Instead, he had used the evening to good advantage. Speaking to guests he had invited personally, he singled out the men most interested in investing in his worsted enterprise. Most had agreed to make the northward journey to inspect the mill and then to speak with their stewards about a financial stake.
Now, one shoulder leaning against a marble pillar, William surveyed the moonlit lawn that swept downward, away from the house. Near a gravel path, roses budded on thorny branches. Daffodils, their golden petals folded away for the night, filled a pair of garden beds. Intricate knots and twists formed a hedge maze in the distance.
William sighed as he studied the complex pattern. The roads he had taken in life had been no less contorted. He had blundered his way through the years, crashing now and again into a wall or a blind alley. His mistakes nearly fatal, he had wandered aimlessly, brushing often against death, financial ruin, depravity. Lost in the maze, he had at last stumbled upon the awful truth.
He did not know where he was going.
Aware of no destination, he might have continued staggering through the labyrinth. What he had known of right and wrong would have continued to blend, their edges blurring until he had little sense of honesty, ethics, justice, or integrity. But one monumental transgression had stopped him cold, split the gray into black and white, and pointed his way out of the maze.
As he stood staring at another one now, William saw suddenly that Prudence had been right. Good and evil were diametrically opposite. Benevolence could never be mistaken for malevolence. They were too different. God had neatly divided light from darkness. William understood this now, but what was he to do with his newfound awareness?
A breeze sifted through his hair as he started down the wide steps leading from the ballroom into the garden. Compelled by the maze, he pondered the very real peril of becoming hopelessly lost in it. But the soupy fog that so often blanketed London had lifted. The scent of new roses and sweet jasmine hung in the air. Hope lifted his spirits.
And then he saw Prudence. Skirts lifted from her ankles, she was skipping down the steps at some distance from him. Seemingly unaware of the couples strolling the alleyways or chatting on the portico, she bounded onto the path and hurried around a large conifer that had been snipped into the shape of a conch shell.
Without considering consequences, William changed course and started after her. A sense of dread told him Prudence was on a mission—and he knew what it must be. Crossing the path at the foot of the steps, he spotted her beneath a large oak tree. Adorned with the pale green leaves of spring, the sweeping boughs nearly concealed her . . . and the man she had run to meet.
His heart heavy, William elected to alter his path once again. He stepped to the entrance of the maze and paused to give the pair a last look. Her blue gown drifting in the breeze, Prudence clasped her hands at her chin, almost as if she were praying. The man pushed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. He turned and looked up at the moon, and William saw his face. It was not Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix.
Prudence’s midnight suitor was Walker the blacksmith.
“What do you mean Gag Acts? I have never heard of such a thing.” Prudence shivered from the chill wind and from her shock at the summons she had received in a curt message delivered moments before by a footman. “I do not understand. You must speak plainly and swiftly, for it cannot be long until I am missed.”
Walker shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Did you know that in January a mob attacked the regent’s carriage?”
She searched her memory. “January . . . that month my sister and I began our journey to the northern counties. We read about the incident in The Tattler, I am sure. But I fear we were more . . .” She hated to admit that she and Mary had been far more interested in Miss Pickworth’s society reports than in the distressing news of revolts and protests.
“We read only the briefest account of it,” she concluded.
“Almost immediately after the attack on the regent,” Walker told her, “Parliament took action to prevent a widespread revolution like the one in France. They passed three bills—the Gag Acts, people call them now. First, they suspended the right of habeas corpus. Without it, any man can be cast into gaol and imprisoned indefinitely—given no reason, afforded no trial, permitted no opportunity to defend himself.”
“But that is abominable,” Prudence protested. “It is utterly unfair.”
“Unfair but they have done it,” Walker continued. “Next, they prohibited large meetings. No more than fifty men may gather together at any time. Last, they ordered the lords lieutenant to apprehend all printers and writers responsible for seditious material.”
