“You insist he is not yours,” Sarah was saying, “and I pray you have not confessed your true feelings to him or made him any pledges.”
“No,” Prudence whispered. “We have no formal understanding.”
Sarah nodded. “I am glad, for I fear he is not at all the man we hoped he might be. His character, I regret to report, must be irredeemably bad.”
“Bad?” Prudence recalled William’s revelation to her—that just as she had accepted life’s moral grayness, he had come to believe in its absolute clarity. “Good cannot be bad,” he had declared. “Bad can never be good.”
“But surely no one can be irredeemably bad,” she told Sarah. “Redemption is God’s gift to even the worst of sinners.”
“I cannot imagine anyone worse than Mr. Sherbourne has turned out to be.”
“Has he killed someone?” Mary asked. “Sarah, I beg you to enlighten us at once. This delay is distressing our poor sister no end.”
Sarah looked down at her letter for a moment before speaking. “Charlotte writes that she has made discreet inquiries regarding Mr. Sherbourne’s standing in the Royal Navy and his reputation in Plymouth society. Of the first, she can find nothing amiss. He was, in fact, a respected officer and proved himself valiant in battle on more than one occasion of armed conflict.”
“There!” Mary said. “It is not as dreadful as we feared, Prudence. You may take comfort in his bravery. Mr. Sherbourne is both courageous and gallant.”
“I should not go so far as that,” Sarah said. “Courageous, perhaps, but if gallantry implies anything of chivalry, he is dismally lacking. I believe you described him once, Prudence, as a cad. You could not have been more correct.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary murmured. “I fear we are in for shocking news.”
“While living in Plymouth,” Sarah went on with a sigh, “Mr. Sherbourne displayed behavior that was morally reprehensible. None can dispute the fact that he dallied with every eligible young lady in the town.”
“No!” Mary cried aloud. “Impossible.”
“I thought so myself, but Charlotte has been so kind as to supply names and details that leave no room for doubt.”
“Do you call that kind?” Prudence snapped. She leapt up and snatched the letter from Sarah’s hand. “Your friend is nothing but a gossiping rumormonger! William’s behavior may have been less than prudent, but we must allow that in those years he was very young and his character could not have been fully formed. He is no longer that sort of man!”
She flung the letter into the fire and watched the flames lick at the paper, ignite the wax, and crumple it into ash.
“That is what I think of your dear friend Charlotte and her precious news,” she cried. “I hope I may never see the woman in the whole of my life, for I should not be responsible for what I might say or do! She has maliciously sucked up every salacious tidbit—no doubt mingling truth with falsehood—and conveyed it to you in utter triumph. I hate her, and I do not believe one word of what she has written.”
“Prudence, sit down!” Sarah commanded. “Sit down at once.”
“I shall not! My carriage awaits, and I am needed at the mill.”
“You will sit down now!” Sarah stood, pointing at the settee. “I shall not permit you to leave this house until you have understood the possible consequences of your actions in regard to that man.”
“I do not go to Otley because of that man. I go because of the mill workers. I have no plan ever to meet with Mr. Sherbourne again.”
“No plan, perhaps, but it may occur nonetheless. After all, you met him first by accident.”
“That is true, Prudence,” Mary put in. “You fell into the puddle and he rescued you.”
“Was that an accident? I think not. My faith assures me that God knows the number of hairs on my head, and He certainly knew that Tom Smith would take my bag and knock me into the mud. He knew Mr. Sherbourne would rescue me, and He knew how our friendship would grow.”
“What God knows and what He approves may be two very different things,” Sarah said. “I have not told you the worst of Charlotte’s account, and your rash outburst will forever prohibit my reading it to you.”
“I do not want to hear Charlotte’s account of anything, especially of a man she knows so little!”
“But you must learn what he has done. You must be told facts that cannot be disputed.” Sarah gestured again to the settee. “Dearest Pru, no one in this room desires anything but your happiness. Mary and I love you and pray daily that you will find God’s best purpose and His truest companion for your life. What His purpose is, we do not yet know. But His chosen companion for you cannot possibly be William Sherbourne. As much as it pains me to tell you why, I cannot release you until you know the truth.”
Prudence stood, hovering between all-out flight through the door, into the carriage, and away from this place—and hearing the worst information about the man she loved most in all the world. As the battle raged within her, she took a deep breath and sat down.
“If you say he killed someone,” she whispered, “I shall know it is a lie. William would never do such a thing.”
“No, indeed,” Sarah said, returning to her place in the chair by the fire. “I am sure he would not intend to kill anyone. Yet someone did die, Prudence . . . a woman who had given herself to him . . . in every way.”
Fifteen
Catching her breath, Prudence covered her face with her hands. “No. Please tell me this is not true.”
“It is true, for Charlotte is the aunt of the lady who lost her life. Her name was Caroline Bryse, a young woman of good standing in society and sufficient means to make her an appealing match. Mr. Sherbourne, however, was not the sort of man her family would approve of. His habits of gaming, drinking, and consorting with fallen women were well-known.”
“Oh, this is very bad indeed!” Mary exclaimed as she took a fan from a nearby table and opened it to cool her flushed face.
