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

Chapter 10

10

The transference of Prudence from Laura Place to Kingsmead Street was completed. Finn made arrangements for Prudence to draw upon whatever funds she needed for expenses; the chimneys were swept, the coal cellar filled, and the pantry stocked. Mrs Smithyman and Prudence arranged a scheme whereby Mrs Smithyman’s daughter Sophy was recalled home from her unhappy position as a scullery maid to come and work as general housemaid for Mr Sealy.

No one had yet responded to the advertisement of a cook, so Prudence took on this duty herself quite willingly. It was a pity the cooking range was an old-fashioned open one, but it kept the kitchen nice and warm.

After several busy days of cleaning and organising, the house settled into a routine, and if Mr Sealy’s company was not desirable to anyone, the rest of the house formed a happy little family group centred around the warm kitchen and Prudence’s calm and motherly influence.

A week passed, and Lizzy and Amos took young Sophy Smithyman with them for their afternoon off. Mr Sealy was having his customary afternoon nap. Prudence decided to enjoy a cup of tea and a book for the next hour. She had spent the morning dusting the rooms on the first floor, and was feeling weary and in need of a restful afternoon herself.

But she was not to enjoy the luxury of solitude for long, for her dog barked to inform her that someone was knocking at the front door at the other end of the house. She left it to Pickering to open the door. It was a short distance from his post in Mr Sealy’s room to the front door.

Few people called at Mr Sealy’s house. There was an unpleasant looking man who came every few days and was ushered directly into Mr Sealy’s room and the door closed behind him. No one was permitted to enter the room when he called. On enquiry, Prudence learned from Pickering that it was ‘a man of business,’ and that was all she knew of him. Miss Kimpshott called on occasion, but declared that it was the gloomiest house imaginable, and so Prudence walked the short distance to the pump room to meet with her friend most mornings. The only frequent visitor was Mr Shelbourne who called most days to discuss his poems which Prudence had, with some regret, agreed to continue transcribing for him. She was writing them out in a clear hand for submission to a London editor, as Mr Shelbourne’s hand was anything but clear.

Her dog’s thumping tail forewarned her that whosoever’s footstep it was coming down the passageway it was someone he approved of, so she was not surprised to see Mr Shelbourne’s youthful face appear. He was such a regular caller that Pickering did not trouble to announce him. But it was a sorrowful face that Mr Shelbourne carried into the kitchen that afternoon.

‘Have you seen Miss Kimpshott?’ she asked, recalling that her friend had said she was to walk out with Mr Shelbourne and other young friends in Sydney Gardens that day. Prudence had declined to join the party, feeling tired after her busy week.

‘Yes. I went with a heavy heart, and I return no lighter.’ He sank down on the comfortable chair she had been about to sit and read in, and pulled off his gloves.

‘So I see,’ she replied. ‘I think I can guess the cause.’

The approaching departure of Miss Kimpshott to London was the source of increasing misery in Mr Shelbourne. Fortunately for him, though perhaps not for Prudence, such anguish of heart made him very productive. Lines of poetry flowed from him like the River Avon after the goddess Tempestas had descended upon it and stirred it up, as he put it. ‘I write through the midnight watches,’ he confessed. The dark hollows beneath his eyes attested to this nocturnal creativity.

‘Fill the kettle for me, Mr Shelbourne, and I shall make tea,’ said Prudence sympathetically. He obliged her by dropping his sheaf of new poems on the table along with his hat and gloves, and made his languid way to the pump in the little courtyard outside the kitchen door. The kettle was not even brought to boil before the front door sounded again.

‘I wonder who that could be,’ said Prudence, speaking more to the barking Pip than to Mr Shelbourne.

‘Could it be she? ’ said Mr Shelbourne hopefully, knowing that Mr Sealy did not customarily have callers, but Miss Grace was sometimes called upon by Miss Kimpshott. He moved to the doorway to listen intently, scooping up the little dog to quiet him. Prudence, crossing the room to fetch her caddy saw Mr Shelbourne’s expression alter in an instant from one of hope to dismay. ‘I cannot stay!’ said Mr Shelbourne, and he darted to the back door murmuring, ‘Beg pardon!’ and disappeared through it with her dog still under his arm.

