Prudence and the Romantic Poet (The Three Graces #3)

Chapter 7

7

Constance agreed with Prudence’s plans regarding Mrs Smithyman. They discussed them and how they would bring them to completion in the next few days as they took a sedate turn about the pump room after chapel. They had made a deal of acquaintance during the past weeks among the largely elderly population who made their daily visit to take the waters, but Constance now noticed someone who was not of her acquaintance, and said to her sister, ‘Do you know that lady? The one with the odd headdress. She was looking at you and saying something to her companion, as if she were speaking of you.’

‘Ah, that is Miss Fitzgeorge,’ said Prudence. ‘I met her at the poetry salon. It is not a headdress, it is a laurel crown. She won it for her lines on the theme of Cupid. I had best go and say good morning. And there is Miss Kimpshott and Mrs Codd-Phelps.’

The ladies all met together; Miss Fitzgeorge was congratulated again on her literary success and was kind enough to recite her piece for the pleasure of Constance and Mrs Codd-Phelps. Constance expressed admiration as best she could, though her honest nature forbade her from saying that she agreed that arrows tipped in passion’s tender hue was sublime. Mrs Codd-Phelps looked underwhelmed by the recitation, and when pressed for her opinion replied that she had once named a terrier Cupid, for he was excessively amorous. ‘Caused such trouble for my neighbour who bred pugs. Two litters of the oddest creatures. I told her to mend her fence. Terriers can scramble under anything if they’ve a mind to, and a bitch in season is enough to give a dog a mind to.’

Miss Fitzgeorge flushed scarlet while her companion gasped, turned pale and trembled. Prudence smoothed things over as best she could by pretending nothing had been said regarding amorous dogs and instead loudly praising the gardens at Heath Villa and all she had seen the day of the salon. Constance was good enough to suggest to Mrs Codd-Phelps that they examine the book of arrivals for any lords, and took her away.

‘Shall we see you at the next salon?’ enquired Miss Fitzgeorge, when she had recovered from the shock her maidenly nerves had endured. ‘The challenge is to compose an ode to an inanimate object, in the style of Keats.’

Prudence expressed her regret that she would have left Bath by the time of the next meeting, for she was returning home within a week. ‘But I do not think myself quite equal to a ode,’ she confessed. ‘I should not be surprised if Lady Heath were to disbar me from any more meetings after my poor attempt at Cupid’s couplets.’

Miss Fitzgeorge gave her a condescending smile and remarked that she was probably wise not to attempt an ode, for it was a deal more challenging than a simple set of couplets. ‘Not everyone has talent in language,’ she said kindly, ‘but it is a great shame that you will be deprived of hearing everyone else’s work. Can you not delay your departure?’

Prudence assured her that it was sadly impossible and took leave of her. Miss Kimpshott did likewise, attaching herself to Miss Grace.

‘You are not really leaving next week, are you?’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘When was this decided? I thought you were to be in Bath for two weeks more at the least.’

Prudence explained the circumstances, but Miss Kimpshott could not congratulate her on her soon return home. ‘I shall miss you excessively,’ she said. ‘What shall I do without you?’ They had caught up with Constance and Mrs Codd-Phelps, and Miss Kimpshott relayed this sad news to her cousin.

‘We shall be leaving a fortnight later ourselves,’ her cousin reminded her. ‘Our quarterly lease in town begins the second week of November. Unless,’ she added, ‘Lord Carlyle comes up to the scratch. I have heard from a reliable source that he is second in line to a dukedom. I am going to the library to look up the Peerage and examine his bloodline.’

There was nothing to be said in reply to this. Constance declared her intention to return home to Laura Place by chair, while Prudence intended to call on Mrs Smithyman. She was a little disheartened by the prospect, for she had no good news as yet to give Mrs Smithyman. Her enquiries for a good position for her son were fruitless so far, as was her attempt to find a modiste or milliner willing to take on Mrs Smithyman as an apprentice. It seemed that such positions were not given to widows with rent to pay and mouths to feed, but to young girls who could subsist on the pittance paid to an apprentice with no dependents to support. She felt she was failing in all her good intentions on behalf of the poor widow. She had not even been able to find out who her landlord was. She and Constance had agreed that at the very least they must clear Mrs Smithyman’s debt with the landlord that he might fulfil his obligations and make the necessary repairs.

