Prudence Pursued (11 page)

“You look fresh as a daisy, Miss Pentyre,” Arthur Greenwood declared, escorting her to his mother’s waiting carriage.

Smiling her thanks, Prudence used her free hand to smooth the skirt of her second best chintz skirt. Mr. Younghughes would surely remember the bold floral print. At least she hoped he would. She had worn it often enough before. Prudence had made a particular point of not wearing her newest one for fear the man would be mistakenly encouraged by her efforts to look her best. Her previous conversation with her aunt regarding Mr. Younghughes had heightened Prudence’s sensibilities about the matter. She was certain she did not wish to encourage the man’s romantic interest in her.

She greeted Dorothea and Eleanor warmly before settling back against the cushions. As Eleanor prattled on about her little son’s new tooth, Prudence—preoccupied with other thoughts--contemplated the puzzle: which gentleman of Margaret’s acquaintance was her cousin in love with? Depending on whom it might be, Aunt Judith would not need Sir James to rescue her from her current financial pickle. After all, Margaret’s mysterious nonpareil might be wealthy—or just wealthy enough. If Harry Paige proved to be the man Margaret secretly adored, his suit would surely be acceptable to Aunt Judith. Wouldn’t it? Although his family was certainly not rich like the Brownells, Harry had a suitable competence. He came from a good family, and he was an only son too.

When Dorothea politely inquired, “Is Margaret still feeling poorly?”

“A little,” Prudence replied. She then forced herself to clear her mind of her cousin’s pre-matrimonial muddle and join in the conversation.

The ride was a short one. Upon their arrival, their eager host greeted them effusively. He came forward with his odd lurching step, his little mouth pursed with pleasure, his small eyes gleaming with happiness. With a quick glance, Prudence noted his glossy boots, the new leather breeches and the neat cravat. She could tell, with a sinking heart, he had taken great care with his appearance today. She sincerely hoped it had not been specifically for her benefit. She and the Greenwoods proved not to be his only guests, however. He introduced them to a middle-aged gentleman—a Mr. Amos Hunter.

“An amateur naturalist like myself,” Benedict said, in an aside to Prudence.

Although Mr. Hunter’s unruly gray hair was as stiff as broom straws, he had a bright smile, pleasing dimples, and a sunburned face, which reminded Prudence a little of Sir James’s own weathered countenance.

“Are you a member of the Royal Society, Mr. Hunter?” Arthur asked politely.

“Not as yet,” Hunter replied, smiling. “Both Benedict and I have aspirations, however. Indeed, great aspirations!”

“I am afraid I am not familiar with the organization,” Eleanor spoke up in a meek voice.

While her husband gave her an understanding smile, Younghughes puckered his button mouth and said, while straightening his shoulders, “Why, Mrs. Greenwood, I am surprised! The Royal Society is the most prestigious science academy in the nation.”

“Dedicated to promoting excellence in scientific endeavors,” Mr. Hunter added with a nod.

The tea cart was rolled in then, and Mr. Younghughes politely asked Dorothea Greenwood, being the most senior lady present, to pour. As host, he plied his guests with a variety of dainty sandwiches, cheese savories, buttery shortbread, and the ubiquitous Bath buns—a fruit-studded sweet roll Prudence did not fancy. Helping herself instead to a small sandwich filled with a flavorful paste made with green peas and onions, Prudence glanced at Mr. Hunter, seated next to her, and said, “I know you and Mr. Younghughes share a passion for natural history, but do you also collect fossils?”

“I do indeed, Miss Pentyre,” he replied amiably. “I am never so happy as I am when roaming the beaches and crags and hills, looking for new specimens for my collection. I like to think of them as monuments to departed worlds.”

“How romantic,” she replied with a half smile, wondering what James would have said had he heard Mr. Hunter’s fanciful description. No doubt it would be something refreshingly candid and rather acidic.

“Together, Benedict and I have charted the rock strata nearest the river,” Hunter added. He went on to explain how they had identified each layer by color and hardness, also making note of the fossils contained in each layer.

Prudence listened with attentive interest, intrigued by all things scientific. Following the ample tea, Mr. Younghughes was eager to show off his collection—beginning with the stuffed Egyptian camel, which stood like a lonely sentry near the window in the library. Younghughes referred to it as a
camelus dromedarius
and launched into an animated description of its dietary habits and other traits.

