The Courteous Cad (14 page)

“Her sister is gone, yet she remains at the inn? Alone?” Olivia asked, staring at her husband in shock. “Whatever can she mean by such unmannered conduct?”

“I believe the answer to your question stands at the window just there—pondering whether to fling himself from it or surrender to his fate and court the young lady in earnest.”

William turned. “Leaping from this window would place me exactly two feet from where I now stand. We are at ground level, as you very well know. You must think of another way to end my bleak existence, Randolph.”

“Such nonsense!” Olivia said. “You are both so determined to make light of this situation that you fail to see the truth. Miss Watson remains in Otley without family or friends. We are left with no choice but to invite her to Thorne Lodge again. I like her very well, but, William, you are the object of her fancy. What do you say to this?”

“I say we must not make too much of it. Perhaps Miss Watson has remained in Otley because she wishes to climb to the top of the Chevin and have a look about the countryside. Perhaps she simply enjoys our town and has asked her sister to allow her a brief respite alone.”

“Perhaps she has fallen in love with you,” Randolph said, “and hopes you will respond in kind.”

“Doubtful,” William said. “She fled our picnic as though chased by a herd of wild boars.”

“Only one
boor
, however, was actually there.” Randolph grinned at his brother. “What did you do to the poor woman to frighten her away in such a state?”

William found suddenly that he could not speak. Dare he admit that their kiss had delighted and frightened them both?

“It hardly matters what happened,” Olivia declared. “The pertinent issue is whether to invite Miss Watson to our assembly next Saturday. It is no small occasion, for the house will be filled with our family and friends. William, again I plead with you to be serious. Miss Watson has stayed because of you. Will you call on her at the inn? Shall I ask her to Thorne Lodge?”

Pondering the question, William looked out the window at the curls of white mist rising from the bracken and gorse that grew on the moor. He found no answer there. Had Prudence stayed because of him? Or did she hope to renew her attachment to the blacksmith? It was impossible to know.

He reflected on the yellow bonnet even now sitting at the back of his wardrobe. Undecided what to do with it, he had hidden the thing—and then taken it out again and again to drink in the scent of her perfume, run his fingers over ribbons as soft and silken as her skin, imagine her smile and her bright eyes as she gazed at him from beneath its brim.

“I shall call on her tomorrow,” he announced before he could give the subject of Miss Prudence Watson yet one more round of tormented speculations and imaginings. “The haberdasher in Otley has just sent a message that my new frock coat is ready to be fitted. On that errand, I shall stop at the inn.”

“Fishing for a frock coat but reeling in a wife,” Randolph drawled. “Very good, William. You are turning out better than I predicted. I shall write to India and inform Edmund that our little brother is at last becoming a man.”

As Randolph and Olivia chatted about plans for the assembly, William turned his brother’s words over in his mind. How welcome it would be to label his past misdeeds as little more than the errors of a silly boy. Wrap them tidily and put them away like old toys no longer used.

He might have been young when he went away to sea. But William had become a man too soon. His trespasses could not be so easily undone. And they could never be forgiven.

A wife was not in his future. Most certainly not the lovely Miss Watson, for whom his heart ached day and night.

Eight

Prudence had never been so terrified in her life. Hiding in a barn during the bloody battle at Waterloo was nothing to this, she realized as she stepped into the worsted mill at dawn. Elbowed and shoved forward by the throng of men, women, and children of all ages who were pouring through the door, she prayed for God to guide her steps and protect her.

She touched the arm of a young woman who had been pushed against her. “Excuse me, please. Where may I find the overlookers?”

Dull gray eyes flicked over the stranger in a mobcap and ragged black shawl. “Just there. Along the far wall.” The woman pointed toward the shadows that nearly concealed a group of well-muscled men who were conferring in low, guttural voices.

“Thank you,” Prudence murmured. But before she could muster the courage to approach them, the woman spoke again.

“Are ye new?”

“Yes. In Otley less than a week.”

“No husband or children?” The gray eyes deepened. “You’ll want to stay clear of Dick the Devil. He’s that big lummox in the gray cap, the piecers’ overlooker. You’re a pretty one, and he’ll set his eye on ye soon enough. There’s no way of knowing how many of these wee ones are his.”

