“And your sister’s husband is in the tea trade?” Olivia continued.
“Recently. He and his father formed a partnership with Lord Delacroix and several other men. They import tea from China.”
“How very nice. Will you sit?” Olivia motioned to a tufted damask chair.
Prudence all but collapsed into it. “Am I not to see Mr. Sherbourne at all, Lady Thorne?”
“I think not, for he is much occupied. Do you prefer cake with your tea? Or shall I ring for crumpets?”
“Cake is lovely, please.” As she spoke the words, she recalled Mr. Walker telling her that the mill’s children subsisted on water porridge.
“I am fond of hot crumpets,” Olivia was saying as she rang for tea. “But I find that cake satisfies me more. I believe we shall have currant cake, for I ordered one yesterday.”
She spoke briefly to the maid before returning to Prudence. “And how does Mrs. Heathhill fare this morning? I must tell you that her turn at the pianoforte last night delighted everyone. My husband declared he has rarely heard anything that pleased him more.”
“My sister is well, but am I not to go riding? not at all?”
“Perhaps another time. Though I understand you do not plan to stay much longer in Yorkshire. Is that so?”
“We . . . we . . . Truly I must speak to Mr. Sherbourne, madam. It is a subject of much consequence, and I fear it cannot be delayed even one more hour.”
“Oh?” Olivia’s brown eyes darkened. “Well . . . if you will excuse me a moment . . . I shall just go and speak to my husband.”
Prudence nodded. “Thank you very much.”
Lady Thorne left the sitting room as the tea was being brought in. Envisioning mutinous schemes among Thorne Lodge’s household staff, Prudence studied the expression of the kitchenmaid who set the tray on a table before her. The young woman’s face was composed, her attention consumed by cutting slices of currant cake and pouring out cups of tea.
But just as Prudence relaxed into her chair, she heard the woman mumble something. Sitting up, she touched the maid’s arm. “Excuse me? Did you say something?”
Blue eyes flashed in her direction for an instant. “Thank you, Miss Watson,” she whispered. “My three little brothers are piecers and my sister is a scavenger at the mill. We are most grateful for what you done for ’em. You are the bravest lady I ever met.”
Prudence opened her mouth to respond, but Olivia reentered the sitting room followed by her husband. William was just behind them.
“Ah, Miss Watson,” Lord Thorne greeted her, bowing as she stood to curtsy. “Delighted to see you again so soon. You are looking very well today.”
“Thank you, sir.” She looked at William, her mouth suddenly dry. “Mr. Sherbourne, are we not to go riding this morning? I very much wished to go riding.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “I understand, of course . . . but my brother’s steward—”
“He has come from London, yes, but you promised to take me out. I am very eager to ride, sir. Terribly eager.”
“You are?” He looked at Randolph before facing her again. “But you see, Miss Watson, I have not completed the task you assigned.”
“Task?”
“I was to read the Gospel of St. John.”
With dismay she recalled the duty she had teasingly dispensed. “Indeed, but the most important part is in chapter three. Surely you read that far.”
“I fear not. I was otherwise engaged last night.”
“You were? After I left?” She studied the man, trying without success to read his expression. Was he angry? disinterested? troubled? She had always been good at discerning people’s thoughts, but William was as inscrutable as ever.
“‘For God so loved the world,’” Olivia spoke up, “‘that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ John 3:16.”
“How well you recite Scripture, my dear,” Randolph told her warmly. “Did you know, Miss Watson, that my wife and I first met inside Otley’s little church?”
“Indeed, they are very religious. Both of them.” William awarded his brother a smirk. “One cannot even think of wine, women, or cards in Randolph’s presence. He sniffs out every hint of sin, compelling the offender to fall to his knees in repentance.”
“And of all sinners, William, you are chief,” Randolph retorted. “Miss Watson, be very grateful my steward’s arrival spared you the misery of my brother’s company this morning.”