“What lovely eyelashes it has!” Eleanor said to Prudence. “I wish mine were as thick and dark.”

Prudence chuckled before moving toward a display case filled with her host’s fossil finds. He hovered at her elbow, pronouncing cumbersome Latin names and pointing out interesting features of each specimen. She knew he meant to be helpful, but she found Mr. Younghughes’s clinging presence to be as annoying as flies at a picnic.

As she paused to admire a particularly large fossil in a display case, Mr. Younghughes clasped his hands together and declared, “Ah, yes, my prize ammonite.”

“It looks rather like a large sea snail coiled in rest,” Prudence observed.

“It does,” he agreed. “I found this one in Lyme Regis. It’s a wonderful place to hunt for fossils. Both the soft, slumping clay and hard limestone offer a treasure trove of fish skeletons and other marvels. One needs only a keen eye, a hammer, and a chisel to make a success of it there.” In a much lower tone, he added, “I would so enjoy taking you there, Miss Pentyre.”

Prudence, her stomach roiling with unease, avoided his piercing gaze and kept her attention fixed on the ammonite. Just then, Dorothea joined them at the display case. Benedict was forced to step back to make room for the other woman to view the contents of the case. Prudence heaved an inward sigh.

“You have built a wonderful museum of samples,” Dorothea complimented him.

“Yes, particularly these wax models of human organs,” Arthur called to him from the other side of the library. “Might I hold one so I can examine it more closely?”

Prudence felt a great relief when Younghughes crossed the room to join Arthur, leaving her free to examine the rest of the collection without his smothering attention. Contrary to what Aunt Judith had told her, she had yet to spy any human organs displayed in glass jars. Besides, she much preferred his framed sketches of various animal skeletons—particularly the strange marine animals.

“Mr. Younghughes is a competent sketch artist,” Dorothea commented approvingly as she stood next to Prudence near the display.

“Yes, but the creatures are so fantastical,” Prudence added, amazed. “Look at this one.” She pointed. “It seems a whimsical combination of porpoise and crocodile.”

Mr. Hunter, joining them, said, “Having seen the skeleton myself, I can tell you this sketch of the skeleton is a good likeness.”

“One never thinks of the noteworthiness of the artistic eye when one thinks of scientific endeavors,” Dorothea commented. “But I can see how important it is to be able to draw a good likeness.”

Hunter agreed. “Particularly when one is not able to obtain the actual specimen itself.”

Prudence paid little attention as the two continued to speak about sketching and the various kinds of paper and artist’s tools needed for the task, but Mr. Hunter’s following words piqued her interest most keenly.

“Brownell is the best I’ve seen. He can even work marvels with a rough hunk of charcoal,” Hunter said. “Animals, people, birds, butterflies—they all seem to breathe with life on the page.”

“Do you mean Sir James Brownell?” Prudence queried. She wondered why the baronet had not shown any of his remarkable sketches to his guests when they’d dined with him and Lady Eliza last week. Was he embarrassed by them? Surely not. Perhaps he simply assumed his guests would not be interested in his scientific studies, which was more likely, Prudence reasoned.

“Do you know the gentleman?” Hunter asked, smiling with polite interest.

Prudence exchanged a glance with Dorothea and replied, “I have only recently made his acquaintance,” she answered truthfully.

“I admire the man, as well as his ability to draw,” Hunter confided. “Brownell not only collects specimens of all sorts, but shares them quite liberally with scholars and collectors like me—free of charge, I might add. He is rather like a Homeric hero too. I believe he’s been crowned a prince or something on one of those blasted islands in the Far East somewhere. My cousin was with him when he captured a Mohammedan slave ship and set those poor souls free of their chains. I understand the flesh merchants tried to poison him once, but a faithful servant warned him of the plot and thus saved Brownell’s life.”

Dorothea murmured an astonished, “Oh, my!”

Hunter shook his bristled head with admiration. Leaning closer, he said in a confidential manner, “I have heard before he arrived most of the islanders in Borneo lived in hovels not fit for frogs. Brownell has changed this since he took charge of the place.”

Prudence could feel her pulse quicken. Was there no end to the man’s courageous deeds? Before she could ask any questions about the freeing of the slaves, Mr. Younghughes ambled over to join in their conversation, which he must have been following with half an ear, at least.

