “Give it to me,” Mary ordered, snatching the filmy blue-green garment from her sister’s hands. “Do something with her hair, Sarah. Have you a comb? Oh, horrors—these sleeves are wildly out of style. Whatever are we to do?”

  “William will never notice the sleeves,” Prudence avowed. “He’s not that sort of man. He likes the out-of-doors and riding in the country far more than appraising the fashion of ladies’ dancing gowns.”

  “William? Do you call him that?” Sarah was attempting to untangle her sister’s flaxen curls and pin them up again into a semblance of ladylike mode. Pulling pins from her own hair, she inadvertently dislodged an artful coil near the top of her head. But after a momentary groan of dismay, she returned to her charge.

  “You must be Mr. Sherbourne’s intimate friend, Pru,” she insisted, “for you would not address him so informally if you were mere acquaintances.”

  “Acquaintances?” Mary huffed. “Had you seen them together as I did, you would harbor no doubts about their undying passion.”

  “Please, Mary, we are not at all passionate—oh!” Prudence yelped in pain as her sister began scrubbing away the dirt on her cheeks. “You will tear my skin off! Sarah, you have poked my head three times with that pin!”

  “I have never seen your hair in such snarls,” Sarah declared. “You cannot have washed it in weeks. Whatever were you thinking?”

  “She was thinking of saving mill children,” Mary groused as she went to work on Prudence’s neck. “Our sister would rather eat black bread and wear rags than earn the affections of a man who is handsome, wealthy, and well connected. She prefers a horse cart to a grand carriage. She enjoys laboring fourteen hours a day over a loom more than painting landscapes, playing the pianoforte, and eating petits fours.”

  “I was not working at a loom,” Prudence protested. “I am a spinner. And I shall have you know that when I departed Thorne Mill, my threads were nearly all evenly spun and my spindles were well ordered in the carriage. Even the scavengers and piecers are pleased with my progress.”

  “Our youngest sister prefers the company of scavengers to that of lords and ladies of the realm,” Mary continued. “She has forgotten that our father labored all his life to raise us from association with such riffraff and provide us a better future.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I am sorry, Mary, but I cannot disapprove of Pru’s efforts at reform or her interest in the lot of those whose society is beneath her own. We must not think of ourselves more highly than we ought. Our father was a tradesman, and his wealth was purchased at a terrible price to himself and his daughters. I admire our sister, though I do wish she had gone about her crusade in a manner more forthright.”

  “But I was very plainspoken in the beginning,” Prudence protested. “I told William exactly how I feel about his mill. He mocked me.”

  “Mocked you? That is unacceptable,” Sarah pronounced as she stepped back to study her efforts at creating a satisfactory coiffure.

  Mary had finished scrubbing and was attempting to tug off her sister’s ragged gown.

  “What was Mr. Sherbourne to do but make light of our sister’s heedless behavior and assertions?” Mary asked. “Do you believe he should have agreed with Pru’s condemnations, torn down his mill, set all his workers out on their ears with no livelihood, and conceded his worsted trade to competitors? Of course not! Thorne Mill sits on the estate of a great family with a rich ancestry. The water that powers the looms is theirs, as are the stones that built it. To destroy such a thing would be a sacrilege. Now stand up straight, Pru, and I shall try to tie this ribbon in place. Good heavens, Sarah, did you really wear this gown? I hope not. It is tragically horrid. Indeed, I am tempted to pity the poor thing for its utter hideousness.”

  “I must have abandoned it here for that very reason,” Sarah said. “It is truly awful. The neck is too low and the sleeves too short. The fabric is . . . oh, dear . . . very thin.”

  Mary crossed her arms and sighed as she joined Sarah in regarding their younger sister.

  “Pru, you look terrible,” Mary concluded. “Your hair has gone utterly mad, and the gown could not be worse. But I fear nothing else can be done to redeem you.”

  “Wear my pelisse,” Sarah suggested. “I do not need it, for I shall be warm enough if I sit near the fire.”

  But before she could shrug out of the lightweight plum-hued jacket, Prudence shook her head. “Keep your pelisse, Sarah. Its color would make the gown appear even more dreadful. No, indeed, I have brought this moment upon myself, and I must face the consequences. Let us go down and greet Mr. Sherbourne. But if I may beg your mercy, dearest sisters, please make every effort to conceal my recent activities in Otley. William must be told, but I am the one who should confess.”