“But I must speak to him privately. About the mill. About the labor.” She divulged her mission with such frankness that even she was startled. William and his family absorbed the news with consternation.
“Miss Watson, you may say whatever you wish about the mill in the presence of my family,” William assured her. “My brother constructed the building, and I established the worsted trade.”
“Indeed,” Olivia concurred, “and the better part of the mill stands on my family’s ancestral land. The stream that powers the great waterwheel flows across our estate. There is nothing you have to say, Miss Watson, that should be kept secret from any of us.”
“But my message has no bearing on you or your husband. Rather I seek privacy because I must protect the source of my information.”
“Of course you must,” William agreed.
Prudence looked for a sign of condescension, but his expression remained stoic. The thought that William’s life might be in danger compelled her to persist.
“Then you will be pleased to take me riding, as you promised?” she asked.
The brothers eyed each other, sending unspoken messages. At last, Randolph spoke.
“Do as you wish, William. The steward has concluded any glad tidings about our affairs and is eager to launch into the gloomy forecasts of which he is so fond. Your day will be brighter in Miss Watson’s company.”
“Suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune without me, then,” William said. “Though I suspect Miss Watson may have a few darts up her sleeve as well.”
“William, do be kind!” Olivia admonished with a laugh. “Miss Watson is our guest.”
“And a lovely one at that.” He held out an arm. “Shall we?”
Seven
The young woman in a yellow gown and matching bonnet gave William the surprise of his life. Prudence Watson, with her countless curls, pink lips, and sparkling green eyes, rode like a boy. Like a daring, reckless boy.
The moment they left the stable and set out across the moor, she urged her chestnut mare into a canter and then into a gallop that left her escort far behind. Despite the sidesaddle that encumbered her, she leaned into the horse and became a streak of gold across the horizon.
William held his breath as the mare leapt across a stream and made for a low rock wall. His own pace was impeded by a large wicker basket containing hot tea, cake, and a porcelain tea set—a burden insisted upon by Olivia, who would not hear of their missing tea—and he rode at too great a distance to avert disaster. Yet under Prudence’s controlling hand, the mare effortlessly surmounted the wall. Continuing on the other side, she thundered up a rocky outcrop and disappeared into a thicket of oak trees, her rider a yellow blur.
Stunned at the display of horsemanship, William pondered the woman as he followed her toward the grove. Perhaps Prudence Watson truly had wanted nothing more than an outing on horseback. She had told Randolph she liked riding. It was possible that her mention of secret information was a ruse to lure William away from the meeting in the library.
As he entered the copse, William spotted Prudence seated on a large, flat rock near a gurgling pool. She had removed her bonnet, placed it beside her, and lifted her face to the sunlight. The mare grazed along the water’s edge.
“Aha, Miss Watson,” William called out. He dismounted and unbuckled the tea basket, then led his horse toward her through the trees. “You wished to escape me, but I have tracked you down at last.”
“Escape you?” She
turned her head, and he saw that her glossy curls had come loose from their pins and now cascaded down her back. “How can you say such a thing? I am waiting for you that we may discuss in private a most dire circumstance.”
William had to bite his tongue to prevent an inappropriate comment about Prudence’s fondness for secret têteà- têtes. Surely she had to know how such clandestine encounters would be perceived by a suitor. Yet she appeared quite unaware. Did the woman have no idea how her appearance—such breathless, flushed beauty—might affect a man?
Pools of innocence, her green eyes followed William as he stepped onto the slab of granite and sat beside her. She opened the basket, poured two cups of steaming tea, added milk and sugar, and placed slices of cake on two small china plates. Setting out the little picnic, she seemed as artless as a child, disarrayed from riding, eager to tell him her news, and utterly ignorant of the havoc she played in his heart.
“What is this dire circumstance?” he asked, removing his tall hat and leather gloves and setting them near her ostrich-plumed bonnet.