“Speaking of slavery, Miss Pentyre, I believe you are active in Mr. Wilberforce’s abolition society, are you not?” His face appeared flushed. His voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

“I am,” she admitted. She watched with misgivings as both Dorothea and Mr. Hunter drifted away toward a shelf containing a colorful rock collection.

“I do so admire your dedication, Miss Pentyre,” Younghughes said, his small mouth twitching. “Indeed, I do. Believe me. But some have said your idol cares more for the plight of the West Indies Negro than he does for his own people—those poor unfortunates living in the slums of London, for instance. What have you to say about the matter?”

Prudence experienced a rush of indignation. “Mr. Younghughes, I do not idolize Mr. Wilberforce or any other man on God’s green earth! That would be idolatry, would it not? Secondly, Mr. Wilberforce is quite concerned about
his own people
, as you put it. He said as much at a recent meeting of the Bettering Society, which I personally attended. He is greatly concerned, for instance, about the plight of the children working in the cotton mills, and he intends to do something about it!”

Benedict said with hint of a smile, “Such a heated defense! Such feverish loyalty! It does you credit.” He acknowledged her fervor with a slight inclination of his head and a sparkle of a different sort in his eyes. He took a step closer.

Prudence blushed hotly. She could feel the sudden warmth all the way to roots of her thick, dark hair. Taking a step away from her host, she noticed Dorothea and Mr. Hunter watching them, wondering, no doubt, what she and Mr. Younghughes had been discussing so heatedly.

“I do beg your pardon,” she stammered, embarrassed by her lack of self-control. In truth, she admired Mr. Wilberforce so passionately she did not like to hear him criticized.

“No! Please, I quite envy Mr. Wilberforce. Such loyalty from you, Miss Pentyre, is something to aspire to.” Again, he took a step closer, adding softly, “I dare to hope perhaps one day I may achieve the same fierce…er…loyalty from you.”

Prudence stared at him. Was he flirting with her or attempting to? Oh, how she hoped he would not! She could not bear the thought and decided to quell this possibility at once, nipping it in the bud.

“You could not hope to do so, Mr. Younghughes,” she said, in a quiet, stifled voice. “For the sake of our longstanding friendship, I hope you will not try.”

The man’s eager expression changed from hopefulness to perplexity. Dorothea, sensing something had gone amiss, came to Prudence’s rescue. She approached their flushed host, suggesting it was time they took their leave. She added, “Mr. Younghughes, I do not wish to overtire Arthur. He is still recuperating, don’t you know?” Dorothea then asked him to send for her carriage.

Much to Prudence’s relief, this took less time than she had supposed. All her interest in her host’s intriguing collection had evaporated like the dew. Soon they were downstairs in the foyer, taking their leave of Mr. Hunter and thanking Mr. Younghughes for a delightful tea and a most informative visit. While Arthur made plans to get together with the two men later in the week for a leisurely ramble along the riverbank, Prudence--linking elbows with Eleanor--hastened down the stairs and outside to the waiting carriage before her host made the mistake of trying to speak with her privately again.

During the drive back to Aunt Judith’s, Arthur shared an anecdote or two about some experience Mr. Hunter had related to him regarding fossil collecting. Prudence was careful not to make eye contact with Dorothea, sitting next to her. She feared her friend would say something about Benedict Younghughes’s unwelcome attentiveness. As though reading her thoughts, Dorothea touched her arm. Leaning closer, she whispered in her ear, “I will not tease, Pru.”

Prudence rewarded her dear friend with a relieved and grateful smile. She did not want to be teased about Mr. Younghughes. His manner had been disquieting to say the least. She had always considered him nothing more than an interesting acquaintance. But this afternoon had changed her perception forever. It seemed Aunt Judith had been right: with a little encouragement, Mr. Younghughes would indeed pursue a more serious relationship with her. Prudence shuddered. She realized her sympathies had shifted regarding her cousin’s plight. In good conscience, she could no longer side with Aunt Judith and Sir James. If Margaret could not love the man, then Prudence would not try to convince her to do so. It was nearly impossible to look favorably upon a gentleman when one’s heart was inclined in another direction—no matter how hopeless the inclination might be.