Prudence Pursued (17 page)

As she helped Eleanor unpack the hamper, Prudence realized how much she’d come to come to enjoy the easy companionship of the Greenwoods. She would miss the couple sorely when they left Bath, particularly Eleanor. “Now, what of your surprise, Eleanor? Is it time to reveal all?” she asked her friend. “You hinted at Lady Brownell’s rout you and Mr. Greenwood have exciting news to share. Are we to anticipate the birth of another Baby Greenwood in the near future, perhaps?”

Eleanor blushed prettily. Her eyes sparkled. “No, but I think you will be pleased.” Ducking her head, she proceeded to retrieve a box of hard-boiled eggs from the hamper, giving no indication that she was ready to share confidences yet.

Sighing, Prudence guessed the Greenwoods would reveal their news in time and decided to find an opportunity to have a private word with Clarissa. She was unable to contrive how this might be accomplished with so many other people around. Prudence was eager to ask Clarissa if she’d discovered anything regarding Harry’s feelings for Margaret—or lack thereof. Had Clarissa even had time to discuss the matter with her brother? Or the possibility Margaret might be in love with him?

During the sumptuous al fresco meal, Prudence could not help noting how friendly her cousin’s manner was toward Mr. Ludlow. The young man seemed earnest and personable. His attempts at gallantry were a bit awkward but endearing. Margaret beamed with happiness as she sat next to him, chatting easily. Studying the pair from under her lashes, Prudence wondered if it was perhaps Robert Ludlow after all who had captured her cousin’s heart and not Harry Paige.

Prudence soon discovered she was not the only one watching the tête-à-tête between Margaret and Robert. James plopped himself down beside her and reached for the last ham sandwich. “I saw you talking to young Ludlow earlier when we were marching up the hill. He’s a good-looking young whelp.”

Relishing his nearness, Prudence felt her heart soar. They were alone on the blanket, just the two of them, having been abandoned momentarily by the other members of the party. Eleanor and Arthur were instructing Margaret and Clarissa on how to best use the butterfly nets, which the Greenwoods had thoughtfully provided for the outing. Harry and his friend Robert stood on the sidelines, pointing out suitable specimens for capture and laughing at the young women’s unsuccessful efforts.

“Mr. Ludlow is attractive and intelligent too,” Prudence replied. She took a fortifying breath and went on to recap her earlier conversation with Robert Ludlow about the deplorable lack of missionaries in India.

“I believe he is the one Margaret threw me over for,” James whispered in her ear. Prudence could feel his warm breath upon her flushed cheek. “Do you agree, Miss Pentyre, or is it nothing more than a ridiculous fancy of mine?”

“I cannot say,” Prudence answered truthfully. “But I don’t believe so.” Swallowing hard, she stared down at the remaining slice of cold chicken upon her plate, thinking back to the conversation she had had weeks earlier with Dorothea Greenwood. Her good friend had not noticed Margaret singling out any particular young man with her attentions. There was no gossip linking Margaret’s name with that of any young gentleman either. Gossip was as much a social activity as attending the theater or going to the dances at the Assembly Rooms. Surely, if Margaret had shown a preference toward Robert Ludlow, the tattle mongers would have said something?

If Robert Ludlow was indeed the man Margaret secretly loved, she had been discreet. But then, Margaret had mentioned at Lady Brownell’s rout that Mr. Ludlow did not live in Bath. He had come only to visit his grandmother. As he did not live here, it would perhaps be a simple task to keep others from learning of her affection for the young man.

“Perhaps I am mistaken after all,” James said, pulling back. He glanced over at the other couples. “Margaret doesn’t seem overly attentive to him, as far as I can tell. She seems to fairly divide her time and attention between both Harry and Ludlow.”

Prudence experienced an unexpected pang of jealousy. “Does it matter which gentleman my cousin prefers?” She couldn’t help hearing the acid note in her tone. She guessed Sir James would note it too. How she wished she’d learn to control her wretched tongue!

“It matters not in the least,” James replied lightly. He helped himself to an apricot, took a bite and then blotted his lips with a linen napkin.

Watching him, Prudence noticed he frequently squinted or blinked his injured eye. “Is your eye troubling you?” she asked gently.

“No, Miss Pentyre, does it trouble you?”

“Only in as much as it causes you pain or discomfort,” she replied briskly.

