The Courteous Cad (29 page)

Stars sparkled before her eyes. Pain in her stomach made her gag. The object across which she lay began to move, rocking her and jarring her spine. A horse! Her senses reeled with the smell of damp woolen blanket and polished leather saddle.

Choking out a sob, she laid her cheek against the horse’s flank. Trying to pray, she fought the fears of what might lie ahead.
“Offenders therein shall be adjudged felons . . . ,”
the Riot Act declared,
“shall suffer death.”
Her future might hold nothing more than a dark prison cell, a trial before a magistrate, or worse.

Even now, her peril was great, for the dragoon had her in custody. She could do little to protect herself against him.

Forcing herself to think of other things—Sarah and Mary, tea at Delacroix House, Miss Pickworth’s silly alliterations in
The Tattler
—Prudence was unprepared when the horse suddenly halted. A rough hand grasped the cloak that covered her head and gave a yank.

She looked up into the face of the man who had captured her. It was the face of William Sherbourne.

Sixteen

“William?”
Prudence gasped. “But what are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same.” Though boiling with anger at the woman’s trickery and deception, William was shocked at her appearance. Prudence’s face had gone pasty white. Her hair was a sodden tangle, her boots and skirt up to the knees in mud.

Still unwilling to show even the smallest spark of tenderness, William lifted her down from the horse and set her upright. Taking Prudence by the arm, he propelled her through the door of an inn he had noted on his mad dash through the small town.

Though Prudence trailed a long muddy path across the wood floor, William pressed her onward toward the brick fireplace. Coming at last to an empty table, he pulled out a chair and deposited her into it.

“Do not move,” he enunciated firmly. “If you are not here on my return, I shall send the commander of the King’s Dragoons to hunt you down, arrest you, and throw you into the darkest gaol in England. Do you understand?”

Looking at him with luminous green eyes, Prudence nodded. “I am so sorry to have troubled you.”

“
Troubled
me? Is that how you think of it?” Loath to demean himself by expressing aloud the full measure of his wrath, William turned on his heel and strode back across the room. He beckoned the innkeeper and ordered a meal of thick potato soup, fresh bread, strawberries, and tea. Then he ascended a narrow staircase and knocked on the nearest door.

Walker opened it, emerged into the corridor, and greeted his employer. “Did you find her, sir?” the blacksmith asked in a low voice.

“I did. She sits below.”

“I am relieved.” Walker nodded toward the door. “Come in, if you will. Bettie wishes to thank you for saving her life.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” William retorted. “Tell Bettie if she wishes to thank me, she will recover her good health, return to Otley, and marry you at once.”

Walker’s craggy features softened into a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sherbourne. You may be sure that is our plan.”

William was not sure at all. Had he not discovered Prudence Watson consorting privately with the blacksmith on two occasions? Clearly, whatever love once existed between the two had not died.

No matter the blacksmith’s plans to marry the little weaver, nor the young lady’s professions of passion for William himself. Truth won out too often, just as it had an hour ago when he rode into town and spotted Walker carrying Bettie—limp and unconscious—in his arms.

The blacksmith had called out, begging William to follow the throng of marchers and rescue Prudence Watson. Even as he rode through the rain, William had struggled to accept the truth. Prudence had lied to him and misled him in every possible way, for Polly Watson the spinner was indeed none other than Prudence Watson.

“I shall cover your expenses here,” William said. “Stay as long as necessary.”

“Thank you, sir.” Walker rubbed his brow for a moment before continuing. “Mr. Sherbourne, I know you rode to Manchester in the hope of halting disaster. You must understand that Miss Watson accompanied the worsted mill workers for the same reason.”

“She intended to halt the very disaster she provoked? That is nonsense, man.”

“But I speak the truth.”

“I am sorry to inform you that I have lost faith in such an avowal. Truth, it seems, is an elusive and malleable quantity.”

“Whether you believe me or not, I must attempt to assure you that Miss Watson’s aims were pure and her activities innocent.”

“Innocent!” William laughed. “Spare me this discourse, Walker, I pray you.”

Lest the blacksmith make further effort to defend the woman he loved, William held up a hand. Chuckling in bitter disbelief, he turned away and descended the stair.

As he neared the fire, he saw that the meal had been brought and laid out on the table. But Prudence sat huddled inside his sopping cloak, her head bent and eyes closed. Was she asleep? or praying? It hardly mattered.

“Eat,” he commanded, seating himself across from her. “Eat, for the coach I ordered will arrive shortly.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him. “I am not hungry,” she murmured.

“Yet you
will
eat.” He lifted the lid on the tureen and dipped a ladleful of soup into her bowl. “I should not like for you to die just yet, Miss Watson. I must return you to Thorne Hall, set you in a carriage for London, and assure myself that you are gone from Yorkshire forever. Then, if you wish, you may perish with my full blessing.”

“You
want
me to die?”

“Certainly—if that is your aim.”

He stirred sugar and milk into his tea and took a sip. Though the woman’s face had drifted nightly through his dreams, now he found he could not bring himself to look at her. Instead, he took a slice of bread, buttered it, and set it beside his empty bowl.

“I prefer you to die of pneumonia rather than hunger,” he told her. “Then you will be faulted for it and not I.”

“I see how much you loathe me.”

“On the contrary. You cannot possibly understand the depth and breadth of my revulsion.”

“Nor do you know the full measure of my disgust and abhorrence toward you.”

At this, he looked up. She was gazing at him, unblinking. He set his teacup on the table.

“Am I to know the cause of such profound hatred?” he asked. “I believe I have done nothing but rescue you from various and sundry muddy thoroughfares, escort you to picnics and dances, court you with far more passion than was wise, and generally behave the besotted fool. Is it for these reasons you choose to revile me?”

