The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  Mary let out a squeak. “Shot? I had not read that far when I brought you the paper. How many others died?”

  “‘Walters was the only man to die that night,’” Prudence read. “‘The two groups gathered again at Pentrich Lane End and marched to Butterley Ironworks. Brandreth demanded weapons from the Butterley men. But they stood their ground, and the marchers departed empty-handed.’”

  “The Butterley men should have captured the rebels at that very moment,” Mary said.

  “‘In pouring rain,’” Prudence continued, “‘the marchers stopped at three public houses, promising to pay for their drinks after they had toppled the British government. Soon drunk, dispirited, and wet, many defected. The small party remaining crossed into Nottinghamshire, where they faced a detachment of the King’s Hussars. After a brief scuffle, most of the revolutionaries fled. Those who did not were taken into custody.’”

  “With such a pitiful display of force, they can hardly be called revolutionaries,” Mary said. “Their punishment does seem brutal—though one must never take treason lightly.”

  “No, indeed.” Prudence sighed. Six days had passed since she departed the inn at Pentrich, leaving William alone to quell the rising. Clearly he had not succeeded in preventing the marchers from setting off. But perhaps the end result would have been worse without his intervention. If the revolution had ended that same night, she asked herself for the thousandth time, where was William?

  Despite her anxiety, Prudence had felt her health returning as the days warmed and the mists rolled back. She took long walks about the grounds of the Delacroix estate. Henry and Mary often accompanied her on these excursions, though Sarah had chosen to return to London. Eating more, sleeping better, coughing less, Prudence began to hope that she had rounded a corner and was on the road to complete recovery.

  But what use was robust health without William to tease and cajole her? A life dedicated to labor reform had begun to look rather empty. Despite her regularly announced determination never to marry, Prudence often thought about Chatham Hall and William’s warm embrace and children.

  But no. She must focus on current events and not on hazy dreams.

  “I wonder what became of Oliver?” she now asked Mary, while scanning the article again. “Why is he not mentioned?”

  “Who is Oliver?”

  “The man who spurred the rising. I saw him myself, along with Brandreth and the others. If Oliver had been captured, he would have faced the gallows with Brandreth, for he was equally guilty.”

  “Perhaps he got drunk and deserted. Perhaps he did not like the rain.”

  Prudence rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Mary, what do you think causes men to revolt? Insurrection is not a lark. These people long for a better life—a healthy workplace, reasonable hours, good food, safety—”

  “Oh, here is Henry! Thank goodness you have come!” Mary skipped across the grass to loop her arm around his. “You must make Pru laugh, Henry, for she has grown very dull again. She cannot say a single word lest it is bleak and full of foreboding.”

  “I have hope that I may accommodate your wishes in that arena, my dear lady,” he told Mary. “For I am sure you will smile when you hear my news.”

  “I hope it is better than what we have just been reading,” Mary chirped. “Pru and I are overcome with distress. Indeed, we are both quite dispirited.”

  From her perch on the swing, Prudence watched the pair of them tittering and teasing like two lovebirds.

  Lovebirds?

  She sat up straight.

  “I cannot allow you to be dismayed in any way,” Henry was saying as he gazed at Mary. “Your happiness is my only desire.”

  “Then I shall be happy,” she cooed, “for fulfilling your desires is my greatest joy.”

  What was this? Prudence gawked at her sister and Lord Delacroix—who were paying not the slightest attention to her. How had this happened right under her nose? The truth was blatant. Mary and Henry were in love.

  In love!

  “Excuse me,” Prudence said. “I am loath to disturb your tête-à-tête, but I should very much like to know Henry’s news.”

  He glanced at her as if noticing for the first time that there was another woman in the garden. “Ah, Prudence, of course. My news is happy indeed. We are all wanted in London as soon as possible. The regent gives a ball—a masquerade!”

  “Oh!” Mary shrieked and clasped her hands together. “And we are invited? Dearest Henry, this is due to you! Poor Pru and I would never be invited were we not so favorably connected to the house of Delacroix. A masquerade! Who shall I be? Oh, Henry, how will you dress? No—do not tell me! Say not a word! I must spend the evening searching for you—”

  “And I, for you!”

  At this utter silliness, Prudence slipped away from the oak tree, her volume of Samson Agonistes tucked under her arm. Milton, she felt, was just the dose of gloom required to offset the gleeful hysterics of Mary Heathhill and her newfound love.

  Twenty

  William Sherbourne stepped into the offices of the Leeds Mercury, a respected newspaper published in that quickly growing West Yorkshire town. Letting the door fall shut behind him, he scanned the room in search of a particular gentleman with whom he hoped to converse.

  Though the office hummed with workers—any of whom might be Edward Baines—William’s attention was quickly drawn to the printing press. The massive machine had a cast-iron frame and various levers, a wheel, and an iron carriage. Bending down to study the movements of the press as it cranked out one printed page after another, William pondered whether small changes to his looms, spinners, and carding machines might increase productivity. The action of the carriage was particularly unusual and—

  “Invented by Charles, third Earl of Stanhope. Do you like it?”

