The Courteous Cad (7 page)

How could he deny the truth in her accusations? Impossible. She was accurate in every allegation.

“Your horse, sir.” A stableman led the animal to the foot of the stone staircase. William set his tall black hat on his head and tugged on his gloves as he descended. He did not recognize the horse, just as he did not know the man who held its bridle. Everything had changed since his last sojourn in Otley . . . himself most of all.

“Thank you, my good man,” William said, taking the reins. “And your name?”

“Hedgley, sir.”

“Hedgley, do you know Thorne Mill at Otley?”

“Aye, sir. My wife and children labor there.”

The news surprised William. He had supposed the Thorne estate employed entire families.

“What do they say about the mill?” he continued. “Does the overlooker treat them well?”

The stableman cast a sideways glance. “They are pleased to have work, sir. Very pleased.”

“I am sure they are. But do they call the overlooker a fair man?”

“They . . . they work at several tasks at the mill. My wife is a weaver. Some of the children are piecers, scavengers, wool sorters. They work under different overlookers.”

William would get nothing out of the man, he saw. He would have to observe the condition of the mill for himself. The sooner the better.

“Thank you, Hedgley.” He mounted the horse, but before setting out, he spoke again. “Have you sons?”

“Aye, sir. Five.”

“I have noted that our maze is overgrown and the rose beds are sadly out of sorts. Would your sons like to work in the gardens at Thorne Lodge? Or do they prefer the mill?”

“The gardens.” He answered quickly, his face brightening. “Indeed, sir, I should be most grateful to see my sons in the gardens.”

“I shall speak to my brother. I am sure he can find places for them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sherbourne. Thank you very much. I am most obliged.”

Before the man could abase himself further, William turned the horse and set off for Otley.

As Prudence neared Thorne Mill, her elation flagged and her determination wavered. It did not help that Mary continued to add to the list of reasons why it was imprudent to take another step toward the large stone building.

“What if you are injured?” Mary threw out, a last gasp for some reason to hold her sister at bay. “You saw that boy, Pru. He was not at all well.”

“A machine had peeled away most of his leg, Mary. Of course he was not well.”

“And what is to say your leg will not be peeled, too? The workers have been told where to stand. They know how to look out for their safety, but you have never been inside a worsted mill in your life. You could be ground to bits! Mashed as flat as an oatcake! Torn to ribbons!”

“Honestly, Mary, do be sensible. I shan’t be
working
in the mill. I mean to observe the laborers and their conditions. Then God will reveal the manner by which I am to ease their lot.”

Arguing the whole way, the two women neared the imposing structure. The road took them alongside a wide brook that flowed toward the building. Workmen had dammed this stream to maintain a steady supply of water, and brown reeds encircled the resulting millpond. From the pond, a channel cut into the earth formed the millrace. The headrace brought water from the pond to the wheel, and the tailrace—which Prudence could barely see in the distance—carried it away. The great wooden wheel had been set inside the mill, but she heard it creak as each blade cut through the rushing water.

Though she and Mary were outside in the fresh air, the rumble of machinery grew deafening as they approached. Thick stone walls did little to muffle the sound. Black smoke belched from a tall brick chimney. Windows, few and small, appeared to be coated in soot. Tiny white particles of dust filled the air and sifted through the open front door.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but we don’t sell worsted from the mill.” A rangy fellow in a leather apron emerged from inside. “You’ll find cloth at the two dressmakers’ shops in the village. The better stuff we send to London. I’d advise you to stop at Messrs. Henry Howell & Co. in Cheapside for your finest Yorkshire worsted.”

Prudence recognized the name of one of the choice linen drapers in London.

Mary brightened at the mention of this familiar dress shop, a favorite of hers for many years. “I am pleased to learn the source of the worsted I purchase in London,” she told the man. “Thank you for this information. My sister and I are sorry to have troubled you. We shall retire to the inn now. We depart for London as soon as may be.”

