The Courteous Cad (11 page)

William’s turn at sea had not resulted in the acquisition of gold and silver, as he and his shipmates had dreamed. Like many, he returned home burdened by debts too heavy to redeem. But the mill turned a tidy profit, and he could ill afford to jeopardize that revenue.

The mill would be his salvation in another way, William had realized. Work would divert his mind from memories and thoughts he could not abide. The daily effort of managing a successful operation surely must absorb the ever-welling tide of remorse that filled his heart.

Now he slowed his horse to a trot, rounding the stone public house and crossing the street toward the inn. As he neared, he saw the front door swing open and a woman in pink silks step out into the night. As she looked down the street in the opposite direction, William reined his mount and urged it into the shadows of an awning above a milliner’s shop.

There could be no doubt. The woman was Prudence Watson.

Now she turned her golden head, looking directly toward him but finding instead a tall, well-built man who approached her in the moonlight. She spoke a few words and the man replied, but William could not distinguish what was said.

As her gentleman caller took Miss Watson’s hand and bent to kiss it, she covered her mouth with the other. Straightening, he took a step that put him in profile.

William discerned his identity as easily as he had the woman’s. It was Mr. Walker, his mill’s blacksmith and the great love of Prudence Watson’s life.

Six

“I received your message,” Prudence gushed out, unable to keep from blurting out everything in her heart. “At first, I thought it must have been brought to me in error. Then I saw my name, and I thought perhaps Mr. Sherbourne had sent it in jest. But I knew your hand too well. I knew it was you who wanted me. I should not have come down, but Mary has retired and I could not sleep until I had answered your call.”

“I need your help,” Walker said. “You are English, one of them. Hear my plea, and do what you can.”

“Your plea?” Gazing up at him now, Prudence studied the face she had loved so well. The mouth, the nose, the dark eyes, the black hair threaded with silver. This man had kissed her and made her believe there might be some hope for their future.

But he had gone away instead, vanishing into the night and leaving her in miserable solitude. She had been bereft, certain her life was at an end without him.

Now, as she waited for his reply, she saw the man as others had described him so many times.
“Nearly twice your age, Prudence. . . . More than twice your age, dearest. . . . He is very old indeed. . . . He is foreign. . . . He can give you nothing. . . .He has no education, no wealth, no name. . . . Surely you must understand how unsuitable he is. . . .”

“I heard what you said at the mill,” he told her now. “Before I came down from the smithy, I recognized your voice and I listened to your words.”

“I was unwise in my zeal. You have come to reprimand me.”

“No, to warn you and to bring a plea. The piecers’ overlooker is angry, but he cannot wreak open revenge on you. The hatred and rage of the people against him is too great. It is greater still for the lord of the mill, that man Sherbourne. They would kill him if they could.”

“Kill him? The mill workers would murder William Sherbourne?”

“Perhaps, but they need him. They need the income his mill provides, meager though it is.” Walker set his hand on her shoulder, his warm palm cupping her arm. “Prudence, I saw the way Sherbourne looked at you this morning. He admires your beauty. You have influence over him.”

Her thoughts flew back to the moments she had spent in William’s arms, and heat flooded her cheeks. But her sudden guilt was washed away by truth. She had not betrayed Mr. Walker, who stood before her now. He was the one who had ended their attachment.

The pleasure she had taken in the waltz could not be tainted by shame. Indeed, she had enjoyed dancing with William. She had delighted in their conversation. She had welcomed his attentions. The notion that anyone might want him dead mortified her.

“You said you bring a plea,” she reminded the man who stood before her. “What is it?”

“Do all in your power to ease the working conditions at the mill. Do this for the sake of those who suffer so much. Do it, too, for the safety of the man, Sherbourne.”

“But I am powerless. You saw me today—how ridiculous I looked. I made a fool of myself.”

“You were brave.”

For a moment, he fell silent. Prudence held her breath as his eyes tenderly appraised her. And then he shook his head, putting away the love they had known.

“You are a pretty young woman,” Walker continued, his voice low. “You are wiser than your age. You have influence and strength—far more than you know. Do what you can to save the people, the children most of all. Do it before more are crippled or die.”

“Can you mean this? Is it really true?”

“I have seen them crushed, broken, ruined by the looms and engines. The girls’ hair is caught in the machinery and torn away. Lint in the air chokes them, and they fall ill to mill fever. In a single day, a child may walk twenty miles inside that building. I have calculated their steps. The children labor more than twelve hours each day and eat nothing but water porridge, potato pie, and oatcake. They have no tea or bread to warm them. Indeed, I believe many are even now starving.”

At this account, at the image of poor fragile children coughing and shivering as they labored beneath the looms, Prudence could not hold back tears. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and blotted her cheeks.

“But there are so many children,” she told him, “and the overlookers are powerful and cruel. I can hardly believe I may rescue one child, let alone a mill filled with them.”

“I have seen you do many things,” he said. “I was with you at Waterloo, remember? I know your heart.”

She nodded. “Yes, you do.”

“The strength of God lives inside you. You have no need of me or any other man, Prudence.”

She could not respond as she ought. Tears threatened again, and the lump in her throat ached. How she had needed this man! How she had longed to proclaim her love for him to all her friends and family. How earnestly she had desired to be his wife, live with him, bear his children.

But he was wiser than she. He knew their destinies did not follow the same path. Those who loved Prudence most had warned her against the American time and again. It was not until he abandoned her that she began to believe their cautions.

“I saw you walking to the mill this morning,” she now said. “You were with a woman. Do you mean to marry her?”

