The Courteous Cad (32 page)

“You see into my heart, Betsy.”

“It is not difficult. You have the heart of a woman.”

“Yet your effort to improve the lives of prisoners defines you as well. Mary told me that you have created a union to that effect.”

“Indeed I have. It is called the Association for the Reformation of the Female Prisoners in Newgate. We conduct a prison school for children who must be locked away in the gaol with their parents. We provide materials so the ladies can sew, knit, and make other goods to sell. Our members take turns visiting the prison and reading the Bible to them.”

“Perhaps I should join your cause.”

“But you have your own! Do children still labor at mills all over England? Are they injured day after day? Does lint still float about? Do women perish of mill fever? You have improved
one
worsted mill, my dear, but this sacred isle is filled with them.”

“How can one woman really do anything to better the lives of mill children? It is impossible. Only a law handed down from Parliament could . . .”

Her eyes on Betsy, Prudence’s words described a vision as it unfolded before her. “A law . . . an act as powerful and far-reaching as the Riot Act . . . regulations and edicts regarding every aspect of the mills. There should be a law limiting the number of hours a child may work.”

“Indeed there should,” Betsy agreed. “Better yet, a law prohibiting children from such work at all. And why not?”

“The owner of Thorne Mill would tell you quickly why such legislation would be devastating. How would families earn enough to feed themselves? What would mills do without the labor of children? On and on he would rattle until finally you would begin to believe him. Yet it might be possible, Betsy. If Parliament passed such a law, people would find a way to comply with it.”

“Good laws will always be obeyed.”

“Oh, Betsy, I can see the regulations now! There must be a law ensuring that the air inside the mills is clean. A law requiring that the laborers have good, hot meals. A law limiting the number of hours a man or woman could work. Can you imagine?”

“Indeed I can. It is too bad women have neither the authority to sit in Parliament nor the privilege of casting votes. If we had, I am sure we should shortly set the kingdom to rights.”

Prudence laughed at such a preposterous idea. Her laughter set off a bout of coughing, and Sarah hurried into the room bearing a clean spoon and a bottle of tonic.

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Locke,” Betsy said. “I fear I am unable to go anywhere without rallying the masses—or inflaming the heart of one woman at a time. Your sister has a mighty spirit. God has endowed her with will, wit, and wisdom. She is a treasure indeed.”

“Mrs. Fry,” Sarah said as Prudence’s coughing eased and the syrup’s sedative compound began to take effect, “your work inspires us to do all we can to make the world a better place. What do you foresee for your own future?”

“I am no prophet, but when I was about Prudence’s age, a woman in our Friends meeting prophesied about me. She said, ‘You are born to be a light to the blind, speech to the dumb and feet to the lame.’ I am sure my future holds the arrival of more children to keep me busy. Nevertheless, in addition to prison reform, I have decided to take up the cause of abolishing capital punishment. My brother joins me in this effort. We hope soon to put our appeal before the Home Secretary.”

“I am told,” Sarah said, “that Friends oppose war along with any sort of activity that might lead to death.”

“Our aim is to prevent untimely death, Mrs. Locke, and I am deeply distressed by the plight of the homeless, who so often perish in winter’s chill. I should like to establish a shelter where they might take nightly refuge. The predicament of the poor, as well, causes me no end of concern. I am praying that God may reveal a way to gather volunteers who would visit in the homes of the needy to provide assistance and comfort. Now, as for my interest in nursing—”

“Enough!” Sarah said with a laugh. “You have quite exhausted me already. My efforts to support the establishment of mission schools abroad are pitiable in comparison.”

“I don’t believe God compares His people, do you? He has awarded certain gifts and tasks to you, Mrs. Locke, and He has given others to me. With His mercy, you will accomplish yours to the best of your ability. As will I. And one day we shall hear Him say to each of us, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’”

As Sarah escorted Betsy out of the bedroom, Prudence drifted in a peaceful ocean where everything had gone blurry about the edges. She saw Tom Smith’s face and the dark fringe of his eyelashes. Now poor Davy Smith hobbled before her, his freckled cheeks marred by a layer of grime. Bettie, Fanny, Mr. Walker, Dick the Devil, Jimmy the spinners’ overlooker . . . all floated in and out of her vision.

William, too, hovered just beyond reach. He held one hand out to her, calling her name, speaking words she could not understand. As her eyelids drifted shut, she thought she heard his voice.

“I love you still,”
he whispered.
“I love you still.”

“William, how long has it been since Miss Watson bade us farewell?” Olivia had stepped into the library at Chatham House, where coats of creamy new paint now covered every wall. William would take residence in her ancestral home within the month, and efforts to clean and brighten the place were well under way.

“Six weeks,” William called down to Olivia from a rolling ladder that permitted access to the top shelves. “And five days. And . . .” He took out his pocket watch, opened the gold casing, and studied it. “And seven hours. Do you require minutes and seconds, as well?”

She chuckled. “No, indeed. But I now see that memories of the young lady cross your mind even more often than they do mine.”

“Possibly. I think of her every five minutes. Three on Sundays. You?”

“At least daily.”

“Aha—then I am the champion in this contest. But if you can tell me whether John Milton’s
Paradise Lost
should be shelved with poetry or religion, I shall surrender my laurel wreath to you.”

Tucking the dusty volume under his arm, William descended the ladder and leapt past the final three rungs to the floor, landing neatly at Olivia’s feet.

“There you are,” he said, holding out the book. “Study it at your leisure. When you have determined its proper place in the library, I shall put it there.”

“It is poetry,” she said, pushing away the proffered tome. “Weighty, inscrutable, depressing poetry. I began it three times, and I was never able to read past Mr. Milton’s description of the great serpent.”

