No matter that her heart might quake, however, Prudence addressed him without hesitation.
“It is my cause,” she told him, “not theirs. Ending the mistreatment of those who labor in your mill is my mission, sir. I speak for the children in particular. I am their champion.”
“Ah yes, we discussed this last evening after dinner at Thorne Lodge. Perhaps you recall our conversation in the library?”
His reference to their awkward moments alone together did not dissuade her. “Indeed I do, Mr. Sherbourne, and now you see for yourself how the children are compelled to labor in the most perilous circumstances. Some are crippled, yet they must carry on laboring in order to earn their pittance. These poor piecers creep beneath your dangerous looms to tie broken threads together again. Their backs are bent and broken. Their legs are twisted and lame. They have no schooling, no time for rest or play, nothing to look forward to in life but crawling about in the darkness from sunrise to sunset.”
She stretched out her arm, finger pointed at him, and raised her voice as she concluded her tirade. “You, Mr. Sherbourne, are no better than a slaver!”
At the accusation, the crowd gave a collective gasp and began to murmur. William let out an audible sigh. Though tempted to pitch Miss Prudence Watson over his shoulder, carry her out of the mill, and drop her into the nearby pond, he refrained. Her allegations were serious, and her listeners awaited their master’s response.
Should he fail to quash the woman’s revolutionary ideas, she might foment a mutiny in the mill. He could ill afford to lose another hour of production, let alone days or months to rebellion.
“Miss Watson,” he said, removing his hat and making her a bow somewhat too grand for the setting, “I submit to your admonishment, for I know from whence it comes. Your purpose is good. Your ambition, noble. You speak from a motive of the heart. Love, in fact, fuels your cause. Am I wrong?”
“Love?” For a moment, she appeared flustered. Uncertain where he intended to take his argument, she paled a little. But he was pleased to see her recover.
“You are correct, Mr. Sherbourne,” she informed him. “My purpose is born of love. And that love is inspired by God Himself. Yesterday, as you will recall, an incident occurred which—”
“Forgive my interruption, dear lady, but I cannot deny you the object of your mission another moment.” Looking toward a stairway that led to the mill’s second floor, William bellowed a command. “Mr. Walker, come down! Mr. Walker, blacksmith of Thorne Mill, show yourself at once!”
Prudence let out a little cry as the man himself appeared suddenly in full view. Eyes fixed on the woman, he descended step by step. William saw at once that his blacksmith was displeased. His hooded eyes darkened as he drew nearer. His mouth was a grim line. Miss Watson pressed both hands to her heart, no doubt likely to swoon at any moment.
Neither party would welcome a proclamation of their affections, past or present. William knew that, but he convinced himself this public exposure was for the best. Miss Watson, after all, had nearly incited a riot in his mill.
Despite her professions of religious zeal the night before, her attachment to the American must be the source of her actions today. Whether she had intended to impress Walker or truly to denounce the young piecers’ working conditions, William could not say. It hardly mattered. The incident must end, and as Walker drew near, he saw that it would.
“Good morning, Miss Watson.” Walker gave her a peremptory bow.
“You must imagine how surprised I am to see you,” she replied.
Her attempt at a curtsy caused a definite wobble, and William reached out to steady her. She turned flashing green eyes on him.
“Thank you, but I am perfectly fine, Mr. Sherbourne,” she snapped, brushing his hand from her arm. Her attention returned to the blacksmith. “I understand I am to congratulate you, sir. You will marry soon.”
Walker gave a nod but made no response.
“I am told you have been employed at Thorne Mill these many months since the last occasion of our meeting,” Prudence continued. “Mr. Walker, what is your opinion of the treatment given the children who labor here?”
“The smithy is upstairs,” he said. “I have no children working in that place.”
“Aha, you see?” William spoke up. “All is well, Miss Watson. Your fears come to naught.”
For a moment, he believed the incident was ended. He stepped toward Prudence, determined to escort her from the building as swiftly as possible. But she turned on him.