“His children?” At this news, Prudence’s hard-won composure vanished. Her back stiffened as she focused on the wicked man. “Upon my word, such misbehavior should be reported at once!”

The woman drew back in surprise. “Where be ye coming from, lass?”

“The south,” Prudence managed, once again aware of her peril should she be discovered as an impostor. Turning quickly, she drew her dusty mobcap farther down on her forehead and stepped away from the other woman.

She must be more careful. Much labor had gone into her scheme, and all could be lost in an instant. The moment Mary’s coach had rolled away from the inn the day before, Prudence set to work. She informed the innkeeper that she would be away for a short time, walking the moors. He assumed she intended to climb the Chevin, the granite mount that overlooked Otley, and he wished her well.

Carrying a blue cotton gown, a black shawl, and two plain petticoats in a large bag, Prudence had set off. Once she was out of view of the townsfolk, she spied a patch of boggy ground surrounded by moss and tossed the garments into the mire. Her kid leather boots, now caked in mud, stamped holes in the fabric.

When they were thoroughly soiled, she retrieved the garments, found a cold stream, and gave them a cursory wash. On returning to the inn, she spread the clothing before the fire to dry. Then she stitched a mobcap from one of her once-white petticoats. She snipped several threads of yarn in her shawl and raveled the wool until its former delicate beauty would never be discerned.

That night, Prudence had slept fitfully, more than once crawling out of the bed and dropping to her knees in earnest prayer. In the half-light before dawn, she rose and dressed in the garments now stained with mud and moss. She tucked her curly golden locks into the mobcap, smudged her cheeks with a dirty scrap, and slipped out of the inn.

Huddled beneath her cap and shawl, she joined the flood of mill workers in their wooden clogs. Now—heart hammering out of her chest—she approached the overlookers.

“What have we here?” Dick the Devil called to his cohorts. At his waist, he carried a whip with leather thongs dangling from it. “Looking for work, are ye, lass?”

Keeping her head low, Prudence nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“What can ye do?”

A list of her many accomplishments flashed through Prudence’s mind. She could paint landscapes, recite poetry in French, read Latin, dance jigs and waltzes, sing, play the pianoforte, arrange flowers, bead bags, embroider fire screens, and do many other such talents that were completely useless now.

“Well?” Dick growled. “Have ye got a tongue, girl?”

“I am good with a needle,” she blurted out.

“But you’re too tall to be one of my scavengers or piecers. Bad luck for me, eh?” He laughed along with the other men. “Jimmy, can ye use her at spinning?”

Another man grunted, straightening from his slouch against the wall. “Aye, Dick. Two of my spinners are away sick with the mill fever, and one comes so late I’m obliged to beat her every day.”

Prudence stifled a gasp. Jimmy, she noted, had short yellow hair and blue eyes that set him apart from the dark countenance of Dick the Devil. Despite his reference to beating a laborer—and the wicked leather strap hanging from his belt—his tone was not cruel. Prudence began to nurture some hope of fair treatment.

“Ye’ll take the place of Moll,” Jimmy continued. “I’ll be obliged to sack her when she comes—
if
she comes. You’ll earn a penny an hour, and don’t be asking for more. Be here at sunup, work hard, don’t be getting yourself with child, and ye’ll have no trouble with me. Come, lass, and I’ll show ye to the wheel.”

Jimmy led Prudence down an aisle between iron and wooden engines she had never seen before. Men and women were rushing to their places at the carding and weaving machines. Children dropped to their knees and crawled beneath the looms. Then, all at once, a whistle blew and the millworks sprang to life with a deafening clatter, rattle, and bang.

“This here is your billy,” Jimmy called over the din as he pointed out a spinning machine. To Prudence, the billy resembled the letter
H
. As the woman who operated it turned a wheel, one side stood motionless, while the other moved back and forth.

“This is the carriage,” he said, gesturing to the mobile part of the machine that slid like a drawer into the other. “Some people calls it the spinning frame.”

“Aye, sir.” With much trepidation, Prudence eyed the whirling spindles as they slid forward several feet, paused, and then slid smoothly away again.