Miss Kimpshott said she would accompany Miss Grace, rather than spend a tedious hour in the library while her cousin pored over genealogies.

‘It is all for your good, Regina,’ Mrs Codd-Phelps reminded her. ‘If this young viscount proves worthy and reasonably plump in the pocket, it might save us a tedious time in London, and I shall not have to miss the Haldon Race after all.’

Prudence recovered from Amos the basket of food she had brought for Mrs Smithyman, and the ladies departed the pump room. Amos was ready with a chair for his mistress. Mrs Codd-Phelps marched away to the library, and Prudence and Miss Kimpshott wended their way through Bath Street. They were passing the entrance to the Cross Bath when an altercation in the street halted them.

‘What is happening?’ said Miss Kimpshott, taking a clinging hold of Prudence’s arm. ‘We must not get into the middle of a brawl. Perhaps we should turn back.’

Prudence was ready to turn back, but she hesitated, observing the scene ahead and seeing that there was an elderly man caught in the middle of it. ‘One minute,’ she said, disengaging her arm and hurrying forward to assist the man who was sat on the ground while a woman and two men were having a shouting match over his head.

‘My dear sir,’ said Prudence, bending down to the man. ‘Let me help you.’

A fierce glare startled her, and she drew back.

‘Leave me be!’ snarled the man.

‘But, sir,’ protested Prudence. ‘I cannot leave you like this. ’

She caught the attention of the nearby woman hurling insults at the two men, whom Prudence now perceived to be chairmen.

’Is this man your father?’ Prudence asked.

‘My father!’ exclaimed the woman, her face flushed with anger. ‘I’d be ashamed to own that old nipcheese for a father!’

‘If I were your father, I’d give you a good strapping to teach you some manners!’ bellowed back the old man. ‘Give me my stick, you shrew!’

‘You give ‘im back that stick and I’ll break it over my knee before I’ll take another blow from it!’ shouted one of the chairmen.

‘Break it over his baldy old head for all I care!’ bellowed the woman. She threw the walking stick into the street, saying, ‘I’m finished with you – you old gudgeon! I’d sooner go back to charring than work another hour for you!’

‘If you go off again, missy, I won’t have you back this time!’ raged the old man. ‘And you can forget your wages!’

‘I ain’t had full wages since I started with you!’ shouted back the woman, stamping her foot on the stick as if it gave her some relief to stomp on something. ‘Taking tuppence out o’ my wages for this and a penny for that, ’til you’ve whittled it down – you miserable old skinflint! I’m done with you once an’ for all!’

And with that she was gone.

‘Pray, sirs, why is this gentleman in the street?’ said Prudence, appealing to the chairmen who were stood with arms crossed, either side of the man.

‘’Cause he won’t pay his fare, that’s why,’ she was informed .

‘I’m not being gulled by you pair of rascals,’ growled the man. ‘You take your thrupppence and away with you!’

‘The fee is sixpence, and we told you that the last time you faradiddled us! We ain’t being gulled again, so you can sit there till you pay up!’

‘How can I pay you a ha’penny when that harridan has just marched off with my purse!’

‘There weren’t nothin’ in the purse but thruppence!’

‘This will not do,’ said Prudence, stepping forward and opening her reticule to take out a sixpenny piece. ‘Here.’ She put the coin in the nearest man’s hand. ‘But do not leave him in the street, I beg you.’ She turned to the elderly man. ‘Are you injured, sir? Are you able to walk?’

‘I can walk well enough,’ growled the man, ‘but not without my stick.’

The stick lay in the road where it had been stomped on. It proved a little difficult to recover, for a small, rough-coated dog had found it and was trying to drag it away. Miss Kimpshott, who was used to her cousin’s dogs, attempted to pull the stick free, but the dog would not let go.