Prudence frowned. “Surely such measures are a threat to liberty, but why do you bring this information tonight? Parliament’s posturing cannot affect me.”
“Can it not? Prudence, you were the first to press for better treatment of the workers at Thorne Mill. Your voice was heard. Your protests took root. Do you suppose the laborers know nothing of the rebellion that led to the Gag Acts?”
“I doubt they have heard even a whisper of that news. Yorkshire is far from London, and your Bettie told me how few of Mr. Sherbourne’s workers can read.”
“Do not underestimate the power of rumors and hearsay.” He pushed his hand into his pocket and took out a sheet of folded paper. “Not half an hour ago, I received this letter from Bettie. She paid the lamplighter in Otley to set out her message to me in pen and ink.”
“The lamplighter?”
“He is the only one among them who can write.” Walker held out the missive. “Bettie tells me that the cotton mill laborers in Manchester are starving. New machines are replacing the spinners, and the people have no food. They have decided to march.”
“March? But they will all be tossed into gaol at once!”
“Perhaps not. It is to be a peaceful march in protest of the Gag Acts. They will carry a petition to the prince regent, asking him to relieve the plight of the poor.”
Prudence took the letter and scanned the scrawled penmanship and badly spelled words. “Bettie says that the workers at Thorne Mill intend to leave Otley, journey to Manchester, and join the march. Oh no!”
“Read on,” Walker said.
She turned slightly to let the moonlight illuminate the page. “The cotton mill workers propose to set out on March 10 from St. Peter’s Fields in Manchester. The worsted mill workers from Otley will accompany them. But this is terrible! They must be stopped.”
“Who will stop them?” His dark gaze pinned her. “You set this in motion, Prudence. You stop them.”
“Me?” She caught her breath as the awful consequences of her heedless actions suddenly unfolded before her. Men and women would be arrested and tossed into gaol. Children would have no parents to tend and guide them. William’s mill would cease to operate. Everyone would go hungry.
Such calamity. And she had been the cause of it!
“I did not intend for this to happen,” she told Walker. “I meant to make their lives better.”
“How? Tea and cakes? Dreams of health, wealth, and happiness? You began this, Prudence, and then you fled to London—to your sisters and the arms of your new love. Did you think you could set the wheels of rebellion in motion and then escape the results?”
“I did not think at all.” She clasped her hands together, praying for answers that would not come. “I am so sorry. I gave the future no thought, for I wanted only to help the present circumstances of the workers.”
“But there is always a future. Life goes on.”
“You went on. You left me and never thought of those consequences. Now you have no right to presume you understand the situation of my heart. I have made no attachment to William Sherbourne.”
“But you love him.”
“What I may feel has no bearing on how I must act. When I came to London, I had every intention of returning to Otley, and I am not one to run from a pledge. I shall depart tomorrow morning. The mom
ent I arrive in Otley, I shall do all in my power to put a stop to this reckless march.”
“The horse cart is waiting on the street, and I leave tonight. I have tarried far too long in this wretched city.”
“Then you go alone. I must first bid my sisters farewell and set my affairs in order. Then I shall dress in disguise and take the post coach. None will be the wiser.”
“You suppose he does not know your trickery? William Sherbourne may be a reckless man, but he is not a stupid one. Perhaps your deceit eludes him now, but he will go back to Otley and he will find you out.”
“Meanwhile, I shall have stopped the workers from marching and returned them to their former state.”
“Starving, ignorant, crippled, poor. Well done, Prudence.”
“Chastise me if you wish. I deserve it. But I did what I believed was right. Good evening, sir.”
Afraid Walker would see the anguish in her face, Prudence turned on her heel and strode across the grass. I am not only silly, she told herself. I am bad. I harm those I mean to help.I cause trouble instead of resolving it. Can I do nothing right?Am I destined to fail at everything I try?