She stared at the door behind him, the tea caddy in one hand and the empty teapot in the other.

‘Through here is he?’ came a deep, unfamiliar, masculine voice. And to Prudence’s surprise a gentleman of about thirty years strode into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw her, saying abruptly, ‘I beg pardon, miss. I was informed that Mr Shelbourne was to be found here?’ His eye fell upon the hat and gloves on the table. ‘I see that he is.’ He looked around. ‘Shelbourne!’ he called, rather imperiously. When no corresponding reply was given he turned back to Prudence, demanding, ‘Where is he?’

She was taken aback by this sudden intrusion, and replied simply, ‘I do not know. He was here. And now he is… not.’ She could not keep her eyes from straying to the back door. The man saw her look and said grimly, ‘I daresay he will be back for his hat. Or have you hidden him?’

‘Hidden him?’ Prudence stifled a laugh. This stern man did not look like someone who would take kindly to being laughed at, but she could not resist saying, ‘You are welcome to check under the table or in the pantry, sir.’

She turned away before he could see the amusement in her face. She busied herself with measuring out the tea and laying the tray. She thought he was watching her and looked round a little self-consciously, but he was watching her tea-making ceremony as though it were something of interest.

‘May I offer you tea?’ she asked amiably, hoping he would he would refuse and go away.

He did not answer. He had now taken up the sheaf of poems from the table and was attempting to read one, holding the paper near and then far, murmuring, ‘I see his hand is not improved. Nor his meter.’ He tossed them back down. ‘Is the young lady here, or has she run away hatless through the back door too?’

Prudence gave him a puzzled look. ‘Which young lady?’ She carried the tray to the table, still hoping he would leave her to enjoy her tea in peace. There was a scratching at the back door. Prudence glanced at it, wondering if it were Mr Shelbourne asking to be let back in. If so, he was a little premature. The unwelcome man clearly wondered the same thing. A few quick strides took him to the door and he opened it smartly. Something small and dark shot past him.

‘There you are,’ said Prudence, patting her dog. ‘I thought you would not be gone long.’ She wondered if his abductor had returned, but as the vexatious man had looked about outside and shut the door again, she concluded that Pip had made his own way home. The man returned to the table.

‘Is there anything else I may help you with, sir, or shall I show you the way out?’ she asked pleasantly but pointedly. She poured herself a steaming cup. ‘If you care to leave your name, I will tell Mr Shelbourne you called.’

He sniffed the air. ‘What blend is that?’ he asked.

‘Blend?’

‘The tea.’ He nodded at her cup.

‘I mix my own. I like two parts bohea and one part oolong, and I add a little citrus peel. Not everyone cares for the lemon, but I enjoy it.’

‘Let me taste it.’

She was partly irritated by his brusque way of talking, but also a little entertained. It flashed across her mind that she was somewhat vulnerable entertaining a strange gentleman with Amos and Lizzy away from the house, but he was not to know that she was alone, discounting her sleeping uncle and his elderly servant. But Pip had not taken a dislike to the stranger. He had sniffed his boots thoroughly and then settled down in his usual place at her feet where he watched the stranger, his ears cocked at every note in his voice. She poured out half a cup and watched him as he tasted it.

‘Interesting,’ was his verdict. ‘You have a very generous mistress to be making yourself such good quality tea.’

She looked at him in surprise. He was not looking at her, but examining the colour of the tea. She realised with another suppressed smile that he thought her a mere kitchen maid helping herself to a valuable commodity that would not usually be given to the servants. She was wearing an old and faded gown and apron for her morning of cleaning, and made a stark contrast to him in his immaculate dark coat and his fine linen shirt and cravat. She did not correct his assumptions, however, but amused herself by saying, ‘I hope you do not think me guilty of purloining tea, sir?’