“It does not hurt, but I find it is occasionally sensitive to sunlight. This appears to be one of those occasions,” he said with a rueful smile.

With a slight nod, Prudence replied, “You must be relieved the injury did not result in the loss of the eye altogether.”

“I am most grateful for both the Lord’s favor and the quick medical attention I received at the time,” James told her. Then chuckling, he added, “But had I not been so fortunate, I would have followed the example of my friend Norwich—Lord Norwich,” he amended.

“I am not acquainted with the gentleman,” Prudence admitted. “Did he lose an eye?”

“Yes, in India. But rather than wear a patch, he acquired a glass eye in Bombay. Upon his return to London, Norwich chanced to pass a taxidermist shop, where he noticed a fine collection of glass eyes on display in the window—the eyes of tigers, leopards, bears and other exotic beasts. Norwich purchased a dozen or more and wore one whenever it struck his fancy. When he returned to resume his duties in India, he took his exotic collection with him.” James gave another light laugh. “I am told the natives quiver with fear whenever they behold his beastly eye. Good old Norwich! He’ll use that exotic collection to his advantage.”

Laughing, Prudence closed her eyes to savor this moment. She tried to imagine the whimsical Lord Norwich with the eye of a leopard staring out from his face. She tipped her head back so she might feel the rays of the afternoon sun upon her own face then. Summer was her favorite season of the year. She loved the warmth of the sun, and since she rarely freckled, she dared to risk a slight exposure. Vowing silently to keep her emotions in check, she smiled upon her companion, and said in a lighthearted manner, “Sir James, I think you had better seek a bride in London. Perhaps you will find one suitably displayed in a shop window.” She chuckled throatily, pleased with her own weak joke.

Shrugging, he replied, “I went to London briefly during the Season, but did not have much opportunity to acquaint myself with eligible females there as my mother was quite insistent I come to Bath to recover my health. However, I’m not sure Bath is such a healthful place after all. The city is teeming with invalids.” He chuckled.

Prudence chuckled too. Then she quickly sobered. It was hardly proper to be speaking to the man about brides or marriage or any other intimate topic. Chiding herself for her careless impropriety, she fixed her attention upon her cousin once more. Margaret and Clarissa were giggling and chatting, paying little attention to Arthur Greenwood’s demonstration of the correct way to wield a butterfly net.

James, following her glance, declared, “Little prattle boxes!”

“You do not approve of chatty females?” Prudence asked, turning to face him.

“I do if they have something worthwhile to chat about,” James replied with a wry smile.

Eager to change the topic before her unruly tongue might get the best of her once more, Prudence said, “On the evening you showed us your butterfly collection and the pressed flowers you brought with you from Borneo, you did not show us your sketch books.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Who told you about the sketchbooks?”

“Mr. Hunter,” she informed him.

“Ah.” James nodded.

“And do not tell me you thought I would not be interested in such a trifle,” Prudence warned him. “You said the same when I pointed out you had failed to tell me about your recent and unusual title, Rajah of Sarawak.”

“Did I say so?” he asked, amused. With a shrug, he added, “Most people do not wish to be bored with such things as one’s private sketchbooks.”

“Mr. Hunter assured me your skill is quite extraordinary.”

“Perhaps Hunter is easily impressed,” James said with a snort. “Besides, if I spent all my time showing off my souvenir sketches and regaling others with my adventures, I would be declared a dead bore.”

Prudence shook her head as she helped herself to the last fairy cake. “Your adventures make you the least boring person in all of Bath, Sir James. How can one not want to learn about foreign countries and the culture there? About headhunters and zebra finches and exotic orchid blooms which smell of chocolate?”

James regarded her in a teasing manner. “Miss Pentyre, I fear you are a romantic and even bookish woman.”

“I am bookish,” she admitted, her chin tilted upward. “I make no apology for it.” She did not doubt it was yet another reason she had not married. She was a bluestocking. Some men professed to admire intellectual females, but Prudence had been quick to notice they seldom married them. Instead, they chose pretty women with less intellect and more dimples. “You may needle me all you like, Sir James. But I should tell you I made up my mind quite early this morning to allow nothing to ruin this day’s outing—not even an argument with you.”

“You do me an injustice, ma’am. I do not wish to argue with you at all,” he insisted.

