Taking her free hand, he squeezed it. “Do not be afraid. I do not believe they will intentionally hurt a woman.” The intense look he gave her seemed to Prudence as palpable as an embrace. And he had used her first name too. He’d called her Prudence. Her heart raced again, but this time not with fear. She would not let him down.
“You may count on me,” she assured him, thrusting her chin forward.
James released her hand, flicked her cheek gently with a tentative finger and said with a faint smile, “I know it, my dear.”
The banging on the door grew louder. When Arthur called up to him in an urgent tone, “James!” he made his way quickly down the steps. Prudence, watching him, rejoiced that he did not appear to limp at all.
While Mrs. Phipps lingered upon the threshold of the drawing room, Dorothea rushed past her to join Prudence on the landing. “What can I do, Prudence?” she asked, slightly breathless.
“Pray!” Prudence declared.
Eleanor reappeared then, having used the back stairs, assuring them that Mr. Goldman had left and that his grandchildren were safe in the kitchen, where they would stay until Sir James said otherwise.
A sudden whiff of smoke caused Prudence’s pulse to race even faster. What if Dorothea’s house should catch fire? Prudence wondered if she could talk some sense into the protesters. She thrust Sir James’s cane at Eleanor, saying, “Take this, and use it if you must.”
When Eleanor shrank back, Dorothea snatched the cane. “Give it to me. If they get past the men downstairs, you can be sure I will not allow the ruffians any further than this top step. They will not come into my home and abuse my guests.” Her voice was full of determined scorn. Prudence did not doubt her resolve.
“What are you going to do, Prudence?” Eleanor wanted to know, her voice quavering.
“Maybe the sight of a woman will calm the crowd,” she replied, quickly descending the stairs.
Prudence could hear the angry chanting and smell the acrid smoke wafting through the open windows. Arthur, James and Dr. Phipps had apparently gone outside and shut the front door behind them. She thought she heard James speaking to the crowd, but she could not make out what he was saying. Glancing down to the floor below, Prudence noticed Dorothea’s cook, armed with a large wooden rolling pin, standing guard in the foyer. The stern-faced woman was accompanied by a broad-shouldered young footman, who held in his firm grasp the iron shovel generally used for scooping ashes from the fireplace. They, too, appeared determined to prevent any protesters from entering the premises without a fight.
With her heart pounding, Prudence gave them a brisk nod of approval as she continued to make her way down the stairs. She knew the servants must also be frightened out of their wits. They had all heard tales of what the league had done in other communities. If the truth were known, she couldn’t have been more scared to death than if she were on her way to confront a tribe of rioting Dyaks in the jungles of Borneo. But something had to be done. She took a fortifying breath and made her way to the front door.
As Prudence slowly opened it, Dr. Phipps spun around, startled. “Miss Pentyre, you should not come out here.”
“I know,” she admitted, surveying the crowd. Now that she could see them up close, Prudence realized there were less than a dozen actual protesters carrying placards that read SAVE THE CHILDREN and WORK OF THE DEVIL and other startling statements. Most of the assembled crowd appeared to be nothing more than curious or mocking onlookers, who kept their distance, but were eager to watch the protestation. Some of the spectators actually shouted rebukes at the protestors. Prudence angrily noted the smashed eggs and squashed fruit on the side of Dorothea’s townhouse and upon the steps in front. The so-called effigy was nothing more than a bundle of burning rags smoldering on the sidewalk in front of the residence.
“Dr. Phipps, perhaps a woman’s calming voice…” Prudence began, taking a tentative step forward.
With a shrug, he moved aside to allow her to make her way onto the landing in view of the crowd. As Prudence did so, she heard a vaguely familiar voice call out, “I know this lady!”
James and Arthur held up their hands to prevent her from moving any further down the garbage littered steps. Turning her head, Prudence recognized Benedict Younghughes at the bottom of the stairs. He held a sign that declared STOP THE ABOMINATION!