“According to Charlotte,” Sarah continued, “Miss Bryse’s father flatly forbade any attachment between his daughter and Mr. Sherbourne. Yet that man displayed no respect for the wishes of Miss Bryse’s family. Indeed, he continued to court her in secret. Before they could wed, she gave birth to his son.”
“Worse and worse!” Mary cried, fanning at an ever-increasing speed.
Despite both her sisters’ obvious distress, Sarah carried on with her report. “I am sad to tell you that only minutes after the child was born, his mother died. Mr. Sherbourne made neither apology nor recompense to the family. His tenure in the Royal Navy was at an end, and he wasted no time in returning to his home in Yorkshire.”
“Heaven help us,” Mary moaned. “Dearest Pru, you will recall that when we first met Mr. Sherbourne, he was only just back from sea. No more than a month could have passed since the tragic circumstances our sister has related.”
“A month is hardly enough time for the redemption of Mr. Sherbourne’s character,” Sarah observed. “Even a year might not be sufficient.”
“Mr. Sherbourne’s brother always did speak disparagingly of him,” Mary recalled. “We supposed it was done in jest, but now I see how serious were the overtones.”
Prudence clasped her hands together, unable to move or speak. Her mind reeled with memories of moments she had spent in William’s company. His rescue of her from the puddle, their ride across the moorlands, those precious minutes they had enjoyed dancing and kissing and whispering avowals of love.
But she was nothing to him. Another conquest among many. A pretty trifle to whom he had offered false assurances of his admiration, desire, and commitment. She had believed him. She had entrusted him with her heart. Yet she had been nothing more to him than a game of chance on which he had wagered very little.
“I must go,” she declared, lifting her focus to her sisters. “I cannot delay a moment longer. As I have told you, the mill workers intend a desperate act, and Mr. Walker insists that I am the only one who can stop them. Pl
ease forgive the anguish I have caused both of you. I never meant to make you worry.”
“Dearest Pru,” Sarah replied gently. “Our only concern is your happiness. You have been dealt a great blow by this news of your friend, and I beg you to stay in London, where Mary and I may look after you. Can you not send a message to Mr. Walker? Surely his influence will put a stop to whatever rash and foolish actions the workers might plan to undertake.”
Prudence considered Sarah’s request. She heard the love and compassion in her sister’s voice. Yet God’s voice was far stronger. He had sent her on a mission to improve the lives of the worsted mill workers. The day of their march was at hand, and she must make all possible haste to prevent them from joining the protesters in Manchester.
Prudence shook her head. “I cannot stay here. Mr. Walker rightly accused me of fomenting rebellion at Thorne Mill. I am the one who now must put it down.”
“Sarah, you must forbid Prudence’s departure at once!” Mary insisted. “I have seen how Mr. Sherbourne looks at her, and her feelings for him may reignite! Make her stay in London.”
“Mary, our sister is not a child. We cannot force her to do anything.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Prudence said. “And, Mary, you may make yourself easy. I have seen the truth about William Sherbourne at last. My heart is no longer in danger.”
“So she says!” Mary cried out, addressing their elder sister. “But his wiles are skillful indeed. If he has taken in one woman, you may be sure he will take in as many as he can. Shall we allow Prudence to become one of the poor souls he uses and then casts aside? Sarah, you cannot let Pru go back to him.”
“I do not go back to him, Mary,” Prudence assured her as she stood. “I go back to them—to Tom and Davy, to Fanny and Bettie and Mr. Walker, to all those in whom I planted false hope for a better future. If they are clapped in irons on my account, I assure you my agony will be far worse than it is upon hearing the dreadful account of Mr. Sherbourne’s wicked character.”
“Very well, Prudence.” Sarah rose, drew her sister into a warm embrace, and kissed her cheek. “Accomplish your mission swiftly, and return to us as soon as may be.”
“You will see me at home again in less than a fortnight.” Prudence smiled at Mary. “Do not look so glum, sister. I am not quite as silly as you suppose.”
Wildly fanning herself, Mary stepped to Sarah’s side. The three embraced again, murmuring endearments and best wishes for success and Godspeed. Prudence walked to the door, but as she started into the corridor, she turned back.
“Sarah . . . what became of the baby?”
“Baby?” Sarah frowned.
“Mr. Sherbourne’s child. Did the baby die too?”
Sarah cast a glance at the fire flickering on the hearth.
“Charlotte did not say. I shall write to her again and ask what she can tell me.”
Prudence dipped her sisters a brief curtsy. Then she fled up the stairs to finish her packing and make a diligent search for some way to ease the terrible ache in her heart.
“What do you mean by interrupting my family like this?” Randolph Sherbourne rose from the breakfast table to face the burly man who had burst into the dining room at Thorne Lodge. Now Randolph turned to his brother. “William, is this man as he claims to be—one of your overlookers?”
Already on his feet, William addressed the intruder. “Warring, you are out of line. If you wish to speak to me, make application at the door. Jones, see him out.”
Richard Warring brushed off the footman who reached for his arm. “Nay, man, I’ll not be sent away until I’ve had my say. Mr. Sherbourne, sir, I am come to inform you that your mill be empty of labor this morning. They’ve gone off, all of ’em. Gone to Manchester.”