“Nor I with you,” Prudence replied amiably.

“If you truly wish to peruse my pencil sketches, you need only come to the house to see them. By all means, do so. But don’t bring Margaret,” he added, lowering his voice. “She will mope and sigh with impatience, and we shall feel socially obligated to rush through our task. It will put me all out of patience with her, and I would probably say something rude I should regret later on.”

Prudence blushed. Then falteringly, she said, “I would feel uncomfortable calling upon you at your residence—unaccompanied.”

“And I had made up my mind that you, Miss Pentyre, are a woman of rare courage.” His blue eyes twinkled.

Her blush deepened. She was scrambling her wits to come up with some sharp retort, when he surprised her again.

“Now something I have said has put you to the blush. You are as pink as a peony—quite a pretty pink too,” he said. Then with a sigh of mock resignation, James added, “All right then, bring Mrs. Leyes. Your aunt and my mother can share a bit of gossip over a dish of tea and be perfectly content in one another’s company for any amount of time. You may take as long as you like to peruse my sketches. The one of the orangutan will particularly strike your fancy, I believe.”

When Prudence didn’t immediately reply, he asked, “Will that suit you, Miss Pentyre?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, wishing she did not feel so awkward in his presence at the most inopportune times. Why his off-hand comments or the proximity of his arm to hers should cause her throat to feel dry and her heart to beat irregularly, she could not say.

“You know, I should thank you for asking to see the sketches. I have an endless capacity to brag about my exploits. You are giving me yet another opportunity to do so.”

Prudence regarded him thoughtfully. Although his rough face appeared both open and intelligent, his manly cheeks seemed warm with color. In that moment, she knew James felt self-conscious too. He was not a shameless braggart—not at all. He had a humility, which sometimes was not readily apparent when one was not looking for it.

Before she could offer him a reassuring reply, they were startled by a shout from Arthur and a shriek from Margaret. Prudence spun around. An apparent gust of wind had seized Margaret’s hat and sent it tumbling along the ground, the untied ribbons trailing like the tails of a kite. Harry made a snatch for it, but the wind blew it out of his reach.

“I’ve got it!” Robert called out. But as he attempted to grab the hat, another playful gust sent it rolling down the hill.

“No,
I’ve
got it!” Harry declared prematurely.

“It is blowing away!” Margaret wailed.

The two young men made a contest of the hat’s retrieval. Margaret and Clarissa laughingly cheered them on. Arthur and Eleanor did the same. James jeered as Harry and Robert shoved and pushed one another in a playful manner, both attempting to be the first to rescue Margaret’s runaway bonnet. Amused by their efforts, Prudence’s lips curled in a smile.

When Robert stumbled, falling to his knees, Harry came barreling down behind him. With too much momentum to prevent himself from doing so, Harry tripped over his friend. He then rolled head over heels down the hill—literally.

“Clumsy nodcock!” James hollered out.

Harry tumbled to an abrupt stop on the side of the hill. He sprawled there, silent and ominously still.

Margaret screamed, “He is killed!” Her hands flew to her flushed cheeks.

James scrambled to his feet. With a stab of alarm, Prudence attempted to rise also. James reached down, jerking her to her feet. They watched as Robert Ludlow stumbled his way toward his fallen friend.

“Harry! Oh, Harry!” Margaret cried. “Is he dead?” She fixed tear-filled eyes upon each of them in turn.

Prudence felt the increased pressure of James’s hand upon her elbow as he led her toward her cousin’s side. As her eyes met his, James cast her a crooked smile, saying quietly, “Now we know.”

Then he darted after Arthur, who had hurried down the hill to lend his aid to the unconscious Harry Paige.

“Oh, poor Harry!” Margaret cried out.

Eleanor, seeing how Margaret was determined to race down the hill to Harry’s side, snatched at her arm to prevent her from doing so.

“Let me go to him,” Margaret pleaded, pulling against Eleanor’s firm grip.

“No, Margaret dear, listen to me. You may take a tumble too and twist an ankle. We cannot have another mishap,” Eleanor said. “Not now.”

Prudence chimed in, “All our efforts must be put toward assisting Harry. Surely you must agree?”

Margaret began to weep, covering her face with her hands. Clarissa appeared pale and anxious. “Perhaps I should…do you think I should go to him?” she asked, looking from Prudence to Eleanor.