“Then you cannot know the outcome of the tale. I shall enlighten you. While the serpent plays the villain, the woman is a scoundrel too by the name of Eve. The only other player in the drama is a feckless fellow known as Adam. In the end . . . well, let me just say that keeping one or two handkerchiefs might serve you well whilst reading the ending.”

With a pretty tinkling laugh, Olivia took the book from him and tossed it onto a settee. “Without doubt, William, you are the very image of a naughty little brother. Of course I know the ending, as does anyone who has happened to sit still for five minutes in church. But perhaps that eliminates you.”

“It did until Miss Watson worked her wiles on me. You may have noticed how eagerly I set my sails for Otley’s church each Sunday. Reverend Berridge and I confer often about matters of great doctrinal import. Of late, I have even been known to read the Bible for hours at a time.”

“Shocking!” She looped her arm through his. “But walk outside with me now, William dear, for I have news that requires fresh air and a clear mind.”

William did not like the sound of that. He and Olivia strolled onto the wide stairs leading from the house down to the stretch of green lawn upon which she had played as a girl. Olivia had endured a difficult childhood and might have followed the path her mother took to an early grave. But she and Randolph met one day in church, and the course of true love was set.

William admired the couple. Envied them too.

“Am I to continue in suspense for some time?” he asked Olivia. “Perhaps you plan to walk about with me for a good while and then deliver your news after tea.”

“You may have it now, though I should have preferred never to deliver it.” She took a letter from her pocket and gave it to him. “This came today from Miss Watson’s friend, Anne Chouteau, Lady Blackthorne. She addressed it to me, but I am convinced the message was intended for you.”

Opening the letter, William tried to regulate his stumbling heartbeat. This would be news of Prudence, he felt sure.

“‘Dear Olivia,’” he read aloud. “‘My husband and I were delighted to pass so many happy hours with your family during our recent visit to Yorkshire. Your kindness and courtesy were immeasurable, and we reflect often on our memories of that delightful sojourn.’”

“She goes on this way for quite some time, William,” Olivia inserted. “She already had written to thank me, but now she does so again—perhaps as a way of delaying the information which follows.”

William scanned to the end of the letter. “‘I regret to inform you that our mutual friend, Miss Prudence Watson, lies very ill. Her doctors say she is unlikely to recover her full health, though they hold fond hope of preserving her life. May I ask you, dear friend, to pray for her? And will you also please convey this information to her other acquaintances in Yorkshire? She was particularly attached to . . .’”

William could not continue reading. The image of Caroline Bryse’s face as she lay dying swirled before his eyes. But now the image transformed and shifted until he saw Prudence there, pale and gasping for breath as she endured her final moments.

“I must go,” he told Olivia. “I must ride for London at once.”

“Of course,” she said. “But are you steady enough to ride? I fear this news has shocked you. Let me order a carriage—”

“No. I thank you, but a carriage will not be quick enough.” He folded the letter. “May I keep this?”

“It was meant for you.”

“You will tell Randolph?”

“He knows already.”

William looked at her. “Olivia, what shall I do?”

“Love her. That is all you can do. And it is all she wants.” She squeezed his hand. “Go, William. Do not tarry a moment longer.”

With a nod, he left her and made for his horse. The ride to London would clear his head and fuel his resolution to do all in his power to return Prudence to her former vigor—though he had no idea how he might accomplish such a thing when doctors had failed.

He barely glanced at the house as he strode through it toward the drive. Of what use was a grand new home, fresh paint, and a flourishing flower garden? Meaningless. Nothing mattered but the woman he loved.

He untied his horse and spoke a few words of calm as he stroked the animal’s neck. Then he mounted and set off down the drive.

Nearing the road between Chatham House and Thorne Lodge, he spied a figure walking toward him at a fast pace. He soon recognized the man as Mr. Walker . . . the mill’s blacksmith and Prudence’s first love.

“Mr. Sherbourne, sir!” Walker hailed him from a distance. “I must speak with you at once. Please grant me a few moments of your time.”

The men regarded each other in silence. Then William reined in his horse. “What is it, Walker?” he asked. Even as he said the words, he felt sure he knew the answer.

“I have information, sir. Information you must hear before the day is out.”

“Regarding?”

Walker let out a breath. “Mr. Sherbourne, I beg you to walk along with me in order to hear me out. The news must be kept private. Indeed, none may know of it but you.”

Certain Olivia and Randolph already knew, William dismounted. The blacksmith must have had word of Prudence’s illness. This fact in itself gave the attachment between Walker and Prudence precedence over William’s own feelings for her.

“Very well, Walker,” he said. “I am listening.”

Eighteen

Exhausted, dusty, worn from riding all night, William pulled the bell cord outside Trenton House. He was surprised that a footman had not been stationed outside to await callers. Perhaps this foretold news he dreaded to hear—that the family was in mourning and not to be disturbed.

But the door soon opened and a maid put out her rose-cheeked face. “I’m sorry, sir, but the house has been closed up,” she informed him. “My mistress is not in.”

“Miss Watson? But where has she gone?”

“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Excuse me—what is your name?”

“Jane, sir.”

He doffed his hat. “Jane, I am your mistress’s dearest friend. She will wish me to know where she has gone, and you will be glad you told me.”

Her cheeks flushed a brighter pink. “Lord Delacroix’s country estate,” she blurted out. “In Derbyshire.”

“Thank you, Jane.” He put a coin in her hand. “You are a good, steady girl, and I believe you will go far in the world. Perhaps one day you will be housekeeper in this very home.”

At this she laughed. “Me? Housekeeper?”

“And why not? Anything is possible these days, is it not?” He set his hat again and gave her a wink. “Good day, Miss Jane. I am sure we shall meet again.”