The Courteous Cad

by Catherine Palmer

  She took a step back. “I am going, and I should very much like for you to join me. Look!”

  Holding up a basket, she showed him a pair of ragged trousers, a patched shirt, and wooden clogs. “I took these from the line outside the kitchen. They are still a bit damp, but—”

  “You are wearing damp clothes? In your condition! Prudence, are you mad?”

  “Madly happy, for, you see, I have finally found good reason to live. As long as I tortured myself with accusations about my part in causing the march to Manchester and tormented myself for having turned you away, I could barely summon the strength to walk from one room to the next. But now look at me!”

  “I see you—and you are still unwell, and you must go back to bed.” He reached for her, but she danced away. He growled, “Prudence, do not make me shout. I shall wake the whole house.”

  “Do not shout,” she sang out in a soft voice. “Follow me!”

  As she started down the stairs, she heard him coming— muttering about damp gowns and wooden shoes and impossible women. Suppressing a laugh, she tiptoed past the wing of the house that Mary and her daughter had taken during Prudence’s convalescence. Now she was at the front door, but she thought better of it and made for the parlor to one side.

  “Wait.”

  A hand clamped over hers as she reached for the handle of the long glassed door. From behind, William folded her into his arms and held her close. His breath warmed her hair and the back of her neck. His cheek pressed against hers.

  How could it be, she wondered, that a man who had done so much wrong was so perfectly right . . . for her? How had she, who always tried to tread the good and moral and decent path, so easily forgiven a man who had walked the treacherous path to destruction for much of his life?

  But was this not exactly what God did again and again?

  He so loved Prudence—and every other fallible wretch—that when any of them begged His forgiveness, He gave it. Gave it willingly. Gave it gladly. Gave with compassion and mercy.

  “I love you, Prudence,” William said. “If I lose you . . . if anything happens to you . . . if your health is endangered in any way—”

  “Shh,” she said, turning within his embrace and placing her finger on his lips as he had done hers not many hours before.

  “Let us trust God with our lives. Let us grant Him our faith.”

  “And your sisters? When they find us both gone, they will assume we have eloped to Gretna Green.”

  “Never fear. I left a note.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips. “Come, Will the stableman, for the moon is rising.”

  “Stableman?” he asked, linking arms with her as they slipped out through the side door and set off down the road. “I should at least like to be inside the house. A footman, perhaps.”

  “No, indeed. You will never make a good footman, for you are too well formed to stand about in liveried silks while waiting to deliver messages or open carriage doors. You must work outside in the stables, lifting buckets of oats and shoveling—”

  “I draw the line there, Polly the scullery maid. I shall be happy to carry oats, curry horses, or polish saddles, but I will not muck out the stalls.”

  She laughed. “You must do as I say, sir.”

  “Indeed, I must.” He caught her around the waist and tugged off her mobcap. As her curls spilled onto her shoulders, she cried out and grabbed for the scrap of gathered cotton.

  “Oh, William, you are very bad! It took me half an hour to hide all my hair inside that cap.”

  “I could not go on until I had seen your ringlets. Only they can assure me that you are you.”

  “Of course I am me! Who else would I be?” She snatched the mobcap from his hands. “Help me, William, for you are the cause of this calamity.”

  “With pleasure, my dear,” he said, cupping a mound of glossy curls in his hand. But instead of continuing to tease her, he spoke in a low voice. “I never thought to have this privilege, Prudence. I never imagined that—”

  A fit of coughing seized her all at once, stopping his words and nearly collapsing her onto the road. William caught her in his arms and held her until the spell subsided.

  “Dear God,” he murmured. “Dear God, do not let this illness go on, I beg You. I beg You!”

  Prudence clung to William, drawing hope from his prayer and strength from his embrace. God would be with them, she knew. He was with them now. Even now.

  Pentrich’s market square was coming to life as Prudence left William for their separate missions. Hooking her basket over one arm, she began perusing the stalls. Fishmongers laid out salted eel, pickled herring, and dried mackerel. Dairymen arranged wheels of yellow cheese and stacked rounds of butter. The meat market occupied one entire side of the square, and Prudence glanced there now and again to reassure herself of William’s presence.