“Mr. Younghughes!” Prudence declared, astonished. Knowing how strongly he was opposed to Jenner’s procedure, she couldn’t help wondering if he was perhaps the instigator behind this dreadful affair. Using her most quelling tone—the one that had, on numerous occasions, taken the sass out of rowdy farmers’ sons forced to attend Sunday School against their will, Prudence demanded, “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Younghughes?”
At that same moment, James appeared to notice the man too. “Younghughes, is it? What the devil are you doing here?”
Younghughes appeared to shrink a little. With his small eyes darting warily from James and Arthur then back to Prudence, he drew himself up, replying, “We are protesting Dr. Phipps’s administration of the cowpox vaccine here today.”
The crowd murmured as all eyes appeared to swivel in the doctor’s direction.
Pursing his mouth with disapproval, Younghughes added, “I might have known you would be here as well, Sir James.” To Prudence, he said, “I warned you about this man.”
“You have been mislead, Mr. Younghughes,” Prudence told him, taking another step forward. “Dr. Phipps and his wife are here to make a social call.”
“I did not even bring my medical bag,” the doctor spoke up. “Indeed, I did not.”
This admission seemed to cause some confusion among the protesters. A few lowered their placards. Others cast doubtful glances at Mr. Younghughes. A large woman with a dingy cap upon her gray head and equally dingy teeth, lowered her placard and called out to Prudence, “Miss, we was told that a Jew tailor named Goldman was coming here to get that cowpox in his arm.”
“Who told you that?” James demanded, puffing out his chest.
No one replied. A few hung their heads sheepishly. Others regarded him with suspicious disdain.
Arthur took another step down closer to the assembled throng. “It is true that a tailor named Goldman was here today. He took my measurements for a new coat. He was preparing to leave just as we heard all the commotion. I believe you may still be able to catch him—he left from the back entrance, I believe.”
This statement caused more murmuring and the exchange of puzzled expressions. A few in the crowd even stared angrily at Mr. Younghughes. One man poked Younghughes in the arm with his wooden cudgel, saying in an accusing manner, “You told us there was vaccinating going on here today, not a parson getting measured for some new duds.”
Soon the curious spectators on the fringe of the crowd began to jeer the protestors. Amid the laughter, there were shouts of derision, urging the protestors to go home. Some men in the crowd made uncouth comments about the protesters that Prudence would be much too embarrassed to repeat later. Still worried about what treachery the league’s members might have in mind, Prudence placed a hand on Arthur’s arm and moved around him, intent on speaking with the woman in the dingy cap, hoping to reason with her and perhaps shame her into leaving the premises. That’s when Younghughes made a desperate lurch forward.
“Miss Pentyre,” he said, his voice nearly a whine.
Prudence straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Younghughes, you have my word that Dr. Phipps did not perform any vaccinations here today.” Although she kept her gaze steady, Prudence could feel her heart pounding so fiercely she felt certain the loathsome man would see her chest heaving.
“He did it then!” Younghughes declared, pointing an accusing finger at James.
“Sir James did not perform a vaccination either,” Prudence insisted. “You have been misinformed.” She surveyed the crowd then, daring them to challenge her word.
One young gentleman, dressed like a dandy in startling yellow pantalo
ons, hollered out from the back of the crowd, “You heard the lady. Now, by Jove, be off with you!” Some of the other spectators began to boo and hiss the protesters. This seemed to deflate the league’s members, who lowered their placards one by one. Some even took hesitant steps backwards, willing to vacate the property. Soon only Younghughes and two or three of his stalwarts remained. Someone, retrieving a basket of rotten fruit abandoned by the protesters, threw a withered apple at Younghughes. It missed, hitting the ground next to his foot. Soon there was a barrage of rotten fruit being flung about.
“This is your fault, Mr. Younghughes. Do you see what you’ve started?” Prudence glared down at him. Leaning forward, she added, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
She took a step forward. Her shoe smashed down on something slick and moist. As Prudence slipped, she became aware of something hard smacking her in the forehead with a painful thud. Someone gripped her by the elbow. But it was too late. As someone cried out her name, Prudence collapsed upon the steps and everything went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Prudence opened her eyes. It was a painful exercise. Her head, dressed with a light bandage, hurt most dreadfully. She blinked at her bleary surroundings. Even blinking hurt. If this was what it felt like to be badly foxed, she was thankful she had never been tempted to indulge in a wanton bout of drinking. The room appeared dark, the curtains drawn. She was lying in a bed—her bed at Aunt Judith’s house.
