Prudence Pursued (23 page)

“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 pantaloons, 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.

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 allowed 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.”

“I have never fainted before in my life,” Prudence said, embarrassed.

“I daresay you have never been cracked on the head with a cudgel before either,” Dr. Phipps pointed out. “I want you to keep to your bed for at least one day more and eat to build up your strength.”

“May I now have visitors?” Prudence asked hopefully. “I shall go mad if I sit here in this darkened room with nothing to do.”

“You should be resting—it
is
something to do,” Dr. Phipps replied, with a frown. When her mouth drooped with disappointment, he shook his head, saying, “Mrs. Eleanor Greenwood is downstairs in the drawing room at this moment visiting with your cousin and your aunt. On my way out, shall I tell her she may come up for a brief time? Brief.”

“Yes, please,” Prudence said, sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

The doctor reluctantly acquiesced and soon after he had taken his leave, Margaret appeared at the door with Eleanor peering over her shoulder. “Oh, my dear friend!” she cooed, hurrying to Prudence’s side. “It grieves me to see you looking so pale.”

“Just a short visit, Mrs. Greenwood,” Margaret reminded Eleanor, indicating a chair where she could be seated.” Then giving her cousin a warning frown, Margaret left, closing the door softly behind her.

Prudence, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her cousin’s retreating form, reached out a hand toward her visitor, imploring, “Eleanor, tell me everything. I still have little recollection of what happened at the end. You and Arthur are unharmed, my aunt tells me. And Dorothea too?”

“We are fine,” Eleanor reassured her, squeezing Prudence’s hand before taking a seat. “You were the only one injured in the melee—you and Mr. Younghughes.”

“Margaret told me he has a split lip and a bruised eye.” When Eleanor raised her brows slightly, Prudence explained. “She saw him when he stopped by yesterday with a floral bouquet to inquire about my…er…health.”

“Did he indeed!” Eleanor exclaimed, a martial glint in her eye. “It is all his fault you came to be injured in the first place. He organized the protest, don’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Prudence said, impatiently. “Tell me everything.”

Eleanor related a lively narrative about the events that took place during and immediately following Prudence’s mishap. “For it was an accident, Arthur says. You were hit in the head with a rotten egg or piece of fruit just as you slipped upon the stairs. Someone screamed. We heard it from upstairs. There was considerable shouting from people in the crowd and then Sir James punched Mr. Younghughes in the face—can you believe it? When one of the protesters attempted to hit Sir James with his cudgel, he accidentally injured you instead. Arthur said there was quite a melee after that. Sir James and Dr. Phipps came to your rescue and poor Arthur addressed the remaining protesters, telling them they should be ashamed of themselves. Someone went to fetch a constable. It was all quite exciting.” The glow on her face suddenly dimmed as she said, looking sheepish, “I am only sorry that you were injured, Prudence.”

“Me too,” Prudence admitted, gently touching the bandage upon her head.

“I was nearly overcome with trepidation when I watched them put you into the carriage, but Arthur says I must fortify my nerves, for we may encounter similar situations when we travel to Borneo with Sir James.”

“So you are going—the pair of you? Little Arthur too?”

“No, not little Arthur,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “I discussed it at great length with Dorothea, and I feel it would be best—and much safer—to leave him with my parents in Yorkshire near his cousins. My sister has several children of her own, so little Arthur William will not want for playmates.” She sighed. “Of course, I may change my mind between now and the time we depart. Sir James insists that we are more than welcome to bring the child. He has promised he will do all in his power to ensure the child’s health and safety. But I know my mother would feel more comfortable if I left him behind with her.”

Prudence experienced a pang of envy. How she wished she too could accompany them upon their journey! Silently asking forgiveness for her unchristian feelings, she said, “He will keep his promise, as far as he is able.”

“I do not doubt it,” Eleanor replied with a gentle smile. “But still…”

On the third day, despite an unrelenting headache, Prudence felt well enough to dress and move down to the drawing room.

“You still look sadly pulled, Prudence,” her aunt informed her with a worried frown. “I have been going through my receipts to see what I can make that will help put the color back in your cheeks. Margaret said you ate all of your soft-boiled egg at breakfast and a piece of toast. I am so pleased. We’ll soon have you right as rain.”

Prudence gave her a wan smile as she leaned back against the cushions. With nothing to do but sit idly by, reflecting upon the recent incident with the anti-vaccination league, Prudence discovered she had too much time to dwell upon her perplexing feelings for James. He had not come to see her, and she felt more grieved by this than she cared to admit. When she’d asked Margaret if he had stopped by with Lady Brownell perhaps, she’d been informed Sir James had left town on business. He had, however, sent flowers. He had even taken the time to sign the card himself—a bold, masculine scrawl. First name only—James.