  At the unexpected question, William straightened. Beside him stood a middle-aged gentleman sporting large black sideburns, a high forehead, and thinning hair.

  “I like the press very much,” William responded. “May I assume you are Edward Baines, owner and publisher of the Leeds Mercury?”

  “If you are a friend to dissenters, textile mill owners, and abolitionists, then I am indeed Edward Baines and your newest friend. If you oppose them, then I am still Edward Baines but now your staunchest foe.”

  “Then I am pleased to meet a friend,” William said, shaking the man’s proffered hand. Baines, he saw at once, could become a valuable ally if their aims and purposes were aligned.

  “My name is William Sherbourne of Otley—owner of Thorne Mill, producer of the finest worsted in the realm.”

  “Ah, I have heard much of you, Mr. Sherbourne. Like me, you are something of an agitator. The reforms recently instituted at your mill are quite the sensation of the moment.”

  “Indeed? I am surprised to hear it, though I can hardly doubt the veracity of a man whose sole profession is to gather and publish the news.”

  Baines chuckled. “I pay close attention to Yorkshire’s textile mills. Some twenty years ago, I purchased carding and roving machines and started a small enterprise in the village of Brindle. Do you know it?”

  “Near Preston?”

  “The very same. But I abandoned the production of yard goods in favor of journalism. I have owned this newspaper since the turn of the century. 1801 was a stellar year, was it not?”

  William reflected for a moment, realized he had been but a boy of nine at the time, and could recall nothing of it. “If you purchased the Mercury in that year,” he said finally, “then it was indeed momentous.”

  Laughing, Baines beckoned. “Come with me, young William Sherbourne. We must take tea and speculate on Parliament.”

  “Parliament?” William queried as they stepped into a smaller room at the rear of the office.

  “I believe,” Baines said, “that such manufacturing towns as Leeds, Manchester, and even your little Otley should be well represented in government. What say you?”

  “We shall have t
o disagree there, sir. If Leeds and Otley are represented in Parliament, then Parliament will make every attempt to exert its authority over our mills. Governmental regulations and strictures would overwhelm us.”

  “Not necessarily.” Baines settled into a large leather-upholstered chair and urged William to do the same. As the two men enjoyed an animated discussion of the role of government in private business, a tea girl entered and set out cups, saucers, spoons, raisin cake, and a pot of steaming tea. Baines poured, waved at William to drink, and began slicing cake.

  “But you did not come to the Mercury today to discuss Parliament,” Baines said. “I must know your purpose, and then we shall proceed with our discourse.”

  “The workings of Parliament are not so very far from my chosen subject,” William replied, recalling Prudence’s tune about laws that would benefit the labor class. “But my first order of business is to make a report on the Pentrich Revolution.”

  Baines’s face fell into lines of disappointment. “I am sorry to say, Mr. Sherbourne, that your news is already too old to be of use to me. Two weeks ago, the Mercury reported every aspect of that rising.”

  William excused himself, stood, and walked to the door. “Now, do not take me so much to heart!” Baines called out. “At least drink your tea, young man. Let us discuss worsted, for I am very partial to wool suits.”

  Shutting the door, William turned the key in the lock and returned to his chair. Baines watched with eyes narrowed. William seated himself again, then took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the publisher.

  “Agent provocateur?” Baines scowled at the paper on which William had written the two weighty words. “Who?”

  “Oliver.” William lowered his voice. “I do not have the man’s full name, but I know without doubt that Oliver led the rising at Pentrich. On government orders, he went to that town disguised as an unemployed mill worker. He then sought out the most disgruntled and restless among the villagers.”

  “Jeremiah Brandreth, Isaac Ludlam, and William Turner.” Baines recited the names while running a finger around his collar, as if to ensure that his own neck was still intact.

  “Those men and many others. Once accepted among the general public of Pentrich, Oliver orchestrated seditious meetings. It was he who provoked the men to revolt.”

  Baines rubbed his hands together. “You are certain of this?”

  “Absolutely. Oliver planned the armed march to London. He encouraged the people to believe they could successfully take their petitions to the king. If the monarch refused to hear their complaints, Oliver told them, then they must overthrow the government. When the rising was set and the men were preparing to march, Oliver informed the local militia.”

  Baines caught his breath and then began to cough. “Upon my word, I have not been so astonished in my life! The same man who stirred the embers of revolt was employed by the prime minister?”

  “And acting under the authority of the home secretary. Oliver was hired by Sidmouth as a spy to report on seditious meetings and treasonous plots.”

  “But how are you so certain he was assigned and sent out by the government?”

  “After the meeting during which the final details for the rising were put into place, I followed Oliver. He went directly to the militia and informed them of the very plans he himself had prepared.”

  Looking down at the scrap of paper that William had given him earlier, Baines shook his head. Snatching up the message, he crumpled it and pushed it into his pocket.

  “You do know, young man,” he said, “that this report— were it published—could end the career of Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool and prime minister of England.”

  “And embarrass the king, the regent, Parliament . . . and, as a matter of fact, me.”

  “Quite right, quite right.” Baines sat back in his chair. “Tell me how you have this information.”

  “I was in Pentrich the night of the rising. I, too, was disguised as a disgruntled worker. I met Oliver and the other men, and I learned their plans.”

