“She does not want to be kept, nor do I wish to keep her.”
“Because she upended your tidy little world of mill, moor, and hearth?”
“My world has never been tidy, brother. You know that better than most.”
Randolph fell silent for a moment before speaking again. “William, you are not the same man you were before this last outing with the Royal Navy. Did something unpleasant happen that you have not told me?”
“At sea? No, indeed. I am a fine officer. I make my king proud at every opportunity.”
Randolph laughed. “I am sure you do. But what about ashore? I met the two Bryse sisters—both of whom admired you—and I heard rumors of other women who esteemed you greatly. I begin to wonder if you lost your heart to one of them.”
William reflected on the face of Caroline Bryse as she lay dying. It was not his heart that had been lost at that moment. It was his youth, his naiveté, his careless immorality, his swaggering love of himself above all others.
“If you will allow me to keep one or two secrets from my elder brother,” he told Randolph, “then I shall be much obliged. Have no fear on behalf of my good humor. I assure you, it is quite intact.”
“But you will talk to me if the need arises? As the eldest of three, I am not accustomed to taking lightly anything amiss with my brothers.”
“Be assured—”
The clattering of wooden clogs on the iron stairs near the waterwheel halted William’s words. He turned to find Richard Warring bearing down on them.
“Sirs, I beg you to come above!” the overlooker cried out. “She is returned! That woman is returned even now!”
“Who is returned?” Randolph asked.
William already had guessed. “Miss Watson, I believe, pays a final visit to the scene of her great insurrection.”
“Indeed she do, sir!” Warring was breathing hard. “She allowed as she came to bid the others farewell, but I don’t believe a word of it. No, sirs, I think she is come to inflame the labor again and make them run off to London with her!”
“Thank you, Warring,” William said as he stood. “I shall see to it that our guest minds her manners. You are dismissed.”
As the man pounded back up the stairs, Randolph shook his head. “You must see Miss Watson again in spite of your good intentions to avoid her.”
“She avoids me as much as I avoid her. Contrary to the assertions made by you and your dear wife, Miss Watson and I do not like each other.”
Starting for the stairs, William heard his brother chuckling behind him.
“That, my dear man,” Randolph said, “is a bald-faced lie.”
“Half of it at least is true,” William called back over his shoulder. “We do avoid each other.”
“And how very well you succeed at it!” Randolph replied, laughing as his brother vanished from view.
Seventeen
“Good morning, Miss Watson.”
Startled at the sound of William’s voice, Prudence swung around. “Mr. Sherbourne! You are here.”
“It is my mill—should I not be here?”
“Of course you should be here, but I did not expect you.” She fumbled out the words while searching vainly in her bag for a handkerchief. “I have been here but a few minutes.”
“Jimmy?” William called over her shoulder. “Have you a spare billy for Miss Watson? She has returned to her position, and I daresay we shall be glad of the help.”
Prudence gasped. “But I—”
“Do not trouble yourself to apologize,” William went on. “I am well aware of your tendency to tangle and snarl the thread on your spindles. Fanny, please make an effort to be patient with Miss Watson as you continue to train her. She is not as quick to learn as some, but keep at it, and she may be taught in time.”
“Sir!” Prudence said, cutting in lest poor Fanny swoon from the shock of her master’s orders. “I have not come here to—”
“Dear Miss Watson, spare your breath,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “I am well aware of your concern for your fellow spinners. I understand your reluctance to take the place of another who may need the income more than one so prosperous and favorably connected among London’s haute ton as you. But I am certain Jimmy can make use of you at the billy. I have been told it is quite possible that some of my laborers may reach the king and never come back.”
This remark took her by surprise. “Some are marching still?”
“Indeed. Several Blanketeers reached the bridge at Stockport, while a very few have struggled on as far as Macclesfield and even Ashbourne in Derbyshire. I admire their fortitude.”
“I am sure you do, Mr. Sherbourne,” she agreed. “One who lacks certain qualities usually admires them in others. But let me assure Jimmy and my other acquaintances that I would do nothing to hinder their progress toward the production of your fine worsted. I stopped by the mill, in fact, to express my joy over the many beneficial reforms you have instituted and to bid my friends a fond farewell.”
She found her handkerchief at last, drew it from her bag, and waved it at the workers, who stood gawking at her and their master.
“Mr. Sherbourne,” she continued, dabbing her nose with one hand and taking his arm with the other, “I beg you to accompany me to my carriage, for I am sure my sister would wish to greet you, as would our dear friend Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, who accompanied her to Yorkshire. Henry finds it difficult to be away from me, you know, and I am loath to be parted long from such an amiable man. He is never rude or impolite, as some men are, but always warm and witty. The perfect gentleman, in fact.”
By now Prudence had steered William across the mill to the door. As they stepped outside and began to descend the steps, she lowered her voice.
“You have had your revenge on me, sir,” she told him, “and I am as ashamed as you ever wished me to be.”
“I hardly think so.” He paused, drawing her closer. “You rarely do anything I wish.”
“You wish me to be quiet and pretty and amiable. I wish you to be moral and well-mannered. We are neither good enough to please the other.”