“That’s Fanny, there,” Jimmy told her, nodding at the woman Prudence had spoken to on entering the mill. “Can ye see how her carriage runs backwards and forwards by means of them six iron wheels on three iron rails? The spindles are inside the carriage. You’ve got seventy in number, all turned by one wheel. That wheel is in the care of the spinner. And that would be ye, now, your very own self. What name do they call ye, lass?”

“Polly,” Prudence replied, thankful she had created a new name and background for herself during the restless night.

He tapped the carriage of the young woman who labored nearby. “Fanny, show Polly how ye work the billy. Lunch is at noon, lass. When the sun sets, we’ll shut down the mill, and ye can go home with the others. Take care to follow orders and work quick. I don’t take kindly to my spinners coming late or leaving early.”

So saying, he turned away and began barking at a man near the far end of the row of spinning machines.

“The master don’t like production going down,” Fanny confided. “He’s a hard one, he is. Now he’s back from sea, and we’ve had word he expects more worsted from us than ever. If ye mean to keep on here, Polly, work fast and clean.”

“Indeed I shall.”

“Then watch me well,” Fanny shouted over the roar of the mill’s engines. “The faster and smoother ye work your billy, the better ye’ll be treated. See how I bring the carriage close up under the fixed part of the machine?”

Prudence nodded. Though the machine seemed simple, she was concerned. The women and men down the row worked at such a rapid pace she wondered if she could ever match them.

“When the carriage be underneath the billy,” Fanny continued, “each spindle will take hold of a length of carding.”

She demonstrated, drawing out ten inches of downy white wool that had been cleaned of burrs, dirt, and other imperfections. Now as Fanny pushed the carriage farther away, the carded wool spun into yarn and wound around the spindles.

“It’s easy enough, yet it’s not hard to go wrong neither.” Fanny repeated the action, working faster and faster each time until Prudence could barely follow the blur of movement.

“Can ye do it now, Polly?”

Prudence nodded. “I think so. I shall try, at any rate.”

Giving her a curious look, Fanny turned back to the spinning machine and set to work again. Prudence stepped to her new position and took hold of the wheel. She gave it a turn, watched the carriage slide into place, and then turned the wheel in the opposite direction.

As the carriage skimmed back, taking carded wool with it, Prudence noticed a scurrying movement under the machine. Rats! At the very idea, she caught her breath, let go of the wheel, and snatched up her skirts. The carriage spun away, still trailing carded wool. Fanny let out a shriek and raced to the runaway spinning machine.

“What are ye doing?” she cried. “Polly, I told ye to take no more than a hand’s length of carding!”

“I saw a . . . a rat!” As Prudence spoke the word, the object under her spinning machine went still. In the dim light, she made out two bright eyes staring back at her in alarm.

“That’s no rat!” Fanny snapped at her. “That’s your scavenger. What do they call ye, girl?”

“Martha Smith, if ye please, ma’am,” she called in a high-pitched voice.

Prudence recognized the name at once. This was the sister of young Tom Smith, the boy who had pushed her into the mud and stolen her reticule.

Fanny explained. “Martha picks up loose wool from under the spinning machine. She takes that brush there and sweeps under the wheels to clean out the oil, dust, and dirt.”

“
Under
the wheels?” Prudence had heard of this dangerous work, and seeing it firsthand confirmed her fears. Worse, she was to be the means of any injury the girl should suffer.

“There’s my brother,” Martha called up to her. “Tom’s your piecer, ma’am.”

She spotted Tom now, lurking just beneath her billy. Dismayed that he might recognize her despite the disguise, Prudence lifted the black shawl over her mobcap.

“You’ve got to have a piecer,” Fanny said, her mouth breaking into a smile. She was pretty, Prudence saw. Though her teeth had gone bad and her eyes were dull, her gentle face conveyed kindness as she spoke. “Ye didn’t suppose the cardings walked themselves over to your spindles, did ye?”

“No, I suppose not,” Prudence said.

“Tom takes the cardings in his left hand,” Fanny continued, “twenty at a time. He lays the ends of the cardings over each other and rubs them together on that canvas cloth just down there. Ye see it? Sometimes the piecers . . . their fingers bleed. But Tom is tough by now. He’ll keep your spindles well supplied with cardings. If he don’t, Dick the Devil will lay him open with the thong.”