The Courteous Cad (36 page)

“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 was 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.’”

Mary let out a squeak. “Shot? I had not read that far when I brought you the paper. How many others died?”

“‘Walters was the only man to die that night,’” Prudence read. “‘The two groups gathered again at Pentrich Lane End and marched to Butterley Ironworks. Brandreth demanded weapons from the Butterley men. But they stood their ground, and the marchers departed empty-handed.’”

“The Butterley men should have captured the rebels at that very moment,” Mary said.

“‘In pouring rain,’” Prudence continued, “‘the marchers stopped at three public houses, promising to pay for their drinks after they had toppled the British government. Soon drunk, dispirited, and wet, many defected. The small party remaining crossed into Nottinghamshire, where they faced a detachment of the King’s Hussars. After a brief scuffle, most of the revolutionaries fled. Those who did not were taken into custody.’”

“With such a pitiful display of force, they can hardly be called revolutionaries,” Mary said. “Their punishment does seem brutal—though one must never take treason lightly.”

“No, indeed.” Prudence sighed. Six days had passed since she departed the inn at Pentrich, leaving William alone to quell the rising. Clearly he had not succeeded in preventing the marchers from setting off. But perhaps the end result would have been worse without his intervention. If the revolution had ended that same night, she asked herself for the thousandth time, where was William?

Despite her anxiety, Prudence had felt her health returning as the days warmed and the mists rolled back. She took long walks about the grounds of the Delacroix estate. Henry and Mary often accompanied her on these excursions, though Sarah had chosen to return to London. Eating more, sleeping better, coughing less, Prudence began to hope that she had rounded a corner and was on the road to complete recovery.

But what use was robust health without William to tease and cajole her? A life dedicated to labor reform had begun to look rather empty. Despite her regularly announced determination never to marry, Prudence often thought about Chatham Hall and William’s warm embrace and children.

But no. She must focus on current events and not on hazy dreams.

“I wonder what became of Oliver?” she now asked Mary, while scanning the article again. “Why is he not mentioned?”

“Who is Oliver?”

“The man who spurred the rising. I saw him myself, along with Brandreth and the others. If Oliver had been captured, he would have faced the gallows with Brandreth, for he was equally guilty.”

“Perhaps he got drunk and deserted. Perhaps he did not like the rain.”

Prudence rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Mary, what do you think causes men to revolt? Insurrection is not a lark. These people long for a better life—a healthy workplace, reasonable hours, good food, safety—”

“Oh, here is Henry! Thank goodness you have come!” Mary skipped across the grass to loop her arm around his. “You must make Pru laugh, Henry, for she has grown very dull again. She cannot say a single word lest it is bleak and full of foreboding.”

“I have hope that I may accommodate your wishes in that arena, my dear lady,” he told Mary. “For I am sure you will smile when you hear my news.”

“I hope it is better than what we have just been reading,” Mary chirped. “Pru and I are overcome with distress. Indeed, we are both quite dispirited.”

From her perch on the swing, Prudence watched the pair of them tittering and teasing like two lovebirds.

Lovebirds?

She sat up straight.

“I cannot allow you to be dismayed in any way,” Henry was saying as he gazed at Mary. “Your happiness is my only desire.”

“Then I shall be happy,” she cooed, “for fulfilling your desires is my greatest joy.”

What was this?
Prudence gawked at her sister and Lord Delacroix—who were paying not the slightest attention to her. How had this happened right under her nose? The truth was blatant. Mary and Henry were in love.

In love!

“Excuse me,” Prudence said. “I am loath to disturb your tête-à-tête, but I should very much like to know Henry’s news.”

He glanced at her as if noticing for the first time that there was another woman in the garden. “Ah, Prudence, of course. My news is happy indeed. We are all wanted in London as soon as possible. The regent gives a ball—a masquerade!”

“Oh!” Mary shrieked and clasped her hands together. “And we are invited? Dearest Henry, this is due to you! Poor Pru and I would never be invited were we not so favorably connected to the house of Delacroix. A masquerade! Who shall I be? Oh, Henry, how will you dress? No—do not tell me! Say not a word! I must spend the evening searching for you—”

“And I, for you!”

At this utter silliness, Prudence slipped away from the oak tree, her volume of
Samson Agonistes
tucked under her arm. Milton, she felt, was just the dose of gloom required to offset the gleeful hysterics of Mary Heathhill and her newfound love.