Confused, she tried to recall what had taken place, how she had come to be injured. Everything had happened so fast. Something had hit her in the head, that much she remembered. There had been a man with a cudgel standing next to Mr. Younghughes. James had been there too. When he stepped up beside her, had he intended to deflect a blow aimed at her or had he been the other man’s target in the first place?
Prudence remembered a woman’s scream and wondered momentarily if she had done so or if it had been somebody else. Afterwards, she had a dream—a pleasant but strange dream mixed up with memory snippets of the unpleasant incident that took place on the front steps of Dorothea Greenwood’s residence. In the dream she had been touched by warm, soothing hands. She’d heard a soft, reassuring voice, a masculine voice, speaking the words, “My poor darling.” Surely it had not been Dr. Phipps? James? Her pulse raced as she considered this unlikely possibility. The odious Mr. Younghughes? Prudence shuddered, but then recalled it had been nothing more than a fever dream.
The door opened then, and Margaret came in bearing a tray. “I have brought you some tea and toast, Pru. Do you feel you could eat a little something? If you’d rather have it, I can bring you some cool lemonade—with an egg whipped in it.”
Trying not to gag at the thought of such a horrid concoction, Prudence shook her head, wincing as she did so. “This is strange,” she said weakly.
“What is strange?” Margaret asked, placing the tray on the bedside table and plumping her cousin’s pillows.
“Usually, I play the role of the nurse and someone else is the patient. My mother once declared me to have the constitution of a horse—that I take after her side of the family. I am rarely ever sick, you know.”
“You are not sick now, but you are injured. You are my patient, and you will do as I say,” Margaret announced with mock ferocity. On a softer note, she asked, “Are you feeling too poorly, Pru? I’m sure your head must feel painfully tender. Dr. Phipps says we may give you a few drops of laudanum for the pain and to help you sleep, if you want it.”
“My head hurts abominably,” Prudence admitted with a doleful sigh. “I feel stiff and sore all over too. I cannot remember exactly what happened today. Was I trampled by the crowd perchance?”
“The unfortunate incident occurred yesterday,” Margaret pointed out, as she poured her cousin a cup of hot tea. She added a generous helping of sugar, saying, “There is no need to think about it now. You must rest. The doctor says so.”
Reaching out an imploring hand, Prudence pleaded, “Meg, whatever you do, please do not write to my parents regarding what has happened nor allow Aunt Judith to do so. I do not want them to worry unnecessarily. It was only an accident. I will write when I can remember exactly what happened. I believe Sir James was the intended target or perhaps even Dr. Phipps.”
“That must be a great comfort to you,” Margaret said dryly, placing the bed tray across her cousin’s lap. “Now eat your toast. I will make certain Mama does not write to your parents. Do not worry about anything. Dr. Phipps says you must be kept quiet and you must rest. I promised to see you do.”
“If Eleanor comes by, you will allow her to come up to me, won’t you? I wish to speak to her most particularly.” Prudence took a sip of the hot, sweet tea. Too sweet.
“I am not sure I should do so,” Margaret replied uncertainly. “Dr. Phipps discouraged Mama from admitting visitors until you are better. He does not want you to become agitated, which may cause your pulse to race.”
Prudence gasped then. She placed the teacup on the lap tray in front of her.
Alarmed, Margaret touched Prudence on the shoulder with light trembling fingers. “What is it, Pru? Are you in pain?”
“How could I forget? Dorothea! Eleanor and Sir James? The others? Are they…are they injured too?”
“Everyone is quite all right,” Margaret assured her. “Eleanor and Dorothea Greenwood were the first to call this morning to inquire about you. They brought a lovely bouquet. I shall bring it up, if you wish, but Mama says the scent of the flowers may aggravate your headache, so I have not done so.”