Eleanor shook her head. “There is not a thing you can do at the moment, Miss Paige. Arthur and Sir James will let us know if and how we can help.” She reached for the young woman’s hand, giving it a reassuring pat. “Harry will be fine. You will see.”

Prudence slipped a comforting arm around Margaret’s trembling shoulders. Her cousin was so distraught with weeping that Prudence reconsidered what James had said earlier about young women growing up to be like their mothers. She had not thought so at the time, but Meg was giving every indication of being the sort of woman always at risk of slipping into a decline.

“Pull yourself together, Meg, for Heaven’s sake,” she whispered in Margaret’s ear. “You are making a spectacle of yourself.” Suppressing an urge to slap her cousin across the cheek, Prudence instead pinched Margaret’s arm and heaved a disgusted sigh. She did loathe this sort of emotional self-indulgence.

Margaret gulped a breath and then swallowed back a final sob. Clarissa, having retrieved a handkerchief from somewhere, pressed it upon her friend with a worried frown. “Please don’t cry,” she pleaded. “Please don’t.”

Arthur returned to the crest of the hill where the ladies stood waiting for some word regarding Harry’s condition. “He’s come around,” Arthur said, smiling—which relieved Prudence heartily.

“How badly is he hurt, Mr. Greenwood?” Clarissa asked, her hands clutched tightly together. Prudence noted a hint of anguish in the girl’s tone, despite her calm demeanor.

“He’ll be all right,” Arthur assured her. “He had the wind knocked out of his sails for a bit. I am not a physician, of course, but I believe Harry will be plagued by a sprained ankle—nothing more.”

This announcement was followed by a collective sigh of relief from the ladies.

“James says we’ll need to cut Harry’s boot off. The foot and ankle are already quite swollen. We need to get him back to town at once.” With a slight smile, Arthur added, “Harry is feeling the pangs of foolishness every bit as sharply as the pain in his ankle.”

“Harry is young and healthy,” Prudence said matter-of-factly. “He’ll heal quickly.”

Arthur nodded. With an apologetic glance at Eleanor, he added, “I am sorry, my dear, but we must bring our delightful little party to an abrupt end.”

Eleanor gave him a wan smile. “Certainly, Arthur. If Miss Leyes and Miss Pentyre will help me gather up the remainder of the dishes, we shall be ready to go when you give the word. Miss Paige, you will want to speak with your brother, I am sure.”

“Come, Meg,” Prudence said, happy to have something to do. With a firm grip upon her cousin’s elbow, she tugged Margaret purposefully forward in Eleanor’s wake. Margaret went reluctantly, watching over her shoulder as Arthur lent his arm to Clarissa, to escort her down the hill to Harry’s side. Prudence watched as James and Robert heaved Harry to his feet.

Prudence spent the next half an hour assisting Eleanor and Margaret to collect the forgotten butterfly nets and repacking the large picnic hamper—a task never as pleasant as unpacking it when one is in eager anticipation of the
al fresco
feast. From their position at the top of the hill, she could look down and take note of the progress of the men as they helped the hobbling Harry down the hill—one painful step at a time—to the waiting carriage below.

The return journey was a bit more crowded this time with Harry Paige squeezed in between Clarissa and Eleanor Greenwood. His swollen foot had been propped up on James’s coat, rolled into a bundle and placed upon the seat between Prudence and Margaret, who occasionally whispered, “Oh, poor, poor Harry!” in a sad, whimpering murmur.

With a sheepish smile, Harry dismissed her concern with self-deprecating humor. “I fear I am a clumsy nodcock, just as Sir James said. But like the proverbial rolling stone, I gathered no moss.” Clarissa shook her head, rejecting her brother’s weak joke.

“Oh, Harry,” Margaret half sobbed.

Irritated by her cousin’s tiresome behavior, Prudence felt an overwhelming urge to shake Margaret by the shoulders until her teeth rattled. When exchanging a quick glance with Clarissa, who sat across from her, Prudence thought she detected the same impatience reflected in the young woman’s somber face as well.