Brushing away tears as fast as they tumbled down her cheeks, Prudence snatched the ribbons from her hair and started down the path that led toward the drive. Trenton House was only a short walk across Cranleigh Crescent from Delacroix House. She had not wanted to attend the ball anyway. Sarah and Mary had begged and cajoled her until she could see no way out. At least she had not worn the pink gown!
She would go back to Otley and tell everyone the terrible truth that just like she, they were destined to do what they had always done. They would continue to be who they had been born to be. Nothing would ever change.
Prudence hurried along the path, gravel crunching beneath her slippers and the breeze whipping her hair from its pins. She reflected on her friend Betsy Fry, who had taken blankets into the gaols and workhouses. But Betsy had freed no prisoners. She had changed no laws. Indeed, the Gag Acts had been ratified right under her nose! Just as Betsy had ultimately failed, so must Prudence. William had insisted she was not silly. How little he knew her.
Rounding the gate that opened onto the drive, she nearly walked straight into the man himself. Catching herself, she gasped as he reached to steady her.
“Excuse me,” she breathed out and stepped aside. “So sorry. I did not mean to startle you. I am going home.”
He assessed her, his dark brown eyes depthless. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You have been in a tussle, I see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your hair. You were engaged in a scuffle with someone. Or perhaps the two of you were simply sporting about.”
She reached up to the tangle of wind-whipped curls. “What is your meaning?”
“I speak as I see, madam.”
“But what you see is not what you think. I took down my hair because I am going home, and I should never have gone to the ball but my sisters forced me and I had to dance with everyone—and I hardly even like most of those brainless men! Everyone supposes I enjoy having pink cheeks and green eyes and curls, but they have never had to endure them, for if they did, they soon would learn that no one believes them the least bit sensible! And as for you, I hope you stay in London and find yourself a lady to marry—some straw-headed ninny who does not care that your workers eat water porridge and oatcake and labor from sunrise to sunset and never learn to read or write so that if they want to send a message, they have to engage the lamplighter to write it for them! That is all I have to say to you, because I am very tired and out of sorts and I wish everyone would just leave me alone!”
Before he could answer, she stepped off the curb and started across the great crescent-shaped park fronting the elegant homes. So much for William Sherbourne. He had all but accused her of dallying in the dark with a suitor. As if she had nothing but feathers and fluff for a brain!
“You should know one thing at least.” William caught up to her and now matched her pace. “I did love you, Prudence. I loved you, and I thought you were beautiful and perfect. That was before I knew the depths of your deception.”
“My deception?” She glanced at him askance, wondering if he knew of her clandestine activities in Otley. But perhaps he referred to some imagined lover for whom she might have cast him aside. Either way, she hardly cared, for William Sherbourne’s good opinion could mean nothing to her now.
“You speak your opinions of me most decidedly,” she told him. “Do you presume to understand everything about me?”
“I understand very little about you, but I have observed your behavior. You are more than able and willing to beguile a man. You captivate and then betray your victims.”
“I have victims, do I? Are you one of them? I hope so!” She continued her headlong march across the park. “You make me out to be a spider luring men to their doom. But in the ballroom tonight you claimed to be the spider—hanging by a thread. Perhaps you are the deceitful one, William. Is that possible?”
“It is . . . possible.”
“But difficult to admit. At the least you are fickle, for you claim to love me, then you chide me, then you love me again, then you accuse me of betrayal, and so it goes. Have you ever lied, sir? Or is your every action impeccable and without flaw or blemish?”
“No one is perfect,” he answered.
She stepped onto the gravel path in front of Trenton House. “Then I hope you will allow me some imperfections. I never claimed the labels of goodness and excellence you attached to me. You taught me that the world was gray, William. I disputed that, but for some time now, I have known that you were correct in your assessment. I am nothing but gray from head to toe and inside out. In every way, I have failed—”
“No, Prudence.” He put his fingers to her lips to stop the flow of words. “Say nothing more, I beg you. I have only just learned to accept that you were right—that the world is all black-and-white. Gray does not exist. Right and wrong are opposites, and nothing may muddy them. Good cannot be bad. Bad can never be good. Do not tell me now that you have slipped into the sea of gray from which I have just escaped.”