“Whether your blacksmith or any other person in your employ dares to speak the truth, Mr. Sherbourne, I have only to look around me to see the unpardonable reality. Your mill is a death trap. You maim and cripple children every day, leaving them broken, ignorant, and without hope.”
Now she drew herself up to her full height and unleashed the last of her venom. “You, sir, are the most contemptible man I have ever met. You may be certain that wherever I go from this moment on, I shall revile and condemn your name.”
So saying, she turned and marched down the aisle between the rows of machines. William watched her go, the hem of her skirt dragging a little behind her and picking up bits of lint and dust. Without looking back, she stepped out the door and was gone.
He turned to speak to Walker, but the blacksmith was already halfway up the stairs to the second floor. Before William could take a single step, the great waterwheel came to life, machines began to crank and whine, spindles started to whirl and spit out reams of brightly colored yarn, and worsted cloth once again rolled from the looms.
The children, he noted, swiftly vanished to their posts. Invisible as they crept about the stone floor beneath the looms, the boys and girls worked in silence. William was glad. He crossed the mill to the door, making an effort to avoid meeting the eye of any in his employ. If he saw young Davy Smith, he would be unable to quell the rising tide of self-loathing that filled his chest. Of that he had no doubt.
“Evil man!” Prudence splashed her face with cold water in a vain effort to wash away her tears. “I hate him, Mary. There can be no other feeling toward such a vile, hideous wretch of a human being. I despise him to the very depths of my heart.”
Mary had ordered tea sent up to their room at the inn, and now she poured out two cups. “You may call me fickle, but I liked Mr. Sherbourne better today. I confess, Pru, I have reverted to my good opinion of him.”
“Good opinion?” Prudence whirled around to face her sister. “You have a good opinion of that beast? You must be joking! He humiliated me in front of everyone.”
“You humiliated him first, dearest.”
“But he deserved it. Did you see those poor children? So frail and ill—all of them! I have no doubt he feeds them gruel and oatcake every day of the week. And that horrid Richard Warring! Dick the Devil, they call him. I can see why. He is a cruel taskmaster. Mr. Sherbourne hired him for the express purpose of beating his charges into submission.”
“Mr. Sherbourne has not been in Yorkshire these many months, Pru. Perhaps he does not know about the abuses of his overlookers. I am sure he will put it all right tomorrow and your silly crusade must end.”
Prudence dropped into a chair, picked up a pair of tongs, and tossed two lumps of sugar into her tea. Each gave a healthy splash, spilling the hot liquid down the sides of the cup to puddle in the saucer. She did not care.
“Oh, how well he looked today,” she moaned as she stirred in a dollop of milk. “If you had seen him, Mary, you would understand exactly why my heart is broken.”
“I did see him, and I thought him among the handsomest gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
“You saw Mr. Walker?”
“I saw William Sherbourne.” Mary took a sip of tea. “I shall never forget his kindness to me. He ordered a stool brought over, and he settled me onto it with the most tender and kindhearted concern.”
“Then marry him yourself if you like him so well. He treated me abominably.”
�
�Measure for measure,” Mary intoned. “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”
“I would knock out all his teeth if I could. Horrid man.”
A knock on the door brought Mary to her feet. A housekeeper stood in the hall bearing a tray that held a letter. In a moment, the door was closed again and Mary had broken the seal as she returned to her chair.
“It is from Lady Thorne,” she exclaimed. “She invites us to dine with the family again tonight. She most particularly wishes us to play the pianoforte and sing, for she has rarely heard anything that gave her such pleasure. Several friends and neighbors will be in attendance, she writes, for everyone is eager to know us.”
Mary set the letter on the tea table. “How honored we are by this invitation, Pru. What a fine beginning to our acquaintance with that good family.”
“But we cannot go! He will be there and no doubt determined to gloat over his victory today.”