“I should like very much to see inside the mill, sir,” Prudence spoke up. “I wish to observe the looms.”

“Observe the looms?” He scratched the back of his head. “Why would you do that, if you don’t mind my asking? Do you have a problem with the quality of our worsted?”

“I have a problem with the looms themselves. One of them harmed my friend—Mr. Smith by name. He has been crippled since the incident. Today I was shocked to learn that neither the owner nor the overlookers at this mill engaged a doctor to treat Mr. Smith’s injuries. Equally bad, he was not given a better and safer position. He is still a piecer.”

“A piecer?” The man’s eyes widened. “Your friend . . . Mr. Smith . . . works here? As a piecer?”

“You are surprised?”

“There ain’t no misters doing piecework in this mill. We’ve only children at that job, boys and girls both.”

“Children? Do they go to school before or after their hours in the mill?”

He swallowed, growing discomfort written on his face. “You cannot hail from Yorkshire, madam, or you would know we’ve no school around these parts. Like everyone at the mill, the children labor from dawn to dusk.”

“But when do they play?”

“Play?” His brow furrowed. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll fetch the piecers’ overlooker. Perhaps he knows your Mr. Smith. Who shall I say is calling?”

“I am Miss Prudence Watson. This is my sister, Mrs. Heathhill.”

“Very good. The overlooker can answer your questions. My work is in the smithy.”

The smithy.
Her pulse quickening, Prudence watched the man reenter the mill. So . . . he worked with Mr. Walker. Somewhere inside these walls labored the man who had swept up her heart and would possess it always.

It mattered not if he married another woman, Prudence told herself. She would love Mr. Walker forever. His kindness, his bravery, his handsome face could never be forgotten.

But she had not come to the mill in search of Mr. Walker. She had walked this way in obedience to God, while following the path He had laid out. She stood at the door to Thorne Mill for one purpose alone: to rescue the children from slavery.

“Come, Mary,” Prudence ordered. “We must see this vile edifice for ourselves.”

“You mean to go inside? Upon my word, Prudence, I shall not take a single step into that mill. And neither will you! This mission of yours is utter nonsense.”

“Then I shall meet you at the inn when I return,” Prudence replied. Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps and walked through the door into the mill.

Four

William reined in his horse and dismounted. He was more than a mile from Thorne Mill, but he enjoyed the walk. Too many months had passed since this route was his daily journey.

Once, he had fancied himself a man of exceeding ambition and renown. Prosperity, celebrity, comfort, and amusement were his destiny. The activities of his daily life confirmed this conviction. His connection to the great family of Thorne made him welcome at every society gathering. During the social season, he partook of each opportunity to enjoy the bounties of London—wine, women, cards, glove matches, bearbaiting, balls, assemblies, even the theater and the opera.

Out of season, he enjoyed country pleasures. His family welcomed him home to join his brothers and friends in shooting, foxhunting, riding, and hosting a regular parade of visitors—women, mostly, eager to win the hand of one of the three eligible Sherbourne men.

To please his father, William had taken a position in the Royal Navy. He liked the sea and the rigors of military life. His comrades became good friends, and their battles on behalf of the Crown increased their bond.

Now, as he strode the well-traveled pathway toward the mill, William ran his riding crop along the dried seed heads of grain that had been left standing after the last harvest. Everything in his life might have continued in such a satisfactory vein. If only he had not . . .

“Blast,” he muttered aloud.

Regret would do no good. The hands of time could not be turned back. His recklessness in the games of chance that had stripped him of money and dignity would never be erased. Men to whom he owed great sums waited impatiently, wrote letters, threatened, complained. Women to whom he owed far more would never cease to haunt him.

The sight of Dawkins, the mill’s assistant blacksmith, racing full tilt down the road toward him gave William a start. The man’s skinny arms waved wildly and his knobby knees flew out in every direction as he ran.