While James rode escort beside the barouche, he sent Robert Ludlow on ahead to inform Mr. and Mrs. Paige to send for a doctor as soon as possible and to have footmen waiting to assist Harry into the house. Upon arriving at the Paige residence, James dismounted, telling the Greenwoods he would stay until young Harry was quite comfortable and they should take Miss Leyes and Miss Pentyre home. This they did most willingly. If Eleanor and Arthur had been surprised by Margaret’s unseemly behavior, they were gracious enough, considering the circumstances, to overlook her emotional outburst. When Arthur dismounted his saddle horse and came around to hand down Margaret from the carriage, Eleanor leaned across to touch Prudence lightly on the arm, saying, “I suppose Margaret and Harry Paige…”

She removed her hand and left her supposition unfinished.

“On Margaret’s part anyway,” Prudence acknowledged. She could feel the heat rush to her cheeks.

It didn’t make sense to her how Margaret had been so admirably discreet and close-lipped for months, maybe even years, regarding her feelings for Harry Paige, only to reveal everything today by bawling in so vulgar a manner. “I confess I am quite embarrassed by her display of emotion. I’ve never known Margaret to make such a cake of herself.”

Eleanor gave Prudence an understanding smile. “Margaret is young. Girls of her age are often given over to emotional excesses.”

“She is more than twenty,” Prudence informed her, bridling a little. “She is hardly a girl any longer.”

Upon entering her aunt’s house, Prudence, in a sidelong glance, noted Margaret’s pale face crumpling with distress again. “Meg, do pull yourself together, I beg you. If Aunt Judith sees you carrying on like this, she’ll suffer a spasm.”

Margaret choked back a sob and straightened her posture a little.

“I shudder to consider what the Greenwoods must think of your vulgar display of emotion this afternoon,” Prudence hissed. She removed her hat with a jerk at the ribbons. “Even Clarissa seemed taken aback by your unseemly behavior.”

“I shall call upon her tomorrow and confess my feelings for her brother,” Margaret said with a watery sniff.

“I would hardly think a confession will be necessary,” Prudence replied acidly, tugging at her gloves and dropping them on the small ivory-topped table in the foyer. “Clarissa has surely guessed by now, and Harry too no doubt. Or maybe he thinks you are just a silly pea goose.”

As she observed Margaret’s slumped shoulders and drooping lips, Prudence experienced an unexpected change of heart. The girl had been nursing a secret passion for Harry Paige for quite some time. Then she’d had to cope with an unwanted offer of marriage from James. The dread and guilt of not wanting to accept his offer—on top of nourishing hopes that one day Harry would return her love and affection—had left Margaret overwrought. No doubt she was at her wit’s end.

Considering her own emotional turmoil in the past weeks, Prudence decided she was in no position to judge her young cousin too harshly. Poor Meg! Still, she had been embarrassed by her cousin’s lack of composure. She could only imagine what her distressed aunt would say when she learned of it. Prudence was not surprised, however, when Aunt Judith reacted with predictable concern regarding the accident.

“I warned you something like this might happen,” Judith gasped, when informed of Harry Paige’s mishap. Her hand fluttered to her throat.

Prudence gave a snort of laughter. “You did not,” she protested. “You cautioned us against bees, chilling breezes, and unforeseen rain showers, but you said nothing about a simple accident befalling a clumsy young fool.”

“Harry is not a fool—nor is he clumsy!” Margaret declared, her eyes kindling.

Turning to her daughter, Judith reached for her, saying, “Margaret, are you sure you are all right? You look quite pulled. One would think you suffered your own mishap.” Her tone was anxious.

“I have a headache, Mama, nothing more,” Margaret replied.

“And it is no wonder she has a headache,” Prudence spoke up, turning to her aunt. “Meg has been crying her eyes out ever since Harry tumbled down the hill. I confess I was greatly embarrassed by her immodest display of emotion. Harry Paige did nothing more than sprain his ankle and wound his manly pride. I daresay the doctor will give him a teaspoon of laudanum to help him sleep and require a cool compress to be placed upon the ankle to reduce the swelling.”

“What he needs is an onion and potato poultice,” Judith said knowingly. “It is the best thing for swelling.”

“Poor Harry,” Margaret lamented, lips trembling. Prudence heaved an impatient sigh.

“My dear, I can see for myself you are quite worn out by this day’s misadventure,” Judith said, hurrying forward to take her daughter in her arms. “You should be in bed.”