She looked into his eyes—a mistake, she realized as soon as she had done it. He was gazing at her with the fondest and most tender expression she had ever seen on his face. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth and warmed his eyes into pools of melted chocolate.
At that moment, she became aware of her hand—which had somehow been taken by his. His fingers tightened as he leaned against her.
“Prudence,” he whispered, “I like you very much the way you are. If you were quiet, pretty, and amiable, I should not like you half so well.”
“Am I not pretty?”
“No, indeed. You are beautiful, and you know it.”
“Still, it is nice to hear, even from my sworn enemy. Though I will say that, of late, both your morals and your manners seem to be improving.”
“Not too much so, I hope.”
“Just enough. I am glad you read St. John. It gives me hope.”
“That I will be spared the flames of hell?”
“That I may learn to forgive the bad you have done.”
His smile faded. “That, I fear, is impossible. And so, Miss Watson, we are back to our beginning again. I recall that we agreed to be friends.”
“Chums,” she reminded him.
“As comfortable as a pair of old shoes.” His eyes softened again. “But I am not quite moral enough to send you off with just a handshake, one chum to another. I pray you may forgive me one last indiscretion.”
Before she could respond, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek. And then her lips. And then she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all the pent-up fervor and anguish that roiled inside her.
“Excuse me!” Mary’s voice splashed cold water down Prudence’s spine. “Mr. Sherbourne, how unexpected it is to see you again, for we were assured you had gone away on business. But here you are!”
Prudence broke
away from William in time to see that Henry and her sister had stepped down from the carriage and were fast approaching.
“Mrs. Heathhill, delighted,” William said, offering a bow. “And Lord Delacroix. How nice to see you again. The tea trade is flourishing, I hope?”
“It is indeed.” Henry took Prudence’s arm and tucked it under his own. “And how fares your worsted mill? We are told there was an unexpected exodus of your labor.”
William glanced at Prudence. “A brief bump in the otherwise smooth operation of the mill,” he replied. “It seems my workers were inspired to play out a French Revolution in miniature. A lovely Napoleon led the revolt, and the poor king narrowly escaped a beheading.”
“Reformation swept through the kingdom,” Prudence added, detaching herself gracefully from Henry. “‘Liberty, equality, and fraternity’ may not have been achieved in full, but I am quite sure the insurgency accomplished its aims.”
“And I am quite sure we should be on our way again,” Mary spoke up. “My dear sister is the one who has nearly lost her head. Before it is completely gone, we must hurry to London and its more genteel pursuits.”
“I wish you Godspeed, then,” William said.
Now his brother had emerged from the mill and was moving toward the group. But as Mary and Henry stepped into the carriage, William set his hand at Prudence’s waist and drew her near.
“Despite my best intent,” he murmured against her ear, “I love you still.”
At words she had longed to hear, Prudence trembled. A curl of longing settled in her chest. “I love you, William,” she whispered, knowing she would regret it.
“I shall never forget you,” he vowed.
He helped her up into the carriage and shut the door. His brother clapped a hand on William’s shoulder as both men stood back. The carriage started with a jerk, and the horses began their long journey. Prudence leaned back into the leather seat and closed her eyes.
“Take this,” Mary ordered, nudging her and holding out a clean handkerchief. “I shall pray that what I witnessed just now was the result of a fevered brain and its unstable thoughts. I shall pray, in fact, that your head cold grows exceedingly worse and that eventually we may all agree you were not in your right mind as you departed Yorkshire.”
“I cannot believe your younger sister will concur with that, Mrs. Heathhill,” Henry said. “Miss Watson appears quite lucid, in fact. I suspect she will not wish it spread about that she ever lost her reason.”
Prudence blew her nose and dropped her head back on the seat. She did feel ill. Very ill. But she could not pinpoint the source of her condition. Head or heart?
Chums, she thought and sneezed.
“Pru, are you awake?” Sarah slipped into the room and stood in the shadows. “I did not wish to disturb you, but you have a most persistent caller.”
“A caller?” Prudence rose from the bed, her spirits lifting. “Who is he? Tell me at once!”
“Lie down, dearest.” Sarah pressed her onto the pillow where she had spent the past week. “Calm yourself, I pray. Your caller is not a man. Elizabeth Fry wishes to pay you a visit.”
“Betsy is here?” Though this was not the visitor she had hoped for, Prudence was delighted to hear the name. She endured a short spell of coughing before demanding more information from Sarah. “Does she know I am ill? Would she mind coming to me?”
“Mrs. Fry informed me in no uncertain terms that she longs to speak with you. I tried to dissuade her, but to no avail. She vows she spends most of her time in the company of ill prisoners or ill children, and you will be no threat to her health whatsoever. She is determined to talk to you—if you will have her.”
“Of course,” Prudence said, rubbing her temples as though that might somehow ease the pounding in her head. “I should love to see her.”
Sarah frowned as she gazed at her younger sister. “I am very worried about you, Pru. You are not at all well.”
“Yet I am content in my punishment.”
“Punishment? Whatever can you mean? Surely you do not believe God is chastising you by making you ill.”