Twenty

William Sherbourne stepped into the offices of the
Leeds Mercury
, a respected newspaper published in that quickly growing West Yorkshire town. Letting the door fall shut behind him, he scanned the room in search of a particular gentleman with whom he hoped to converse.

Though the office hummed with workers—any of whom might be Edward Baines—William’s attention was quickly drawn to the printing press. The massive machine had a cast-iron frame and various levers, a wheel, and an iron carriage. Bending down to study the movements of the press as it cranked out one printed page after another, William pondered whether small changes to his looms, spinners, and carding machines might increase productivity. The action of the carriage was particularly unusual and—

“Invented by Charles, third Earl of Stanhope. Do you like it?”

At the unexpected question, William straightened. Beside him stood a middle-aged gentleman sporting large black sideburns, a high forehead, and thinning hair.

“I like the press very much,” William responded. “May I assume you are Edward Baines, owner and publisher of the
Leeds Mercury
?”

“If you are a friend to dissenters, textile mill owners, and abolitionists, then I am indeed Edward Baines and your newest friend. If you oppose them, then I am still Edward Baines but now your staunchest foe.”

“Then I am pleased to meet a friend,” William said, shaking the man’s proffered hand. Baines, he saw at once, could become a valuable ally if their aims and purposes were aligned.

“My name is William Sherbourne of Otley—owner of Thorne Mill, producer of the finest worsted in the realm.”

“Ah, I have heard much of you, Mr. Sherbourne. Like me, you are something of an agitator. The reforms recently instituted at your mill are quite the sensation of the moment.”

“Indeed? I am surprised to hear it, though I can hardly doubt the veracity of a man whose sole profession is to gather and publish the news.”

Baines chuckled. “I pay close attention to Yorkshire’s textile mills. Some twenty years ago, I purchased carding and roving machines and started a small enterprise in the village of Brindle. Do you know it?”

“Near Preston?”

“The very same. But I abandoned the production of yard goods in favor of journalism. I have owned this newspaper since the turn of the century. 1801 was a stellar year, was it not?”

William reflected for a moment, realized he had been but a boy of nine at the time, and could recall nothing of it. “If you purchased the
Mercury
in that year,” he said finally, “then it was indeed momentous.”

Laughing, Baines beckoned. “Come with me, young William Sherbourne. We must take tea and speculate on Parliament.”

“Parliament?” William queried as they stepped into a smaller room at the rear of the office.

“I believe,” Baines said, “that such manufacturing towns as Leeds, Manchester, and even your little Otley should be well represented in government. What say you?”

“We shall have to disagree there, sir. If Leeds and Otley are represented in Parliament, then Parliament will make every attempt to exert its authority over our mills. Governmental regulations and strictures would overwhelm us.”

“Not necessarily.” Baines settled into a large leather-upholstered chair and urged William to do the same. As the two men enjoyed an animated discussion of the role of government in private business, a tea girl entered and set out cups, saucers, spoons, raisin cake, and a pot of steaming tea. Baines poured, waved at William to drink, and began slicing cake.

“But you did not come to the
Mercury
today to discuss Parliament,” Baines said. “I must know your purpose, and then we shall proceed with our discourse.”

“The workings of Parliament are not so very far from my chosen subject,” William replied, recalling Prudence’s tune about laws that would benefit the labor class. “But my first order of business is to make a report on the Pentrich Revolution.”

Baines’s face fell into lines of disappointment. “I am sorry to say, Mr. Sherbourne, that your news is already too old to be of use to me. Two weeks ago, the
Mercury
reported every aspect of that rising.”

William excused himself, stood, and walked to the door. “Now, do not take me so much to heart!” Baines called out. “At least drink your tea, young man. Let us discuss worsted, for I am very partial to wool suits.”

Shutting the door, William turned the key in the lock and returned to his chair. Baines watched with eyes narrowed. William seated himself again, then took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the publisher.

“
Agent provocateur
?” Baines scowled at the paper on which William had written the two weighty words. “Who?”

“Oliver.” William lowered his voice. “I do not have the man’s full name, but I know without doubt that Oliver led the rising at Pentrich. On government orders, he went to that town disguised as an unemployed mill worker. He then sought out the most disgruntled and restless among the villagers.”

“Jeremiah Brandreth, Isaac Ludlam, and William Turner.” Baines recited the names while running a finger around his collar, as if to ensure that his own neck was still intact.