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

Chapter 13

13

Dearest Connie, wrote Prudence. She glanced at her sister’s letter that had arrived that morning. It was full of injunctions to her to hurry home. It had been ten days since Constance left Bath, and she would not have left behind her sister if she’d had any notion Prudence would be there longer than that.

A second letter from her sister Charity was also at hand. Charity’s was more of a note as she scribbled a few lines to give her the latest news: little Alex was talking very well now, despite his lisp, and had the most natural seat on his miniature pony. The pheasant season was likewise going well, there was a good deal of game bagged, and their godmother was urging her to go to London for Christmas.

Prudence turned back to her own letter. You must not fret, I assure you I am perfectly comfortable here, which is more than I can say for our poor uncle. He is in a sad decline.

He will not permit any doctor to call, but has consented to take the honey and garlic syrup that we have always found so efficacious.

I wish I could do more for him, but I have some satisfaction in knowing that his last months of life are made as comfortable as possible. It is a desperate shame that so many die alone and without sufficient heat and food due to poverty. That fate shall not befall any member of our family while we have the means to help.

I need only to find a cook and a man for the heavy lifting, then I shall be at liberty to leave. Miss Kimpshott thinks the kitchen assistant at their lodgings may like the job of a plain cook, so I shall arrange to interview her.

I can also allay your fear that I am shut up here all alone. I go almost every day to the pump or assembly room. I will miss Miss Kimpshott’s friendship when she departs for London, but I have other acquaintance to meet with here, if none so young and pleasing to look at.

Mr Shelbourne continues to be kind and attentive, though he may not remain in Bath once Miss Kimpshott is gone, he speaks of withdrawing to his own home to write poems, doubtless on the theme of unrequited love.

We are all to go on an outing tomorrow to see the little cottage he lives in, and also to Beech Park, which his cousin Sir Robert owns. I have met Sir Robert on three occasions now, and he is very gentlemanly, if rather severe. He is one of those persons whom one cannot read easily. I am not at all certain that he likes me. I think he believes me to be too independent and eccentric, but it does not keep him from showing polite attention.

Her letter writing was interrupted by young Sophy tapping at the door to say that Mr Sealy was taken bad, and Mr Pickering was asking for her.

Alarmed, Prudence put down her pen and hastened to the other end of the house. She could hear her uncle’s racking cough long before she reached him.

‘He’s fit to cough his puddings up,’ lamented Pickering, when Prudence hurried in. Mr Sealy was in bed. ‘Poor fellow can’t catch breath. ’

‘We must raise him up,’ said Prudence. ‘I’ll take him under this arm, you lift under the other.’ She plumped up the bed pillows while Pickering supported his master, and between them they moved the invalid into a more upright position. It was dreadful how frail he felt to her own small hands. The coughing fit did ease once he was upright, but he was so weakened by the attack that he could not easily remain in that posture.

‘This will not do,’ said Prudence firmly. ‘I am sending for Dr Blythe. I will brook no argument,’ she said, as Mr Sealy made signs of protestation. ‘It shall not cost you one halfpenny, uncle. I would give all that I had to see you relieved of these dreadful attacks, and any help that can be found shall be found.’

With that she left the room and returned to her writing box where she penned a note to the doctor, and sent Sophy off with it, telling her to wait for a reply.

The doctor came that afternoon. His cool, formal manner subdued Mr Sealy’s resistance. He tapped his chest and back, listening with an ear-trumpet, checked his eyes and tongue and pulse.

‘ Fluidum in pulmone ,’ was his verdict, when his examination was complete, and Prudence had drawn him aside to speak privately with him. ‘And infirm cor .’

‘What does that mean, sir?’ asked Prudence. ‘And what is the remedy.’

‘It means, aetrurnum appropinquat ,’ said the doctor with all gravity. ‘Eternity draws nigh.’

‘Oh. I see. But is there anything that can be done?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘ Administrare consolationis. All that can be done is to ease the passing.’

‘How long?’