‘Is she at home?’

‘She?’

‘Your mistress. The young lady I am told Shelbourne visits every day.’

‘Mr Shelbourne comes to visit me,’ she replied.

He stared at her. ‘Then it is worse than I thought.’ He looked at her more closely, examining her face so that she flushed a little and stiffened in her chair. She really did now wish him gone.

‘So you are the fair Regina,’ he said flatly. ‘He is deluded.’

She flushed more deeply, not certain of his meaning, but sure that it was not complimentary. She was by no means vain, but this was very rude.

‘My name is none of your concern, sir, and I have not given you leave to use it, nor is it gentlemanlike to tell a young lady to her face that she is not fair. Mr Shelbourne is not here, and there is no reason for you to remain any longer.’ She stood up. ‘I bid you good day.’

He stared at her again for a moment, and then, to his credit, he looked a little ashamed, saying, ‘I beg your pardon, miss. When I abused my cousin’s description of fair I meant it in the sense he used it.’ He took up the topmost poem and read, ‘ Lo, Regina’s hair flowing silver as mercury’s moon…’ He glanced at her hair, tied back in a serviceable but severe knot. ‘Your hair, miss, is not silvery, but brown.’

‘Perhaps you make no allowance for the poetic imagination,’ she replied a little dryly.

He gave a slight curl of the lip and dropped the poem. ‘I will only say one thing, Miss…?’ She did not supply her name; why should she, when he had not had the courtesy to give her his? He continued. ‘Shelbourne’s fortune is very tightly bound up, and he is not of age for some years. Should he make an imprudent alliance without my consent he will forfeit all his inheritance. Do you understand?’

It was her turn to stare at him. She recalled things that Mr Shelbourne had said, and suddenly it burst in on her. ‘You are Mr Shelbourne’s cousin.’

He acknowledged this with a curt bow of the head.

‘How did you know that Mr Shelbourne calls here?’

‘Does it matter? People talk. And my ward mentioned in one of his almost illegible letters that he had met the lady he wished to marry.’ He cast another look over her features as if searching them for the riddle to his ward’s infatuation.

She flushed again at this look. She could explain his error to him and make him understand that she was not Miss Regina Kimpshott, the muse of Mr Shelbourne’s life – a muse who had turned out to be a mere kitchen maid hankering after his fortune – but why should she tell him anything? Let him presume all he liked, seeing as presumption was something he was very good at. So she merely said, ‘Thank you, sir, for your information. You have conveyed all you wished to, and as Mr Shelbourne has not returned for his hat, I feel it is safe to assume that he is not intending to return at all this day. You may take it with you and give it to him yourself, or I will return it when next I see him, and of course I shall tell him that you called.’

She spoke in her usual clear, calm voice, but she could not suppress a heightened colour.

He looked at her curiously, saying, ‘You speak very well for a servant. Quite an educated tone.’ His voice softened a little. ‘You are very young. Little more than a child. Shelbourne is not much above a schoolboy either, so I do not accuse him of wilfully leading you on. But it will not do,’ he said with a note of finality. ‘You must give him up. It cannot come to anything but disappointment.’

She only gave a tight smile that did not reach her eyes, and said, ‘Thank you for your advice, sir. Now I must bid you good day. I have a deal to do, once I have enjoyed finishing my tea in peace.’

He looked displeased as he bid her good day and left the room.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Prudence, when she heard the front door closing forcibly. ‘What a rude man! You were no help, Pip. In future I would like you to see off any so-called gentlemen who come marching into my kitchen ready to insult me.’

Pip had dropped off to sleep and made no response. By the time she had finished her tea she began to see the funny side of the mistaken identity. She would not tell Constance about it, for she would be appalled at her little sister finding herself accosted by a strange man, but Charity would enjoy the joke. But just because it was an amusing story, it did not mean she forgave him. Mr Shelbourne had not been exaggerating for once in claiming his guardian to be something of a tyrant.