  “But is your elder brother not Lord Thorne? What in the name of all that is sane were you doing dressed as a peasant in Pentrich?”

  William shrugged. “I was following a pretty girl.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Heaven has been very good indeed, sir. God, in His mercy, brought a golden-haired, green-eyed, impassioned young crusader into my life, and she woke me from my dark musings. From her, I learned that the welfare of my labor force must be uppermost in my mind.”

  “Labor reform is not normally the occupation of the landed gentry.”

  “No, indeed. Most of my peers are of the opinion that the lower classes will work harder if they are beaten regularly, compelled to labor from daylight to dusk, and given water porridge and black bread to eat. I have discovered, however, that my workers will produce better quality goods in greater quantity if they are treated well, educated, fed properly, and allowed occasional free time to enjoy their families and friends.”

  “Astounding.”

  “My reforms? Or my decision to follow the lady to Pentrich?”

  “Both. Do I understand that you went to Pentrich to learn what the workers were plotting?”

  “Yes, and to try to dissuade them from it.”

  “But you are an advocate of reform. Why would you wish to halt a rising that had the stated aim of bringing about reform?”

  “Reform can come in many guises,” William explained. “A law, a very good law, is what I believe can effect real change. This law must be drafted, taken before Parliament, and ratified. A revolution in manufacturing is inevitable, Mr. Baines. How much better if it could happen without marches and shootings and hangings.”

  Baines took a sip of tea. Then another. Finally he focused on William. “Mr. Sherbourne, your story is implausible and preposterous. But I believe it. What I do not understand is why you have brought this information to me.”

  “Because Oliver is here.”

  “In Leeds!” Baines gave a violent jerk. His cup teetered on its saucer for a moment, then toppled over. As tea spilled across the white tablecloth, Baines leapt to his feet. “You have seen the man here, in this very town? Is he rousing the rabble?”

  “You will have to determine that for yourself, Mr. Baines,” William said, standing. “I now consider my mission complete.”

  “And you return to your lovely green-eyed crusader?”

  William studied the floor, unable to speak. When he found his voice, he murmured an answer. “The woman I love challenged me to reform more than my mill. My entire life must be altered, I understand now. With that reformation comes responsibility that must part me from her forever.”

  “You are a better man than I.” Baines rose and held out his hand. As William shook it, the newspaperman continued. “Thank you for information that will benefit not only the people of England, but . . . I hesitate to confess . . . may greatly benefit me, as well.”

  “I am glad for you if it does, sir.”

  “Will you come to Leeds again, Mr. Sherbourne? I should very much like to continue our discussions. The abolition of slavery—”

  “I must stop you there,” William said, chuckling as he held up a hand. “I am in full agreement with those who advocate the abolition of slavery. But I have had quite enough of crusades for the time being. You will forgive me.”

  “Then you must do nothing more ambitious than come to my home for dinner. I vow to refrain from all topics of controversy or sensation while you are my guest.”

  “And a very dull time we shall have.” William smiled. “When I am recovered from my brief career as a spy, I shall visit you again, Mr. Baines, and we shall debate to our hearts’ content.”

  The two men walked together across the outer office and bade farewell. As William left the building, he settled his hat on his head and stepped out into the street. It was time . . . past time . . . to complete the task before him.

  “I
have never had such a lovely evening in my life!” Mary declared as she descended the steps of Carlton House to await a carriage. “Prinnie looked marvelous, I thought.”

  “Is it right to call the prince regent by such a familiar name, my dear?” Henry queried. Escorting Mary, he followed Sarah and Charles into the portico.

  “Prinnie?” Mary asked. “And why not? We are among his acquaintances, and that is how he is known to his closest friends. Did you see Beau Brummell, Sarah? What can one think to say about such a man?”

  “He has his own sense of fashion,” Sarah replied. “And an odd one it is.”

  Prudence, trailing her sisters and their escorts, lifted her skirts and took the last few steps. Thank goodness she had managed to escape the growing number of eligible young men who were vying for her attention. Anonymity, she felt, was the only real benefit to a masquerade ball.

  At her sisters’ insistence, she had gone as Helen of Troy— the face that launched a thousand ships. Her unspoken reason for accepting this guise was that she could wear one of her own gowns as her costume—a soft muslin in a pretty pink shade.

  Mary dressed as Hera, the Greek goddess of marriage, women, and childbirth. Carrying a glittering scepter, she had arrayed herself in a gown covered with peacock feathers. Henry was Zeus, husband to Hera. In one hand he carried a painted wooden thunderbolt—which he had twice inadvertently poked into the portly abdomen of the prince regent and once into Mary’s peacock-garbed posterior.

  Charles and Sarah were Romeo and Juliet. Their obvious pleasure in each other’s company overruled the tragic aspects of Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers.

  Standing at the edge of the portico, Prudence tried to shake the sense of disquietude and unhappiness that had weighed on her for many weeks. She knew its source. William Sherbourne had not returned to her at the Delacroix estate in Derbyshire. No letter or message from him had been delivered. And since her return to London, she had neither seen nor heard from him.