“I do. She is good and gentle. I will make her children my own.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes. Very much.” He paused. “Do you still cry for me, Prudence?”

“Not often. With much effort, I had given you up. I see I must do it again.”

“God has a better plan for you.”

“To shout at overlookers? To play the fool in front of everyone?”

“To save the children.”

She bit her lower lip as she reached out and took his hand. Holding it, she studied the shape of those fingers she had loved. She lifted the hand and kissed it.

Releasing him, she nodded. “I shall try.”

He smiled for the first time. “I knew you would.”

Before she could speak again, he had slipped away into the night. She stood alone, reflecting on the past. Pondering the future. Mr. Walker was right, as always. She could save the children. And she would.

As she turned to enter the inn, she heard the thunder of hoofbeats. Mr. Walker, she thought as she looked in that direction. But at the sight of a dark rider in a greatcoat and hat, she was not so certain. Had it been the blacksmith . . . or someone else?

“His carriage is here! Oh, Pru, such a wonderful beginning! You must make the most of every moment with him. Secure him if you can.”

“Secure Mr. Sherbourne? As a husband?” Prudence laughed as she set a yellow bonnet on her head and tied the gossamer ribbons beneath her chin. She stepped to Mary’s side and peered over her sister’s shoulder at the street below. “I should rather marry that pig who is wallowing in my mud puddle.”

“Nonsense! But indeed, your puddle is back again this morning. We must have had a little rain in the night. Do be careful, Pru. Your gown is lovely and I should hate to see it soiled.”

“I shall be riding in this gown in an hour’s time. It will return six inches deep in mud. I have little doubt of that.”

“Will you be nice to him?” Mary caught Prudence’s shoulders. “Mr. Sherbourne is a good match for you. Promise to be polite.”

“I shall promise nothing of the sort. He kissed me last night, you know. He commanded you to play a waltz, and then he danced me into the shadows, where he kissed my cheek. Very ill-mannered of him. There can be no doubt William Sherbourne is a cad.”

“What is a stolen kiss but evidence of a tender heart?” Mary followed Prudence to the door of their chambers. “Do try to be sensible for once in your life, sister. Mr. Sherbourne has completed his naval duties and returned home. He has a good income from the mill. And Lady Thorne told me last night that her husband has promised his brother a fine house on their estate. Chatham Hall, it is called—large and very grand. You might be mistress of it, Pru, if you can bite your tongue and give Mr. Sherbourne a pretty smile or two.”

“You are quite sure he wants a wife?” Prudence shook her head as she gazed at her sister. “Oh, Mary, it is you who is in want of a husband. That is why you speak of little but matches and wedding dates.”

“I cannot think of any man but my dear departed Mr. Heathhill. Do you know . . . I almost dread to return to my sweet baby. Her eyes will remind me of a true love with which none else can compare.”

“No one will love you in the same way as Mr. Heathhill, but there may be many who can love you just as much.”

“I cannot imagine it. Go down to the carriage, Pru, and try to win Mr. Sherbourne. If you do not, I shall be forced to write to Sarah and bid her begin arranging your nuptials to Lord Delacroix.”

“Heaven forbid!” Prudence hugged her sister and hurried down the narrow staircase.

A footman wearing the livery of the Thorne family stood at the door to the inn. He made her a bow and escorted her to the carriage. She half expected to find William waiting inside it, but he was not there. She would journey alone.

Just as well, she told herself as the horses set off in the direction of Thorne Lodge, for she had much to occupy her thoughts. Outside the inn last night, Mr. Walker had asked her to plead for a better life for the mill children. Not only were their lives in danger, but Mr. Sherbourne himself had become a target.

Were the laborers at the mill so ready to revolt? Prudence recalled the crowd that had gathered around her when she denounced Richard Warring. Dick the Devil had certainly made enemies. But his employer would bear the brunt of the antagonism that had built up while he was away at sea.

Prudence was determined to save herself the humiliation of returning to the mill for a second demonstration of her vocal powers. She would win this battle using the weapons she knew best. Feminine wiles could charm a man far more easily than any hotheaded oration.

But as the carriage neared the mill, she was startled to see a stream of workers begin to trickle outside, swelling quickly to a rush and finally into a cascade pouring through its doors. Ragged children and haggard adults lined the roadway. They waved, whistled, called to the carriage as it neared.

“We’re Miss Watson’s workers!” someone yelled. “Watson’s workers! Watson’s workers!”

The crowd took up the chant, clapping in unison to the rhythm of their cries. Stunned, Prudence leaned to the carriage window in disbelief. Instantly the throng surged toward her. Hands reached through the opening. Someone lifted a child and then another. The laborers began to beat on the carriage frame, startling the horses and forcing the footmen to prod the crowd back with their short whips.

The chaos lasted only moments before the carriage rolled through the horde onto clear roadway. Trembling, Prudence finally let out her breath. She looked behind to find several children running after her. One of them was young Tom Smith.

“Oh, Tom!” She clenched her fists in helplessness. “Go back! Go to the mill!”

Dick the Devil would surely beat the boy. And Tom’s injuries would be her fault! She had roused this sentiment in the masses.
She
was to blame, but
they
would pay the price.

Sinking into a quagmire of dread and worry, she hardly noticed that the carriage had pulled to a stop in front of Thorne Lodge. A footman, cheeks still red from the effort of fending off the horde, opened the door. Prudence let out a breath, took his hand, and stepped down.

“Good on ye, Miss Watson,” he said under his breath as she passed. “’Tis time the people had a champion.”

She whirled around to face him, but he had turned away to lead the horses toward the stables. Had she heard right? Could it be that even the staff who served the great family were chafing under its rule?