“Manchester? You’re telling me—”
“Every one of ’em, sir. At dawn this morning, only two women and a handful of boys arrived at the mill to take their rightful places. Straightaway, me and the other overlookers seen something was amiss. At first the women would say nothing, but when we took it on ourselves to beat it out of the children, they began jabbering like a flock of magpies.”
“You beat the children?” William asked. “Against my orders?”
“Aye,” Warring said. “For we knew the women would soon confess—as they did. They told us that last night under cover of dark, all the spinners, carders, weavers—the lot of ’em!— set off walking toward Manchester.”
“But why would they go to Manchester?”
“To join the cotton workers of that town in protesting the ill treatment they claim their employers be giving ’em. They writ out a petition for the king, asking the poor mad wretch to give ’em a better life. Your labor will add to the mass marching along the roads and byways. You got no one working inside your mill, sir, and no way of knowing when they’ll be back—if ever.”
William glanced at his brother. “I sensed this was coming, Randolph. I felt it.”
“So much for your fancy reforms, eh?” Warring crowed. “Me and the other overlookers knew something was afoot, and there weren’t naught could be done to stop it. Not even them reforms done the trick.”
“Of which reforms does this man speak, William?” Randolph asked.
William heaved a deep sigh. “No more than two days ago, I met with the overlookers and outlined a list of improvements I expected them to put into place. In fact, I had initiated one aspect of the plan before I left for London—adding tea and cake to the day’s repast. My next step is more drastic. I have decided to shorten the workday by two hours.”
“Two hours? William, is that practical?”
“In light of Warring’s news, perhaps not. My efforts apparently had no effect.”
“None,” Warring confirmed.
“What were the other reforms?” Randolph asked.
“I engaged a teacher from Leeds to help the children learn to read and write. And I ordered the kitchen to begin serving meat, potatoes, good bread, and tea.”
“You will ruin yourself,” Randolph predicted. “With such measures, there can be no margin for profit.”
“I am pleased with William’s reforms,” Olivia spoke up. “I have always said the workers would do well with more sleep and better food. As for the school, that is a great kindness, William, and you will be rewarded with loyal labor from the parents whose children benefit.”
“Your wife is not only lovely, but she is right,” William told his brother. “At least . . . I believed so until this moment. My sojourn in London had served me well in more ways than one. While there, I took time to consider the possible effects of the reforms I was pondering, and I set out to undergird them. Seven financiers have agreed to visit the mill. I held great hope that what they observed would encourage them to invest in its future.”
“Maybe yesterday they’d have wanted to,” a smirking Richard Warring said. “But if they come today, they’ll see naught but an empty building.”
“Did you and the other overlookers obey my order to inform the workers about my plans?” William asked him. “All but the lessons are to begin on Monday.”
“We told ’em but none believed us. To my way of thinking, they had already made up their minds to march.” He lowered his voice. “That woman came back, if you catch my meaning, and we seen how she stirred up the crowd with her whispering and secrets.”
“Which woman do you mean, Warring?”
“Her . . . that Miss Watson. Polly, who works as a spinner.”
“Miss Watson?” William’s heartbeat faltered. “Polly Watson?”
“Aye, sir. She’d been away a fortnight or more, but when she come back, the workers started all their muttering again. None of your high-sounding promises could keep ’em from marching.”
“I fully intend to make good on those promises.”
Warring shrugged. “Them people don’t have the brains God gave a goose. To be honest, sir, I didn’t credit you neither. I been a mill overlooker these twenty years, and most workers d
on’t lift a finger lest they be threatened with a beating. Like I said at the meeting, reforms won’t last a week afore you see the ill effects of treating the labor good.”
Unwilling to hear another word, William turned to his footman. “Jones, tell my man to ready a good horse. See that my greatcoat and boots are laid out.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant replied with a bow. “At once, sir.”
“Warring, you have done your duty. Return to the mill and ensure that it is kept secure. I shall not have Luddites destroying my worsted looms as they did the stocking machines in Nottingham.”
“Aye, sir. Good day, sir.”
William watched him go. He knew Richard Warring was referred to as Dick the Devil, a man who would rather administer a beating than give instruction. While the brute’s report had been of benefit, William now had more than enough reason to dismiss him for insubordination. Had Warring and the other overlookers followed their master’s orders to the letter, the workers certainly would have expected the reforms to benefit them. If they had believed that a school would be started and the workday shortened, surely they would not have dreamed up this half-cocked scheme to march with the Manchester cotton mill workers.
And what of Warring’s mention of Polly, the spinner who had been absent, yet recently had returned to the mill? Polly Watson. Surely it could not be . . .
“Randolph, Olivia,” he addressed the two remaining in the room. “I go to Manchester at once. If the workers marched through the night, they may be in the city already.”
“You have my full support,” Randolph said. “I would accompany you, but the lambing season has begun.”
“It is no matter,” William told him. “I shall return shortly. Pray for me, if you will.”
Olivia’s eyebrows lifted. “We shall, dear William. Of course!”
The Courteous Cad Page 20