“You may take your ease on that account, Mary. I shall never hound Mr. Sherbourne again, for I shall never see him again.”
“Oh, Pru, were you rude to the poor man?”
“On the contrary. I was gentility itself. He is the one who kisses me left and right until I can hardly keep my wits.”
“Does he truly kiss you? kiss you as a man with genuine love kisses his lady?”
Prudence looked down at her hands, recalling how William had pressed his lips against hers, how he had held her so close she could hardly breathe, how his fingers had threaded through her hair and made her weak with longing. Even now, she could smell the scent of his skin, taste the sweetness of his kisses, feel again the rough brush of his cheek against hers.
William was no Mr. Walker—restrained and respectable even in declaring his love for her. Too aware of the difference in their ages and social class, Walker had held back, trying to protect Prudence from her own passion.
But William had no such compunctions. He made his desires known. He eagerly embraced her whenever possible, and his stolen kisses were given full rein.
“Pru, do you love him?” Mary asked gently.
Prudence lifted her head. “I don’t know. I cannot say how I feel, for my mind swims and my heart aches each time he comes near me.”
“That is as near a description of love as I have heard in many a year. We must find a way to put you together again.”
“No!” Prudence stood. “Heaven forbid! I must not see him! Ever! Indeed, I must return to London with all possible haste.”
“And abandon the poor mill children? Really, Pru, I thought you more compassionate than that.”
“Do not mock me, Mary! I have had more than enough teasing. You think me silly. He thinks me mad. But I am a grown woman, and I insist on being treated as such. I have great compassion for the mill children. Relieving their suffering is my life’s ambition. But how can I stay in Otley when he is here? I can hardly think in his presence. And he cannot control his passions in mine.”
“Then return to London and write letters to Parliament.
Better yet, write to the king.”
“The king has lost his faculties and hardly knows where he is. He can do nothing to save the children, nor would he. As for the prince regent—”
“The prince regent is much occupied sorting his mistresses from his wives. I believe we must leave him to his task.”
Prudence mustered a faint grin but her heart was too burdened to laugh.
“I shall return to London and speak to Sarah about the mills,” she said. “You know as well as I that our sister’s wealth and connections give her great influence. She is compassionate, too. Perhaps she will convince Lord Delacroix to take the matter before the House of Lords.”
“Sarah would rather convince Lord Delacroix to take you to be his lawful wedded wife.” Mary lifted a letter from the table near her chair. “I have heard from Sarah. She writes that Delacroix returned from the Orient as handsome and charming as we all had hoped.”
“I did not hope him to be handsome or charming,” Prudence retorted. “I did not like Delacroix when we first met, and I shall like him even less now. Does Sarah mean to force me into his presence on every occasion?”
“Indeed, and with all possible haste.”
“Does she write of Mr. Sherbourne? Has she learned the truth about his character?”
“This letter was written before she received my inquiry. All the same, I am certain she will be distressed by your new avocation as a crusader and wish you safely tucked away at Trenton House, wife to an adoring husband and mother to countless happy children.”
“Wife and mother? No, Mary, neither of you will compel me into such a state until I meet a man I can truly love.”
“But you may like Delacroix more than you now can believe. Since you last met, he has seen the world and made his mark on it. Come, Prudence, let’s pack our trunks and set our hearts toward home.”
“But my heart is with the mill children. I cannot leave them.” She shook her head. “Nor can I stay here in Otley. Oh, dear!”
While Mary took pen to paper, no doubt informing their sister of the weary travelers she soon could expect to welcome home, Prudence pondered her dire situation. If she returned to London, she would have to endure the efforts of her sisters to marry her off to a suitable husband. Abominable thought!
Her outing on the moors that morning had touched Prudence’s heart in more ways than one. She could never deny that William Sherbourne somehow had managed to take her thoughts captive. Though stubborn to a fault, he was witty, clever, and very amiable indeed. Add to that his handsome face and deep brown eyes. Not to mention his kisses . . .
If she were not careful, Prudence might never be able to think of anything else. Or anyone.
Equally distressing, she had discovered a new and even more attractive side to William. He loved the out-of-doors as much as she. Even burdened with an awkward tea basket, he had displayed impeccable horsemanship. If she had seen a finer figure riding anywhere in England, she could not recall it.
But the plight of the child laborers at Thorne Mill troubled her most of all. In the end, the decision was easy.
“I have changed my mind, Mary,” she said at last. “You must go to London without me. I cannot leave until I have discovered some means by which I may aid the mill children.”
“Stay in Otley?” Mary cried. “By yourself? Inconceivable!”
“No, indeed. I am safe and happy just as I am. The innkeeper and his wife are good, and their staff will see to my needs. Your baby awaits, Mary, and you simply cannot stay here longer. Go home. Take tea with Sarah, and craft schemes to marry me to as many men as you wish. I shall join you when my mission is accomplished.”
“If you remain in Otley, Prudence, the family at Thorne Lodge will hear of it at once. You must be asked to dinner again, to balls, indeed to every entertainment they host. You will see Mr. Sherbourne on many occasions. I can only deduce that you have cast your lot with him. Shall I tell our sister that your future happiness lies in Yorkshire?”
“You deduce wrong. My happiness has nothing to do with Mr. Sherbourne or his great estate. I intend to decline all invitations from Thorne Lodge until the family finally surrenders to my polite disinterest in their company.”
“And just how do you propose to assist the mill children without making an utter fool of yourself—again?”
Prudence studied the ebb and flow of people on the street below their window. Though she did not know the answer to her sister’s question, an idea began to present itself. An irrational idea, but a promising one all the same.
She turned to Mary. “I shall inform you of my method for rescuing the children when the task has been accomplished. Until then, my lips are sealed.”
With a rather dramatic sigh, Mary tossed a bonnet into her trunk. “Stay, then. But you know too well that I must send someone to chaperone you in my place. It cannot be Sarah, for she is much occupied. Whoever your chaperone may be, look for her within the week.”
Prudence’s heart lifted at last. A week . . . if not more . . . alone. She could almost see God smiling on her.
Almost.
“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 a
gain. 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?”
The Courteous Cad Page 10