“We most certainly shall go. The innkeeper informed me that the last coach to Nottingham departed while we were at the mill humiliating ourselves before the peasantry. We have nothing better to do this evening than visit Lord and Lady Thorne and their friends, and we must make what we can of it.”
Prudence shook her head in misery. What would Betsy Fry say to her friend’s sad attempts as a crusader? Every time the memory of Mr. Walker’s grim expression crossed Prudence’s mind, she winced. He surely hated her now, for she had exposed and shamed him before all his society. Why had she ever gone to the mill? If only she had thought her actions through to the end, she would have abandoned the idea at once.
“I believed God wanted me to better the lives of the children,” she murmured. “How could I have been so mistaken?”
“You were not mistaken at all, dear heart. Those poor children ought to be taught to read and count. They should have fresh air and the chance to run about. Certainly they must be given tasks where they will be safe and cannot fall into the millworks. But I am sure there is a better way to help them than taking the mill by storm and shouting insults at their employer.”
“There is no better way. Indeed, there is no way at all to help those little ones. If Mr. Sherbourne is making a tidy profit, why would he alter anything at the mill?”
“Perhaps because he has a good heart.”
“His heart is black and cold.”
“I am going to write to Sarah at once and ask her to find out everything she can about William Sherbourne. I believe our sister will tell us that our new friend is good and kind— just as he was to me this morning. He is a gentleman, Pru. His breeding and education are excellent. He served England in the Royal Navy. Perhaps the mill has not been at the forefront of his thoughts, but he will put it all right soon enough.”
While Mary set about finding paper and ink, Prudence sipped her tea. How could she ever show her face to William Sherbourne this evening? He was just the sort of man to enjoy making a fool of her twice in one day. His mocking wit and his snide comments would surely cut her until she had not a shred of pride.
Perhaps that had been God’s design after all, she mused. Perhaps she needed taking down a notch or two. If so, the plan had worked well, for she felt as low as a worm.
There was only one thing to do now. She must wear her pink silk gown, white gloves, and ruby necklace to dinner. If she could not shame William Sherbourne into helping the mill children, she would entice him to do it.
“The deed is done, William. You can change nothing now.” Randolph studied his younger brother across the tea table. “She will come here tonight, and you must be polite.”
As was the custom since William’s return to the Thorne-Chatham estate, he had joined his brother at tea that afternoon. Olivia sat with the men when she was at home, and quite often visitors came to the table as well.
William had learned to take pleasure in the congenial assembly of family and friends. True, it was not as hearty or raucous a gathering as some he had enjoyed, but he found the conversation stimulating, the advice sound, and the affection genuine.
Following the morning’s incident at the mill, the mists had faded and the day had grown warm. An open window ushered in the sweet scents of early spring—fields newly turned by the plow, flowers unfurling petals one by one, a hint of rain in the breeze.
The table in the sitting room at Thorne Lodge fairly groaned beneath the load of delectable treats carried up from the kitchen. Fresh currant buns, a bowl of sugared strawberries, a plate piled with thinly sliced ham and savory cheeses, and a large pot of hot strong tea crowded the round tabletop. Unpleasant news had no place in such an amiable family scene, but William could not rest until he had disclosed the debacle that now occupied all his thoughts.
Randolph received the information and fell silent, but his wife appeared scandalized.
“Had I known Miss Watson’s true character, I should never have invited her to dinner again.” Olivia’s warm eyes met William’s. “But she must be all deceit. Her beauty and charm hide her defects. By outward appearance, she is witty, clever, and accomplished, and her family connections are more than satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory? Have you forgotten that her father traded in opium?” William asked. “You informed us of his iniquities not ten minutes ago.”
“I have not forgotten what I said about Mr. Gerald Watson. I do not repeat gossip, William, and you must know that every shred of information I have reported was either taken from Miss Pickworth’s society news in The Tattler or given to me by our minister’s wife.”
“Making the information, of course, utterly and irrefutably true.”