Her information had come from the blacksmith, of course. William thought again of the passionate exchange he had witnessed, a surreptitious tryst that had ended with Prudence kissing Walker’s hand. She might appear naïve, but she had the wiles of a skilled seductress.
“I have had news about the mill,” she announced as she offered a teacup and cake. “It is most important that you listen carefully to what I say, Mr. Sherbourne. I beg you to heed my advice and take action at once.”
“Then speak, madam. I am ready ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.’”
“Do not tease me, sir. I know my Shakespeare, and you are no Hamlet.”
He laughed at this. “How can you say such a thing? You may know your Shakespeare, Miss Watson, but you hardly know me. I assure you I have endured several tragedies worthy of Ophelia’s tears.”
“But I am not Ophelia. No man could make me weep or go mad. I can assure you without hesitation that lovelorn hysterics will never lead me to throw myself into a rushing stream and drown.”
“No? What about your blacksmith? I daresay you would do anything for him.”
Her eyes sparked. “Do not mention Mr. Walker to me again. He is a good man—indeed, he is the very best of men. You know nothing about the friendship between us. It was innocent and pure.”
“Innocent?” William pictured again the ardent scene he had witnessed from the shadows. “Walker is well-intentioned, I suppose. But you? Perhaps you are not the angel you would have us all believe.”
She was silent for a moment, her eyes fastened on him. After a sip of tea, she spoke again. “You are quite right, Mr. Sherbourne. You see me more clearly than most men do. My appearance is something I have learned to use to my advantage.”
“Trapping us in our own folly. I confess, I succumbed as swiftly as any of your suitors.”
“More swiftly than most.”
Again, he laughed—this time in spite of himself. “So, you have toppled me, Miss Watson. I am your humble, groveling servant and will do anything you command.”
“I am happy to hear that,” she replied, “for I am asking you to improve the working conditions at your mill—at once. The children must labor no more than ten hours a day. You will engage the services of a teacher to ensure that every boy and every girl learns to read and write. You will feed them good warm meat and fresh bread every day. And cake . . . you must give them cake.”
“Cake! School! A ten-hour day! Good heavens, dear lady, you will ruin me before the year is out.”
“You have enough money to hire a teacher,” she argued, setting her teacup aside. She held out her slice of uneaten currant cake. “You have more than enough to eat. An extra cake now and then cannot ruin you.”
“My dear Miss Watson, you know nothing of my finances.” He took the cake and set it aside with their teacups. “And as for your ten-hour day—if I release the children early, I must send the adults home too. Without scavengers and pickers, my looms will produce nothing but rags.”
“But the children can scarcely hobble home after a day’s work at your mill. They are crippled not only by your cruel machines but also by the beating of your wicked overlookers!”
“I employ the most efficient overlookers in England,” he shot back.
“You have hired beasts!” She leaned toward him, prodding his chest with her index finger. “You allow those animals to pummel the children into submission! Your looms are death traps. Your fine worsted is woven with the pain and suffering of children. You are as cruel and pitiless as Dick the Devil!”
He caught her hand in his. “If I am a devil, be assured I never claimed to be anything better. But you? You tease and tempt men to their doom. I have seen your wiles, woman, and you will not get the better of me.”
But even as he spoke, he took her in his arms and kissed her. He was rough, holding her close and searing her mouth with his. If he expected resistance, he got none. She slipped her arms around him, welcoming his embrace and eagerly meeting his kisses with her soft lips. A low moan escaped her throat, and she pulled back.
“Oh, what have I done?” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “I must go. I am no crusader. I am weak and pathetic in every way.”
She reached for her bonnet, but he stopped her arm. “Stay,” he ground out, drawing her close again. “Stay and let me try to make you as mad for me as poor Ophelia for her Danish prince.”
“Do not torment me, sir.” Her eyes searched his. “I am nearly undone as it is. I am not the unfeeling temptress you suppose. There are few men who could touch my heart, but I fear you may be one of them.”