  He was examining the legs of mutton hanging from hooks, an array of plump ox tongues, a pig’s head, a row of live chickens suspended by their feet, and several ham hocks. Greeting the butchers and poultrymen, he engaged them in amiable conversation. One, he slapped on the back as they laughed at some joke. Another seemed eager for a lengthy discourse.

  “Mornin’ to ye,” an egg seller called out as Prudence passed by her makeshift stall. “These are fresh—still warm from the hen, in fact. See for yourself!”

  Prudence hefted a couple of eggs, paid for them, and set them gingerly in her basket. A young woman nearby was assembling a display of vegetables—green beans, peas, tomatoes, leeks, and potatoes. Prudence picked up a bean.

  “You must have planted early,” she commented. “These look small but tasty.”

  “They are very sweet, I assure you. Try one, if you will.”

  “Thanks, but I am looking for cheese today.”

  “Yet, take a few beans, will you? I must sell them all, or my husband will join . . .” She fell silent and nervously began lining up her leeks. “He was a stockinger, you know.”

  “Ah,” Prudence said, clucking in sympathy. She did not know what had happened to the woman’s husband, but she could imagine. “So many are unwaged these days. I cannot blame the men for what they do.”

  “Nay, yet I wish they could find another way.”

  “A law,” Prudence said. “A very good law or two should do it.”

  The woman laughed without mirth. “Next time I’m sitting in Parliament, I’ll pass one for you.”

  “You are right—the idea is far-fetched. Still, a law must be better than a revolt.”

  “Without doubt. My sixth is unwell, and if aught becomes of her father, I cannot imagine but it will kill her straight out.”

  “Give me a measure of beans, then. Perhaps you can buy a tincture to ease her distress.” She held out a few coins.

  The woman had just taken them when another bout of coughing wracked Prudence.

  “You’re ill too,” the woman said. “Wicked sick, by the sound of it.”

  “Mill fever,” Prudence explained. “I was a spinner in Yorkshire.”

  “You’re new here, I see, but you understand how we suffer.” She dropped her voice. “Oliver has ordered the rising to begin tonight, and I wager my husband will be among the men.”

  Prudence was surprised at how swiftly the secret plans were revealed. If it was so easy for her to get information, surely the government must know too.

  “I have never met Oliver,” she said. “Do you know him well?”

  “Does anyone?” The woman set the beans in Prudence’s basket. “He stands just over there with the Nottingham captain. In the mackerel.”

  Looking toward the fishmongers’ stalls, Prudence spotted a cluster of men discussing something with great animation. Among them stood William, looking for all the world like a stableman.

  “That sallow, ill-looking chap?” Prudence asked. “Is he the Nottingham captain?”

  “Aye, Jeremiah Brandreth he calls himself. Like my husband, he were a stockinger once. He come from Sutton-in-Ashfield to l
ead the rising.” She clucked as she rearranged her beans. “Thomas Bacon used to direct the reform meetings. He went about the Midlands and the North visiting one meeting and another. He’s the one who first told us about the insurrection plans.”

  At that, Prudence had to stifle a gasp. “An insurrection?”

  “Aye, lass. Men from Yorkshire, Nottingham, and who-knows-where plan to march on London and overthrow the government.”

  “Oh, heavens. They can never win.”

  “And Thomas Bacon agrees with you. He feared he’d been found out and would be arrested. So he went to ground at Booth’s Hovel.”

  “I cannot blame him. But which man is Oliver?”

  The vegetable seller pointed him out. “The captain leads the meetings at Asherfield’s Barn and the White Horse pub, but Oliver is the one who set the date for the rising and prodded everyone to agree.”

  “I must go,” Prudence murmured, starting away. “This is dreadful. Simply dreadful. They will all be killed.”

  “But what about your cheese?”