“Yes, Meg is worn to a frazzle,” Prudence agreed. She studied Margaret’s pale countenance, the droop of her lower lip. Prudence felt out of sorts with her sniffling cousin. She frowned as she watched Margaret retrieve a crumpled handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress, using it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose—now pink and slightly swollen in appearance. Never had Prudence realized such a difference in their ages and temperament before today.

“Go to your room, Margaret,” her mother ordered. “I shall be up presently. You’ve worn yourself to a thread with weeping, and I’ll not have you contract a fever. I will bring you a fortifying cordial,” she promised. Turning to Prudence, she added rather accusingly, “I did caution you that something might happen.”

“But nothing happened to Margaret,” Prudence pointed out. “Tell her to stop crying. It will go a long way, I believe, in preventing a fatal decline.” She watched her cousin ascend the stairs with a weary posture. Margaret did appear worn out. Embarrassed then by her show of temper, Prudence apologized. “I am sorry, Aunt Judith. I believe I may be overtired as well. It has been a trying day. Margaret has sorely tested my patience.”

The day, in fact, had been lovely. Only Margaret’s humiliating behavior had cast a pall. Prudence wondered too what Eleanor Greenwood’s unrevealed surprise might be. She would have to make a point of asking her later as the couple had had no opportunity to share their bit of exciting news. A surge of homesickness washed over Prudence then. Perhaps she should consider returning home earlier than she’d originally planned. But as she contemplated making the necessary travel arrangements, she was struck by a disturbing notion: once she left Bath she would in all likelihood never see James again. This horrid possibility caused her to experience a queasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“Was her behavior so unseemly?”

“What?” Prudence asked, distracted.

“Margaret’s behavior?” Judith asked, turning to watch her daughter’s retreating figure. “Was it truly shocking?”

“It was shameful. What Mrs. Paige will say when Clarissa tells her of it, I shudder to think. You must be diligent in your efforts to keep Margaret from wearing a path to their door. Harry’s mother will not want my cousin constantly underfoot while her son is convalescing.”

Judith sniffed into her handkerchief, closing her eyes briefly. “Perhaps you could speak with her, Pru?” she suggested in a meek voice.

Prudence sighed. “Aunt Judith, how can you think Meg will listen to my admonitions? She did not do so when it was a matter of accepting Sir James’s marriage proposal.”

“But this is different.”

“Is it?” Prudence queried. “I do not see how.”

“Margaret did not care for Sir James,” her aunt pointed out. “But she cares for Harry Paige, perhaps more than either of us imagined.”

“She cares for him overmuch to my way of thinking!” Prudence replied. Observing her aunt’s anxious frown, she sighed again, saying, “All right. I will speak with her. Later, when she has had a rest and has had time to compose herself.”

Judith nodded. “So, we have discovered the recipient of Margaret’s secret affection after all. Do you think he returns her feelings?”

“I do not know,” Prudence admitted. Thinking back to the calm and gentle way in which Harry had yielded to Margaret’s ministrations in the carriage and how he’d quietly tried to keep her from fussing, assuring her tears were unnecessary, Prudence felt certain he was not indifferent to her cousin. “Perhaps he does care for her a little,” she added.

Aunt Judith pressed Prudence’s hand. She then gave her a tremulous but grateful smile before making her way up the stairs.

The next morning when Prudence arose, she was dismayed by the sight of rain streaming down the windowpanes and a glimpse of a gloomy leaden sky. Margaret, with dark circles under her eyes, joined her at the breakfast table. Her shoulders slumped. Her mouth drooped. She sighed several times, apparently feeling as gloomy as the weather. “Mama has refused me the use of the carriage to visit Clarissa and Harry this morning. She insists I shall catch my death in this rain.”

“And well you might,” Prudence said, taking her aunt’s side in the matter. Biting into a piece of well-buttered toast, she decided now was not an opportune time to talk with her pouting cousin about anything. As Aunt Judith did not put in an appearance at all, breakfast was a quiet and dismal meal.

Prudence found herself hopeful of a visit from James, which would brighten the day most pleasurably. The thought of seeing him upon the threshold made her heart soar. But her hope plummeted when she considered the man had no reason whatsoever to pay a morning call. Why should he come to the Leyes’ residence since he was no longer wooing Margaret? To nurture such a hope was absurd. Even should he willingly come to see Judith to execute an errand for his mother, he would surely not do so in this weather.