Prudence looked toward the curtained window. “I told William that God forgives our sins, yet He allows us to endure their earthly consequences. This is my penalty for rousing the mill workers and then accompanying them vainly to Manchester in the driving rain. I should have a cold—or worse.”
“Nonsense. You are certainly not being punished for your efforts at reform—which were successful, in case you have forgotten. And you must not wish worse upon yourself than this dreadful cold, which I fear grows more violent by the day.”
“Thank you, Sarah. You have always believed the best of me.”
“I shall send in Mrs. Fry. And do try very hard to get well, dearest. Mary is fretting wildly and predicting that you will perish, for her beloved Mr. Heathhill’s final illness progressed in the same manner as yours. You must not prove her right.”
Sarah left the room and was gone only moments, it seemed, before a knock fell on the door. Elizabeth Fry stepped inside, cast her gaze on the large bed where Prudence lay, and hurried to the younger woman’s side.
“Oh, my dear child!” she exclaimed. “You are not at all well. Has a doctor seen you?”
“Daily,” Prudence said, motioning her friend to a nearby chair. “Please make yourself comfortable, Betsy. I am not so ill as I might seem.”
At thirty-six, Mrs. Fry was many years older than Prudence. Yet the two women had formed a strong bond of friendship, begun when they met during a reception for tea merchants at Delacroix House. Her husband was a banker who had invested heavily in tea—some of which belonged to the firm established by Henry Carlyle and Charles Locke.
Henry enjoyed Mr. Fry’s company, though he and his wife were plain Friends who spoke to each other in a quaintly antique style. The Frys addressed their acquaintances in proper English, however, and this set all who met with them at ease.
In the drawing room after dinner that first evening, Mrs. Fry had told the enraptured Prudence about her efforts to better the lives of female prisoners. Their unlikely alliance continued primarily through letters, though they had taken tea together on several occasions.
“I fear you are very ill,” Betsy said now, the sharp features of her face softening as she studied Prudence. “From the anteroom downstairs, I could hear your coughing. Your sister tells me that you believe God is punishing you for assisting the mill workers in the effort to improve their lot. I must assure you, my dear, that you are utterly mistaken in this.”
“Thank you, Betsy. But I have not told my sisters a detail which I must now admit to you: this illness began during my clandestine labors at Thorne Mill. While working at the spinner, I was afflicted with a cough. Bits of dust and lint float about in the air, you see, and everyone working there breathes it in. What began as ‘mill fever’ continues now as this vile illness.”
Betsy smiled tenderly. “You share the plight of your dear friends.”
“Yet they have no money for doctors and cannot afford to lie abed day and night until they are healthy again.”
“You feel guilty that your life is better than theirs. But do you not know that God created you just as you are for a reason? You have accomplished your purpose at the worsted mill—which is more than I can say of my own efforts at reform.”
“If my task is done, then perhaps God will take me. Yet I should very much like to stay and . . .”
She looked down, realizing what she had nearly confessed aloud—that she longed to see William Sherbourne again and could not bear the thought of dying before she had.
“Did you know I have ten children now?” Betsy’s clear voice filled in the silence. “A new one arrives every eighteen months or thereabouts. My seventh, sweet baby Elizabeth, died two years ago at age four, yet I count her among the rest. Mr. Fry and I have been married sixteen years, most of them happy ones. I have a grand home in East Ham, an enviable place in society, a husband whose reputatio
n as a banker and a tea merchant are exemplary, and more than enough leisurely distractions to occupy my time. God has greatly blessed me. I assure you, my dear Prudence, there is nothing wrong with longing for a husband, a home, and children of your own.”
“You see into my heart, Betsy.”
“It is not difficult. You have the heart of a woman.”
“Yet your effort to improve the lives of prisoners defines you as well. Mary told me that you have created a union to that effect.”
“Indeed I have. It is called the Association for the Reformation of the Female Prisoners in Newgate. We conduct a prison school for children who must be locked away in the gaol with their parents. We provide materials so the ladies can sew, knit, and make other goods to sell. Our members take turns visiting the prison and reading the Bible to them.”
“Perhaps I should join your cause.”
“But you have your own! Do children still labor at mills all over England? Are they injured day after day? Does lint still float about? Do women perish of mill fever? You have improved one worsted mill, my dear, but this sacred isle is filled with them.”
“How can one woman really do anything to better the lives of mill children? It is impossible. Only a law handed down from Parliament could . . .”
Her eyes on Betsy, Prudence’s words described a vision as it unfolded before her. “A law . . . an act as powerful and far-reaching as the Riot Act . . . regulations and edicts regarding every aspect of the mills. There should be a law limiting the number of hours a child may work.”
“Indeed there should,” Betsy agreed. “Better yet, a law prohibiting children from such work at all. And why not?”
“The owner of Thorne Mill would tell you quickly why such legislation would be devastating. How would families earn enough to feed themselves? What would mills do without the labor of children? On and on he would rattle until finally you would begin to believe him. Yet it might be possible, Betsy. If Parliament passed such a law, people would find a way to comply with it.”
The Courteous Cad Page 23