With that, she pushed away from him and stood. “They are going to kill you,” she told him, her voice quavering with emotion. “The mill workers hate your thunderous machines and your polluted air and your wicked overlookers. I have seen and heard their agonies. If you do not make corrections, sir, they will kill you. Do you hear me? They will kill you!”
Lifting her skirts, she fled the granite stone. She mounted her horse with an elegance and speed unthinkable in one so encumbered by petticoats. Before William had digested her dire warnings, she was gone.
He let out a hot breath and raked his fingers through his hair. Kill him? He might have thought her cautions ridiculous had they not struck so close to home. His own beloved father had been slain not many years before. Shot through the heart. The death had been deemed an accident or a suicide until circumstances revealed the truth.
Reflecting on the mill, William felt again the terrible reality of his predicament. Even if he wished to shorten the workers’ hours, he could not afford to risk the loss in production. Nor did he have funds to pay a teacher or feed the children meat and bread. As for cake . . .
No, William had decreed his lifelong sentence, crafted his own prison, forged the bars that held him away from hope, from joy, from love.
He stood, picked up his hat, and saw where Prudence’s bonnet had tumbled aside. Lifting it, he ran his fingers through the wispy plumes. Then he spotted a single strand of the woman’s hair clinging to the bonnet’s silken ribbon. He removed it and held it to the sunlight. Gilded and shimmering, the curl danced in the breeze that drifted off the moor.
This was all he would ever have of her, he realized. The woman herself could never be his. Even so, he released the strand and watched it dance and sway and waft away into the shadows of the glade.
Prudence flung open the door to her room at the inn, entered, and then slammed it shut. Mary looked up from her embroidery in surprise. Noting the expression on her sister’s face, she stood.
“Oh, dear, this cannot be good.” Mary sighed. “I hope the calamity was not of your making.”
“My making? Do I own a mill and force children to labor sixteen hours a day? Do I quote Shakespeare and make a mockery of my family and friends? Do I kiss and then keep kissing a poor, innocent woman until she is utterly vanquished?”
“I should hope not.” Mary tried to hide a smile. “I have not known you to kiss many women in your lifetime.”
“But he has! William Sherbourne is a roué, I tell you. He is a cad of the very worst order. He woos and courts his prey until they are jelly and can do nothing to salvage their hearts.”
“It is some time since I have seen you so overwrought, sister. Do sit down and tell me what has happened. By your humor I can only expect the worst. But by your words, I wonder if true love may be in bloom.”
“That man has never known true love in his life!” Prudence dropped into a soft chair near the window and drew back the curtain. “Oh, I wish I had never gone to see him! I wish I could undo a hundred errors I have made in these recent years. I should be terribly happy if I had never met Mr. Walker. I should be blissful if I had not passed through Otley. And I should be very, very . . . very . . .”
“Pru? Are you weeping?”
“No,” she sniffled. “I am angry.”
“Take my handkerchief, dearest.” Mary held out the delicate scrap. “Now dry your eyes and tell me everything. Will you and William Sherbourne ride again tomorrow?”
“Never! I shall not see him again, I assure you. His charm and wit hide a black heart. Unfeeling man!”
“Why, because he will not ruin his worsted trade to please you? You would have him reduce the mill to rubble, Pru. You would have the looms torn down and burned to ash. You would have the engines melted into slag. And then what would the people eat? What would those poor creatures wear but rags? By your own account, they must be forced to leave their homes, their dear little village, and journey to Manchester or some other such vile place in search of employment in a mill three times as loud and dirty as Mr. Sherbourne’s.”
“A landlord worthy of that title provides honest, wholesome labor for his tenants-just as William Sherbourne and his brother ought to do.”
“Where? One estate can support only so many gardeners. One great home can provide positions for a staff of housekeepers and footmen but no more. The mill is a blessing indeed, Pru, and you must stop hounding poor Mr. Sherbourne about it.”
The Courteous Cad Page 9