“No, indeed,” she said. “You have done everything by the book.”

“By the book? And which book is that? I believe you once asked me to read the book of St. John. I did so and made a great attempt to transform myself accordingly.”

“If, as you claim, you did read that Gospel, you would know that a man can do nothing to transform himself. Change is wrought only by faith in God.”

“And you claim to be a woman of faith? a bondservant of Jesus Christ Himself?”

She looked away. “I am far from perfect, as you well know. Yet, I do try to live in accordance with His teachings.”

“I have no recollection of Christ instructing His followers to travel about in disguise and create mischief wherever possible while deceiving and betraying those who love them most. In which chapter and verse might I read such a holy command?”

“You are angry with me, and I accept your wrath. I must assume my sister Mary wrote to you, informing you of my activities and begging you to put a stop to them. Mary was not happy at my leaving London, and I cannot fault her for divulging my secret. Her worry was justified, as is your hostility. Yet, I may defend myself with one claim. My deeds arose from pure motives. Can you say the same of all your conduct?”

He studied the crackling fire. A log shifted and fell, shooting a spray of bright red sparks. He reflected on the happy family he had left behind at Thorne Hall. How easy Randolph and Olivia were together. How well they blended, each admiring and honoring the other.

Such serenity would never belong to William. Prudence was correct in her assessment. He had rarely acted from pure motives. His life until now was lived for one purpose only—self-pleasure.

“Eat your soup,” he said finally. “It grows cold.”

She shook her bent head. In a moment, he heard a sniffle. He turned to her, startled to find that a tear had trickled down her cheek and now hung from the tip of her nose.

Dear God, do not let her weep,
he prayed in silence.
Anything but that. You cannot expect me to forgive her any more than I have forgiven myself.

“God will forgive me,” she said in a soft voice.

“What?” He barked the word, startled that her statement was a direct response to his plea.

Her thin hand slipped out from the cloak and brushed away the tear. “God will forgive me,” she repeated, “but I know you never will. I am guilty of everything you suppose about me.”

His thoughts flashed back in time to the night he had witnessed her kissing Walker’s hand as they stood outside the inn at Otley. Again at Delacroix House, she and Walker had met in secret, hiding in the shadow of a tree.

“So you admit that all my accusations and charges against you are true?” he asked.

“Indeed. In fact, it is possible that you do not know the half of my wickedness.”

“I suppose I might ask you to enlighten me further. But I fear I have heard and witnessed enough already.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I have already given my account to God, and I shall be compelled to give it again to my sisters. Twice is quite enough to dampen any defense I might wish to make on my own behalf.”

So saying, she dipped her spoon into the soup and brought it to her lips. William ate his buttered bread, enjoying it not at all.

Why did he feel so very bad when Prudence was the one who had lied to him and betrayed him? He sipped at his tea, wishing its warmth would comfort his heart as well as his stomach.

“I have decided I must tell you one thing that is very bad,” Prudence said as she set her spoon on the table. She dabbed her napkin beneath her eyes. “I fear you do not yet know that you have lost all your employees.”

William did know, of course. Richard Warring had announced it, and the mass of marching peasants had confirmed his report. Yet he felt his bitterness toward her rise again.

“Really?” he asked. “I have
lost
my employees? Can you tell me where I might have misplaced them?”

To his dismay, she smiled. “They journey toward London to take a petition to the king. A petition about the Gag Acts.”

This he did not know. “The suspension of
habeas corpus
? The arrest of men who publish seditious treatises? This is why they march?”

“The mill laborers want the freedom to assemble in groups larger than twelve. That wish arises from the desire to force employers to pay better wages, provide a safer and cleaner workplace—”

“And tea and cakes? Is that inscribed on the petition they take before the king?”

Now she giggled. To his consternation, her cheeks had turned pink from the warmth of the fire. Her curls, brought to life by the damp air, framed her face in a golden halo. The cloak had fallen from her shoulders, and he could see the beautiful neck that had so entranced him.

“The workers at Thorne Mill cannot complain on that account,” she said. “I am told they enjoy tea and cakes every day.”

He wondered if she knew about the other reforms he planned to make. Had his overlookers bothered to inform the workers, or had Warring lied about this?

“I should think a ten-hour day, a school for the children, and better food might have kept them from their march,” he said. “Or were they so determined to gather in groups of more than twelve that they disregarded such improvements altogether?”

“Had they been offered this sort of hope, sir, I am sure any illusions about appearing before the king would have vanished. I did all I could to dissuade them from their course, for I feared it would come to naught. Now they are attacked, arrested, even killed for a dream that could never come true. Worse, they have disgraced themselves and forfeited their positions at the mills.”

“Indeed they have.”

She stirred her tea. “I had no success in convincing them not to march,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps I will have no success in begging you to take them back. Yet I must plead for them.”

“Spare me your entreaties,” he said. “I shall manage my laborers as I see fit.”

“Yet your management caused them to flee the mill and unite with the Blanketeers.”

“Excuse me, but I believe it was
your
inflammatory and seditious troublemaking that caused them to flee the mill.”

“You flatter me, sir. I may have some small influence upon those I meet, but I am hardly the sort of woman to command their obedience.”

“Too silly, are you?”

Her green eyes flashed. “Perhaps I am silly,” she said. “At least I am not evil.”

“Evil? By the expression of distaste on your face, I must presume you think of me so.”

“‘Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.’ Matthew 7:20. You will find it in the Bible.”

At that, he stood. “You may quote the Bible, Miss Watson, when you begin to live by its teachings. Until then, please forgive me for ignoring you.”

Unwilling to allow her another moment to castigate him, William strode across the room to the door. He must see to his horse—at this moment, the only creature alive he felt certain he could abide.