  Unable to delay a moment longer, Prudence left the woman and hurried across to the meat market. To her dismay, the promise of morning sun had quickly given way to a rolling fog. As she neared the stall where William stood inspecting dressed geese, rain began to fall.

  “William, we must talk,” she said, holding his arm for support. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The rising will be tonight.”

  With a nod, he led her through the meat market toward the flower stalls. “Jeremiah Brandreth leads the seditious meetings,” he said. “But it is this chap Oliver who prods the men to revolt. Did you learn where they have been gathering?”

  “Asherfield’s Barn and the White Horse public house,” she said.

  “Oliver told me the men will depart for Nottingham at ten tonight. They’ll gather at Hunt’s Barn in South Wingfield and march out from there. Prudence, they are well armed.”

  “But what can they have? Sticks and stones?”

  “Brandreth has assured everyone that they will collect more men and arms en route. When they reach Nottingham, he has promised, each will get 100 guineas, bread, beef, and ale.”

  “Reason enough to join the march.”

  William hurried her out of the rain and into the dimly lit recesses of a small inn. He settled her before the fire and went to order tea. A contingent of soldiers occupied several tables nearby, and Prudence prayed they soon would leave. She could feel a chill creeping up her back and spreading into her chest, and it worried her. Of late, the doctors had begun to give her hope for a return to normal life, but they cautioned against exposure to the elements or vigorous exercise.

  “Tonight,” one of the soldiers was saying, his voice muffled by the drumming rain on the windowpanes. “That’s what he told us. Tonight at a barn in South Wingfield.”

  “Whose barn?” another asked.

  “He’ll give us the name soon enough.”

  Stiffening, Prudence realized at once that the soldiers were discussing the rising she had learned of in the vegetable market. She ducked to hide her face as she continued to listen.

  “Where do they go?” a soldier asked.

  “Nottingham. And thence to London to overthrow Parliament and banish the king.”

  This was met with hearty laughter and a call for more ale.

  As a serving maid arrived with a pitcher, William returned to the table where Prudence awaited him.

  Laying her hand over his, she leaned forward. Speaking in the barest of whispers, she began to relate the information she had overheard.

  William glanced at the soldiers now and again, his brow furrowed. “If they know of the rising already,” he murmured, “then a turncoat has given them the information. Someone who meets with Brandreth and the other men must be ferrying details to the troops.”

  “We must tell the men at once,” she said. “Lest they be ambushed.”

  “They will not listen. I did everything but give Brandreth my true name in an effort to caution him, but he ignored my warnings.”

  “Perhaps Brandreth himself has betrayed the rebels. Might he be working for the king as a spy?”

  “Fomenting an uprising so he will be able to report insurrection and be well rewarded? An agent provocateur—indeed, it is possible. If Brandreth is urging the rebels and betraying them to the troops, he will be protected.”

  “Then what can be done? It will be another March of the Blanketeers—but worse. If the insurgents are armed, the soldiers will have an excuse to fire on them.”

  “What we can do and must do is return you to Delacroix’s home and the care of your sisters. Prudence, you must know that these marches and protests can accomplish very little. America succeeded in throwing off the king. Another monarch was conquered in France. But you can be very sure that in England, the Crown will continue.”

  “I cannot deny what you say is true, William. But the ill treatment of children and their parents who labor in the mills and factories must end.”

  “The aristocracy knows the people are restless. But they will not listen to revolutionary rhetoric.”

  “Then they should be prodded in another way. Change must occur.”

  “What were you singing yesterday when I found you? Something about a law in Parliament?”

  She smiled in discomfiture at her silly ditty. “I think laws should be brought before Parliament. Good laws that will ensure the safety and welfare of the labor force.”

  “Sing it, Prudence.”

  Aware her cheeks were flushed, she nevertheless sang softly. “A law, a law, a very good law. The very best law that I ever saw. Take it away to Parliament . . . the very best law that ever was sent.”

  William laughed. “I like it far better than the rallying cry of the French.”