“Sir!” the man cried out. “Sir, thank God you’ve come! She’s going after the piecers’ overlooker, and everything has gone amok!”

He sped a few more paces before shouting again. “The looms are stopped, sir! The overlooker will knock her down in two minutes! I’m sure of it!”

William halted as Dawkins skidded to a stop before him. The blacksmith bent over, wheezing and gasping for air. Hands on his knees, he coughed until William began to fear the poor man might drop dead on the spot.

“Of whom do you speak, Dawkins?” he asked. “What calamity gives you such alarm?”

“Her!” He straightened and pointed a long finger at the mill. “That woman from London. She claims her friend was crushed by a loom, and she begins to give Warring the fault of it! He’ll have none of that, and so he begins to say he’ll toss the woman into a carding engine if she don’t go away. Someone stopped the waterwheel so that the looms cease one by one, and we’ll never meet the day’s quota, not by a long shot!”

William had begun walking again as Dawkins poured out the tale. “Richard Warring? Is he the overlooker of whom you speak?”

“Indeed, sir, and if you know him at all, you’ll increase your pace.”

“Know him? I hired him.” Recalling the tall, brawny man who once worked as an overlooker at Quince’s Mill, William frowned. “Warring is a good man. He performs well. I studied the ledgers compiled while I was at sea. Under Warring and the other overlookers, the mill turns a reasonable profit.”

“Aye, sir. But that lady means to be the undoing of it!”

“Of which lady do you speak? I must know her name.”

“Miss Watson, sir. Miss Prudence Watson.”

At that, William stiffened in surprise. He paused on the road and looked out across the moor. Prudence Watson. That pretty little creature had turned his mill topsy-turvy? To what end?

As he began walking again, William lifted up yet another entreaty to the God he felt sure had abandoned him. He envisioned his prayer wafting away in the breeze like a puff of mist that soon vanished into thin air.

Why—of all people—did Miss Watson have to involve herself in this row? He had successfully put her out of his mind, just as he had evicted every other pretty woman of his acquaintance. She, more than most, intrigued and tempted him. Now he had no choice but to encounter her again.

“Listen, sir!” Dawkins cried as they reached the mill’s door. “Can you hear it?”

“How could I not?” The sounds of chaos echoing out from the building drowned the melody of rushing water and birdsong.

“Have all my looms and carding engines ceased?” William asked the blacksmith. “I hear nothing but shouting and shrieks.”

“Lord save us all!” With a cry, Mary Heathhill burst through the doorway and lurched down the steps. “Help! Oh, heaven help us!”

“Mrs. Heathhill?” William caught her just as she began to sag. “Dawkins, bring a stool!”

“You must rescue my sister, Mr. Sherbourne,” Mary sobbed. “That man will kill her!”

“Make yourself easy, madam.” He settled her onto a low stool in the shade of the building. “No one will be murdered in my mill. I assure you of that.”

Before the weeping woman could detain him further, William hurried into the mill. Just as Dawkins had described, every carding engine, scouring machine, spindle, and loom had come to a complete stop. Children wandered about, crying in confusion. Women shouted for help as they struggled to free themselves from suddenly frozen looms. Men had gathered in a mob at the far end of the building. Cursing and waving an assortment of tools and implements in the air, they pressed and pushed at each other.

The sight of William Sherbourne striding toward them down the mill’s central aisle brought the commotion to an uneasy halt. Workmen, few of whom he recognized, parted to allow him entry. At the center of the knot of angry onlookers stood two people who could not appear more opposite.

Richard Warring, his arms beefy and his neck as thick as an ox’s, faced his opponent. Miss Prudence Watson, her golden hair piled in curls beneath a sweeping, ostrich-plumed bonnet, glared at her adversary. He wore leather trousers, thick boots, and a sweat-stained shirt in some indistinguishable shade of brown. Her spotless blue gown set off a brown velvet pelisse, a pair of white gloves, and a small bag of pale blue silk.