‘Kick the mangy thing,’ growled the elderly man.

‘Certainly not!’ said Prudence. She had put down her basket, and now retrieved from it a morsel of ham pie which the dog was very happy to exchange the stick for. The gentleman was assisted to his feet, his stick restored to him, and the chairmen tipped their hats to Prudence and left with a parting shot at the old gentleman not to try and hire them again, for they didn’t work for muckworms.

‘Where are you going, sir?’ Prudence enquired.

‘In the hot bath, where else?’ was the reply.

‘Can you manage without someone to assist you?’

The elderly man looked about him, his expression suddenly rather childish and helpless. Prudence felt a rush of pity. ‘I shall see you into the baths, sir,’ she said. ‘And I shall return in an hour to see you home. Do you live in town?’

‘Kingsmead,’ he muttered.

‘That is not very far. Can you walk it, or shall I find a conveyance?’

His gruff look returned, and he snapped, ‘Can’t walk above ten steps, missy. Do you think I walk with a stick for sport?’

‘Leave him to it,’ whispered Miss Kimpshott. ‘He is an odious man.’

‘I cannot leave him,’ said Prudence. ‘It will weigh upon my conscience not to see him safely home. Perhaps the maid who stormed away will return for him when she has calmed down.’

The staff in the hot baths clearly knew the elderly gentleman, but did not greet him with affection. ‘Have you got payment this morning?’ enquired a man. ‘And the extra from last time when you were short.’

The man scowled, saying, ‘My purse was stolen by a minx.’

‘Then you can’t come in,’ was the flat reply. ‘We ain’t a charity.’

‘How much is it?’ asked Prudence, reaching for her purse again.

‘Well, aren’t you the lucky fellow this morning?’ said the man, leading the gentleman away.

‘What an abominably rude man,’ remarked Miss Kimpshott. ‘He did not even thank you.’

The ladies resumed their walk to Mrs Smithyman’s lodgings. They were nearly at Corn Street before Miss Kimpshott, who had glanced behind a few times, said, ‘That horrid little dog is following us, Miss Grace. ’

Prudence looked back to see that it was so. ‘I daresay he wants more pie.’

‘You are not going to give it to him, are you?’

‘How can I refuse. Look how thin he is, poor little fellow. I think he is but a pup. I daresay he will go away if I give him another piece.’

The dog did indeed dart away with his prize to eat it in some secluded spot, and the ladies continued on. Mrs Smithyman was pleased to see them, and, as Prudence had included a packet of tea in the basket, she insisted on making a pot for them. Little Lottie sat on Prudence’s lap the whole time gazing at Miss Kimpshott whom she thought another beautiful princess.

They were walking back to town when Miss Kimpshott said, ‘Oh, that creature is back again.’

The little dog was trotting behind, and although Prudence showed him the empty basket, he would not be dissuaded from following them all the way to the hot baths.

‘You must go home, dear,’ Prudence urged Miss Kimpshott when they reached the baths. ‘Your cousin will be wondering where you have got to.’

‘And leave you alone with that horrid man?’

Prudence tipped one of the ushers to order a chair, and they waited to escort the elderly man home.

‘Ah, you again,’ was the greeting Prudence received from him as he limped out on his stick. ‘Suppose you’re going to follow me home to get your money back.’

Prudence ignored this, and guided him to the waiting chair. The nearest chairman looked at him with narrowed eyes, and seemed ready to protest against him as a customer, so Prudence forestalled any trouble by settling the fare in advance. ‘Could you walk slowly enough for us to follow?’ she asked, as the chair was lifted and they all processed through to Westgate Buildings and into Kingsmead Street.

The elderly man was deposited on his doorstep where he banged on the door with his stick. A thin man of about sixty or so opened the door, peering out cautiously.

‘Let me in,’ growled the man, jabbing at the door with his stick.