“Yes, indeed. Miss Pickworth rarely errs in her accounts, and Harriet is never wrong.”
William could not resist teasing Olivia. He knew she enjoyed reading the society gossip in the London newspaper. He also knew she treasured her friendship with the Reverend Nigel Berridge’s wife, Harriet. The young minister’s growing family, now residing in the parsonage beside the church at Otley, brought a welcome warmth to the small town. As a boy, William had dreaded his family’s Sunday obligation to attend church services, but of late he found them more palatable.
“Mr. Watson’s superior connections in society were purchased,” Olivia continued. “Trenton House, the family’s home in London, belonged to a peer of the realm before Mr. Watson bought it. He procured his eldest daughter’s first husband, the late Lord Delacroix, in the same way.”
“He purchased a husband for his daughter?” William asked. “That is singular.”
“Lord Delacroix had a title but no money,” she explained. “The arrangement was easily made. Attachment to the Delacroix name gave Mr. Watson influence and prestige, yet I am told the marriage he made for his poor daughter was a disaster from first to last. Upon the husband’s death, she was finally free of him. But I fear our Miss Watson’s sister cannot be a sensible woman. She has taken a new husband who has no name at all and is a tea merchant in Cheapside—Charles Locke, I believe his name is.”
“Dearest wife,” Randolph said gently, “Mrs. Locke cannot help that her first husband died. Nor can we abuse her for choosing a more common man to replace him. We must grant the woman some kindness.”
“You are quite right, my dear,” Olivia agreed. “Mrs. Locke suffered a good deal before she met her new husband. Yet I wonder how much real pain she could have endured in such a case? Her father’s demise left her wealthy, and her husband’s left her titled.”
“Ah, the joys of a convenient death,” William observed. “All things considered, Miss Watson’s sister has not done badly.”
“Oh, William.” Olivia shook her head at him. “You do not take these things seriously, but you should. Miss Watson benefits greatly from her elder sister’s position in society.”
“Does that give her the right to march into my mill and incite my laborers to revolt?”
“Of course not. What can she have been thinking?”
“She was thinking of her lost love—our very own blacksmith.
”
“Are you quite sure of this information, brother?” Randolph asked, leaning forward. “Has Miss Watson formed an attachment to a native of America? Is the man not twice her age at least?”
“Thereabouts, and he is to wed one of our weavers before the year’s end. But I understand he first knew Miss Watson in quite a different circumstance. I questioned him today after the incident at the mill. He told me that the Marquess of Blackthorne has been his particular friend from childhood. It was through this connection that the acquaintance with Miss Watson was made and the attachment between them formed. He knew their mutual regard could never result in marriage, and so he ended the friendship, moved far away from the woman, and began anew.”
Randolph shook his head. “William, do you really believe Miss Watson went to the mill this morning with the express purpose of drawing the attention of our blacksmith?”
“A heart awash in love can lead a person to do many curious things,” Olivia said. “As you, my darling husband, can attest.”
Randolph smiled tenderly at his wife, yet he was not satisfied to drop the matter. “William, you report that Miss Watson actually shouted at the piecers’ overlooker? And you say she vowed to rescue the mill’s youngest laborers from their purported slavery? She seemed a sensible enough young lady yesterday. Why would she employ such extraordinary measures to draw the blacksmith’s notice? No, indeed, I begin to think Miss Watson’s true purpose was exactly as she stated.”
“You believe she fancies herself a crusader and revolutionary?” William lifted his teacup. “Have you looked at her, brother? She is too pale and pretty, too well-bred, too . . . well, she is simply too curly to lead an uprising.”
“Too curly?” Olivia laughed.
“The woman is nothing but curls and curves everywhere. She smells divine. Even when she is shouting, her voice is like honey. No, indeed, Miss Prudence Watson was created for one thing: love. It is her purpose, her design, her entire function in life.”
The Courteous Cad Page 6