  “Very well,” Mary agreed. “Sarah, lead the way.”

  As Sarah’s younger sisters assumed their positions behind her, Prudence lifted up a prayer for mercy. She had sinned against William. No one could doubt that. Soon she must pay the price for her transgressions. The very thought of disappointing and angering him inflicted a pang of pain in her heart. But the anticipation of seeing him again, speaking with him, losing herself in his deep brown eyes brought a lighter spirit, a warmth that could only be ascribed to love.

  William decided at once that he liked Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix. As the two men sat across from each other near the fire, their conversation took amiable and pleasant turns. Henry had recently undertaken a sea journey to China in an effort to establish a profitable tea trade. His partners in the fledgling enterprise included Charles Locke, the husband of Prudence Watson’s eldest sister, Sarah.

  Henry must know Prudence well, William deduced. Perhaps the man had set his hopes on making her his wife. It certainly would be an agreeable arrangement for both families. But she could not possibly return Henry’s affections. William remained convinced that her ardent avowals of love for him alone precluded the success of any other suitor.

  “How did you find your late uncle’s widow and her sisters upon your return?” William asked as a maid entered the room bearing a laden tea tray. “I trust they were all well.”

  “Mrs. Heathhill and Miss Watson had ventured away on a tour of the northern counties. But Mrs. Locke greeted me with as much pleasure as did her husband—especially on learning the success of my journey. The tea trade, you must know, is . . .”

  His words drifted off as something near the door captured his attention. William turned to look. The sight that met his eyes took every thought from his head, every word from his tongue, every movement from his limbs. Henry was rising to offer greetings, but William found he could not move as three lovely women glided across the carpet toward the tea table.

  “Ah, you have come at last,” Henry intoned. “Welcome.”

  With supreme effort, William managed to force his frozen legs to stand. But when Prudence Watson’s eyes met his, the endeavor was nearly undone.

  He had never seen her so beautiful. Never seen anyone so glorious, magnificent, stunning—

  “Mr. Sherbourne, I should like to introduce my guests,” Henry was saying, words barely heard through the numbing, swirling mists in William’s head. “As you may know, my late uncle wed Miss Sarah Watson not long before his untimely death. That union gave her the title of Lady Delacroix and a most awkward kinship as my aunt—for as you see, she is younger and certainly more handsome than I.”

  Hearing the polite laughter of the others in the ro
om, William attempted a smile. But Henry continued.

  “Lady Delacroix was soon widowed, and she might have remained in that mournful state had Mr. Charles Locke not stepped in to make her the happiest of women. She willingly surrendered her title and estate to me—a most generous gesture, I assure you. Mrs. Locke and I were always great friends, and now we are business partners as well.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Sherbourne,” Sarah said, favoring William with a graceful curtsy. “I hear much pleasant news of you from my sisters. I believe Mary and Prudence were guests in your ancestral home on several occasions.”

  “Indeed,” William responded with a bow. “Mrs. Heathhill and Miss Watson will always be welcome at Thorne Lodge. And now . . . now you and your husband must find an occasion to make a tour of the northern counties. My brother and his wife would enjoy nothing better than to make your acquaintance.”

  Realizing he had woefully fumbled the words, William made every effort to focus his attention on the matters at hand: tea and convivial conversation. But it was hopeless. He could do nothing except stare at Prudence—just as she, in turn, fastened her eyes on him.

  He had been wrong about her, William realized. Utterly mistaken. Just as she had assured him before their final farewell, Prudence had returned to London with her friend Anne. All his qualms about Polly the spinner were nothing more than the work of a suspicious mind. Prudence had not been laboring to foment a rebellion at the mill. Malicious subterfuge and deviousness had not occupied her these weeks since they parted company.

  No, indeed. Yet something about her had been altered. If possible, Prudence Watson was more beautiful than ever. Like blossoms on porcelain, her cheeks were suffused with pink. Never had William seen her hair so deliriously riotous. Golden curls tumbled here and there, framing her glowing eyes and dancing against her ivory neck.

  The gown she wore, a delicious confection in some mysterious shade of blue tinged with green, clung to her form, highlighting the narrow waist and curved hips he had imagined in his dreams. The ethereal sleeves of her gown exposed her slender arms . . . arms that he ached to feel wrapped about him once again.