“Oh, William!” She took his fingers and pressed her lips to his hand. “How I wish we had met at another time and in another place. But God set our courses, and He knew how it was to be. I admit my many wrongs, yet I fear there is just enough good left in me to prevent my disputing with the Lord.”
“And there is enough bad left in me to argue against Him. I have asked—and I shall continue to ask—that He will redirect my path and align it with yours. I ask Him to take what is left of me and do something of value with it. Perhaps there are not enough crumbs worth saving. Yet I cannot help but pray.”
At this, she looked up into his face and knew he was the man she loved most in all the world.
“I see the butler has noted your arrival,” he said. “He awaits at the door.”
Prudence glanced behind for a moment. Then she turned back to him. “Good evening, Mr. Sherbourne.”
“Good evening, Miss Watson.” He tipped his hat as she fled toward the house.
“Oh, Pru!” Mary burst into the room where Prudence was packing her trunks. “You must go downstairs at once, for Sarah has come to see us and she will not speak a word to me until she has talked to you! She has brought a letter, a message of great import, and it has given her such a fright that I am tempted to call for smelling salts!”
Prudence glanced to the window, where the morning sun had already begun to slant through the open curtain. A carriage awaited outside—a gift from Anne, who could not bear to think of her dearest friend returning to Otley by the post coach. Farewells to Sarah and Mary had been made already, and Prudence had no patience for extending them.
“Bid Sarah come up to me here,” she told Mary. “I have still to put away my bonnets and gloves. If she is so eager to see me, let her hasten to my side.”
“Wicked girl! She is your elder sister, and you will do
as she asks!”
“Very well, Mary, then you shall stay and pack my things.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort! I am as eager to learn Sarah’s news as you are.”
“More eager, I should wager,” Prudence grumbled as she and Mary stepped into the corridor. “I am sure all of London will know Sarah’s news once our dear Miss Pickworth has heard it.”
“Will you stop making these unfounded accusations?” Mary cried. “I cannot possibly be Miss Pickworth!”
“Pretty Prudence persistently presumes Mary is Miss Pickworth,” she teased as she scampered just ahead down the staircase. “Sister Sarah surely supposes the same!”
“Stop it!” Mary swatted Prudence on the arm as they entered the drawing room. “Stop saying such silly—”
“Aha! Aha! You are at it again, Miss Pickworth!” Prudence darted toward the fire but halted at the sight of Sarah’s face. Drawn and pale, the eldest of the three sisters rose.
“What is it?” Prudence asked in a low voice. “Sarah, what has happened?”
“You must sit down, Prudence. You too Mary.” Sarah indicated the settee across from her chair. “I have received some sobering news.”
Anxiety and dread coursing through her, Prudence settled on the edge of the settee. “Tell us at once, Sarah. Has someone died?”
“It is not as bad as that, but nearly so.” Sarah seated herself again and unfolded a letter. The broken seal indicated a correspondent of some prominence, though Prudence could not distinguish whose crest had been imprinted in the wax.
“A letter came to me this morning,” Sarah continued. “It was written by my dear friend, Charlotte Ross, who lives in Plymouth. I once mentioned her to you, Pru, for I felt she might be able to provide us some account of your Mr. Sherbourne.”
“He is not my Mr. Sherbourne,” Prudence corrected, though her heart quaked with alarm that anything regarding him might be amiss.
Their parting the night before had left many questions unanswered and the future undecided. Yet she now had no doubt of his attachment to her, and she knew at last the truth of her own feeling for him. She loved William. Loved him deeply and desperately. It was clear to both of them that little could come of their devotion, yet they knew it could not be denied.
The Courteous Cad Page 19