  “Liberté, égalité, fraternité. My verse is not quite so eloquently spoken though.” She glanced at the soldiers. “William, what are we to do? We cannot simply pretend to ourselves that we know nothing of the coming debacle. No, we shall not sit idly by. We must learn the name of the traitor and reveal his identity to those poor men lest they are slaughtered.”

  William studied the diamond-paned window before speaking. “Prudence, can you trust me to resolve this? Will you allow me to put you into a carriage and send you home? I shall do all in my power to halt the revolt. If I can learn the name of the agent provocateur, I will expose him. Please grant me that measure of your confidence, and my heart will press me on.”

  She considered his request. It hardly seemed wise to place her faith in a man who trailed behind him a life of debauchery and waste. William had very few good deeds to boast about and mountains of evil to try to overcome.

  Yet he looked at her now with his deep brown eyes, begging her to give him what he did not deserve—her trust, her understanding, her love. She had forgiven him already, even for wrongs he had not confessed. And so her choice was made.

  “I shall return to Henry and my sisters,” she said. “Do what you can, William. Their lives are in your hands.”

  “As is your hope that I may rise above my reputation.”

  She smiled. “You read me well.”

  “And why not? We are chums, after all.”

  A maid brought a tray of tea and cake. Prudence drew off the tattered shawl she had worn over her gown, tugged the mobcap from her head, and arranged her curls. As William slipped out of the inn, she heard one of the soldiers give a muffled cry of surprise.

  “Look over there,” he whispered far too loudly. “When did she come in?”

  “Another sip of ale to fortify me,” another requested, “and I shall make so bold as to pay a visit to the lady’s tea table.”

  With a sigh, Prudence leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and waited for the accustomed response to her golden curls and pretty face. It was not long in coming.

  “I have news! I have news!”

  Waving a copy of the London Star, Mary ran across the grass toward Prudence, who wa
s seated on a swing reading Samson Agonistes and wishing not to be disturbed.

  “If it is Miss Pickworth of whom you speak,” Prudence told her sister, “I shall thank you to take it away. I am in no humor to hear her thoughts on the latest fashion in necklines.”

  “I shall have you know that Miss Pickworth writes about far more than necklines,” a breathless Mary said on arriving at the giant oak tree that supported the swing. “Her advice to young ladies is very useful and well considered. But this is not about Miss Pickworth. It is about the Pentrich Revolution.”

  “Does the press call that ill-fated rising a revolution?” Prudence stepped away from the swing and snatched the paper—but she soon passed it back again. “What does it say about Mr. Sherbourne? Oh, Mary, please read it to me, for I am all atremble. It has been nearly a week, and I have heard nothing from him. Where can he be? Why has he not returned to us? What has become of him?”

  “‘Six Men Will Hang,’” Mary announced.

  Prudence fell back against the oak tree. “Oh, dear God, please not that!”

  “My word, Prudence,” Mary exclaimed. “William Sherbourne is not among them, of course. How could you think such a thing?”

  “How am I to know what to think when you blurt out such news willy-nilly?”

  “It was not willy-nilly. It was the headline. Now listen and you will soon know what to think.” Mary resumed reading. “‘For their roles as traitors in the Pentrich Revolution, Jeremiah Brandreth, Isaac Ludlam, and William Turner were today sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.’”

  Prudence gasped. “So severe a punishment?”

  “The men will not actually hang until they are dead, you know,” Mary explained. “They will remain alive to be cut open and their intestines drawn out—”

  “Mary, stop! For heaven’s sake, spare me!” Prudence grabbed the paper away again. “‘Fourteen men will be transported to Australia. Six more will be jailed.’ This is harsh justice indeed.”

  “If you think the sentence cruel,” Mary said, “you must read what they did.”

  “And I shall, if you will stop interrupting.” Prudence cleared her throat. “‘On the night of June 9, two groups of armed insurgents set out from Pentrich to knock on farm doors and force other men to join their march. They met with resistance at once. During a dispute with the Widow Hepworth, her servant Robert Walters was fatally shot.’”