‘Wanted to be sure it weren’t Kate come back again,’ explained the servant, opening wide the door. ‘Came by in a right pucker. Cleared out her room and took the candlesticks and salt box with her.’

‘She did what?’ shouted the elderly man, stumbling in the doorway on hearing this. Prudence ran forward to assist him that he might not fall.

‘Call the magistrate!’ bellowed the man. ‘Stole from me! The thieving wench – I’ll see her prosecuted!’

‘She said it were in lieu of the wages you never paid her,’ replied the servant, assisting his irate master into the house. ‘No point getting any magistrate, she’ll be halfway to Bristol by now and gone to ground, and I won’t testify to no magistrate against her, for while I don’t hold with her taking the only set of sticks in the kitchen, I don’t hold with not paying wages, neither, and so I’ve told you many a time.’

‘Shut your windbox, you traitorous varmint!’ growled the man, but he let himself be assisted into the house and into a ground-floor bedroom where he was deposited into an armchair in front of a fireplace.

‘Who’s this?’ asked the servant, jerking his head at Prudence.

‘Miss Grace,’ supplied Prudence. ‘We found this gentleman sitting in the street, and with no means of getting home.’

‘I never asked you to pay for the baths,’ said the elderly man, shaking his stick at her, ‘nor to pay for a chair home, so don’t be asking me for money! I’ve had enough of women fleecing me this day!’

The servant looked at her, saying, ‘That were mortal kind of you, miss.’ He turned to his master. ‘It were a kindness, Mr Sealy, something you ain’t seen much of in a long year, so long in fact you’ve forgot all your manners.’ He turned back to Prudence, saying apologetically, ‘He ain’t never got a word of thanks for a soul, so don’t take offence at not getting one. You’ve never met a more ungrateful soul than William Sealy, but while I’ve half a mind to say you’d have done better to leave him in the street, my other half a mind knows better, and it thanks you for your kindness, though I can’t pay you back a penny, miss, for he keeps his blunt locked up tight.’

Prudence was amazed that a servant should speak in front of his master in such a manner, but concluded that this style of speech must be a common occurrence, for the elderly man only growled a few rude names and shook his stick. But one name spoken had roused Prudence’s interest.

‘Did you say,’ she asked, ‘that your master’s name is Mr Sealy?’

‘He did,’ barked the elderly man, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, as though worn out from the exertion of his outing. ‘Why?’

‘My mother’s name was Sealy. It is not a common name. Have you any connection to the Sealys of Wiltshire, sir?’

The man’s eyes opened again, and he looked at her properly for the first time. ‘What was her name?’

‘Anne.’

‘Who were her parents?’

‘Richard and Prudence Sealy. I am named after my grandmother.’

The man stared at her for so long and with such a strange look that she worried he was suffering some kind of turn.

‘Are you well, sir?’

‘So you are little Anne’s child,’ said the man, still staring.

‘Did you know my mother, sir?’

‘Last I heard she’d married some religious fellow.’

‘My father was a missionary.’

‘Was? Is he dead?’

‘Both my parents are gone.’

‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘Richard’s granddaughter. Pity you were named after your grandmother. Never met a bigger harridan in my life. You don’t look like her. That’s a mercy.’

Prudence was a little taken aback at this. Then she remembered something she had heard from Constance. ‘You are my mother’s uncle,’ she said slowly. ‘There was a falling out with your sister—’

‘Sister-in-law,’ he corrected. ‘Richard took his wife’s part, so I cast the pair of them off. Never saw them again. Never saw any of the family again.’

‘How very sad,’ said Prudence, looking around the room, which was of a good size and with solid furniture, but there was an air of neglect about the place. It was a functional house, but it did not feel homely.

‘So you’re Mr Sealy’s niece, miss?’ said the servant, looking amazed. ‘I thought he had no one in all the world.’

‘Great-niece,’ said Miss Kimpshott, who was looking on with a mixture of interest and repugnance.

Prudence stepped forward and put out a hand. ‘How do you do, Uncle Sealy? I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’