Prudence loved flowers, but was rarely the recipient of a bouquet or posy. “Yes, please bring up the flowers,” she said, touched by her friends’ thoughtfulness. She did not care if the floral scent aggravated her headache or not. She could not imagine her head aching any more than it did now anyway.
“All of them?” Margaret asked. She chuckled when Prudence arched one brow slightly—only slightly, for even this small gesture was painful. “The drawing room looks quite festive with all the bouquets, I assure you, Pru.”
“Who are they from?” Prudence asked, surprised and pleased.
“I shall have to bring you the cards,” Margaret told her. “There are too many. Indeed, Mama and I have been quite run off our legs accepting bouquets and other tokens from well-wishers on your behalf. There’s even one from Mr. Younghughes.” She waggled her eyebrows in a teasing manner.
“Surely not!” Prudence gasped.
“It’s true,” Margaret insisted. “He delivered them himself, stammering and begging our pardon all the while. He inquired about your injuries, of course, but Mama did not invite him in as she’d been told Mr. Younghughes is responsible for your misfortune. Besides, as I said, Dr. Phipps has strictly forbidden any visitors.” In a lower voice, she added, “He has a black eye and a split lip.”
“Dr. Phipps!” Prudence declared, a weak hand fluttering to her throat.
“No! Mr. Younghughes.”
“You may send his bouquet to the kitchen,” Prudence ordered. “I will not have it in my room.”
Margaret gave a nod of approval.
“What of Sir James?” Prudence asked with hesitant hopefulness. “Has he come bearing a basket of cheese to tempt my appetite?” She gave a dry chuckle.
Margaret laughed. “No, he has not returned since he and Dr. Phipps brought you here to us yesterday following the incident. Oh, Pru! We were so frightened when we saw you in Sir James’s arms. Mama nearly swooned. We thought you were dead.”
“Not quite,” Prudence assured her. She pushed aside the astonishing but pleasing image of her unconscious body cradled in James’s arms. “What of Harry Paige? Is he recovering from his injury? Have you seen him since your first visit?”
Margaret dimpled. “Yes,” she said. “Now drink your tea.” She left the room before Prudence could pursue the subject further.
The following day, Prudence rose from her bed, feeling weak and shaky. Surprised by her feeble state, she a
llowed Aunt Judith and Margaret to bully her as much as they liked. Knowing she was not seriously injured, Prudence deplored the fuss and bother, but at the same time, she did not wish to be a troublesome patient either.
Her aunt, knowing Prudence’s fondness for roast beef and batter pudding, ordered the cook to prepare it for dinner and personally delivered the tray to her room. The aroma was tantalizing and although she felt queasy, Prudence forced herself to take a few bites to please her. Both women took their duties seriously, she observed. Margaret was proving to be a most efficient, if not tyrannical nurse. Prudence tried not to resent her ministrations.
Still, she insisted that they allow her to sit up in a chair, complaining that constantly lying down upon the pillow increased the pressure against her throbbing head. As her limbs felt stiff and sore, Prudence gingerly lowered herself into the chair and allowed her aunt to cover her shoulders and her legs with an assortment of shawls.
“It would not do for you to come down with an inflammation of the lungs,” Aunt Judith warned.
“I am not ill,” Prudence reminded her. “I am injured, suffering from a crack on the head.”
“And you may find yourself abed for a full week--maybe two,” her aunt pointed out with what Prudence considered a disturbing measure of glee. She determined to prove Judith wrong. She supposed that as far as her aunt was concerned, taking care of an invalid was the second best occupation to being ill one’s self. When Dr. Phipps dropped in for the purpose of examining the patient, he assured Prudence she need not remain in bed for two weeks time.
“You have a mild concussion, Miss Pentyre,” he said. “But you must rest.”
“I shall soon mend. I have a hard head. Sir James told me so.”
“Yes, I remember hearing him say it,” the doctor said giving her a half smile. “It was after you had regained consciousness following your unfortunate accident. Brownell attempted to carry you to the carriage. You resisted, insisting you could walk, that you required only the loan of his arm. But then you fainted dead away. It is a wonder he caught you.”
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