‘It may be weeks. It may be months. But he shall not see another winter. ’

He supplied a prescription for the apothecary to make up, presented his bill, and went on his way. Mr Sealy was drowsing now, having taken a sleeping draught supplied by the doctor. She met Pickering’s questioning look, and shook her head slowly. ‘We can only make him comfortable,’ she said quietly. ‘We cannot make him well.’

She returned to her letter writing, and relayed all of this to Constance, stating that under such circumstances she would not leave their uncle until the end.

I know, dear, that you will agree that it is right that he should have a family member with him to the end. However lonely his life has become he will at least meet with kindness at the close.

You will understand my feeling that somehow I feel providentially positioned as a representative of the family line, standing in the place as a kind of intermediary between our poor uncle and God.

She concluded her letter with an appeal to her sister to keep their uncle in her prayers, and to give Merry-Ann a big kiss from her Aunt Pru who missed her very much, and she was quite sure she should be with them all again soon.

Prudence thought she would have to forego the outing to Beech Park the next day, but Pickering said that the master had been calm all night without any more attacks, and was still calm and sleepy next morning.

At breakfast Prudence expressed her fears regarding leaving her uncle for a long day’s outing, but Lizzy insisted there was nothing Miss Grace could do that she couldn’t do, and she and Amos would be watchful and on hand all that day. ‘Mrs Finnistone gave me orders, miss,’ she added, ‘that you were not to be allowed to wear yourself out with nursing all day, but was to stay in good health by getting out and about as much as possible.’

Prudence, who had been grieved at the thought of the deep disappointment she would cause to her friends should she cry off at the last minute, acceded to Lizzy’s urging and said that she would go as planned.

She was expecting to travel either squeezed into Mrs Codd-Phelps’ small carriage or in Mr Shelbourne’s curricle. The curricle was all very well for short drives, but was a little cramped with three of them abreast on a longer journey, and the temperate autumn was beginning to yield to the advance of winter, so she was pleasantly surprised to see a handsome vis-à-vis with four matched horses draw up outside Mr Sealy’s door. Mr Shelbourne pre-empted the footman sat beside the coachman by hopping out of the carriage to assist her inside.

‘Cousin Robert insisted we use his landau,’ said Mr Shelbourne.

‘How very kind of him,’ said Prudence, settling down on the comfortable seat.

‘He said to make sure I give you one of these,’ said Mr Shelbourne, producing a fur carriage rug. ‘And there’s a basket of refreshment under the seat there.’

‘I thought it was only a journey of an hour and half,’ said Prudence.

‘An hour by four-in-hand,’ replied Mr Shelbourne. He was watching out of the window for Miss Kimpshott’s residence. ‘I’ll go!’ he called up to the footman when the carriage pulled up outside number ten, Henrietta Street. Miss Kimpshott did not keep them waiting, but appeared in a soft rose ensemble that suited her colouring very well. There was a delay while Mrs Codd-Phelps, who on seeing the carriage from the window hurried out to look at the horses and was enthusiastically discussing their points with the groom, who assured her proudly that they were excellent high-steppers and disagreed vehemently that they only lacked breadth in the chest to be flawless. Before this disagreement developed into an altercation Mrs Codd-Phelps ended the discussion by scolding the groom for keeping the horses standing, and waved them off.

‘Cousin Phyllis was to come with us,’ said Miss Kimpshott, accepting Mr Shelbourne’s offer of a carriage rug, but assuring him that she could arrange it over her lap herself. ‘But when she learned that Sir Robert does not hunt and has no dogs or hunters in his stables, she said she could not endure hours of carriage bouncing, as she calls it, only for the sake of looking about someone’s picture gallery and wintry-bare gardens. She is getting weary of town life and is pining for home, which makes her unsociable. I hope Sir Robert will not be angry.’

‘Why should he?’ said Mr Shelbourne.

‘He was very particular in extracting an assurance from my cousin that she would come. I must suppose that is why he sent his own carriage, so we would be comfortable

‘Why should he want your cousin to come?’

‘As a proper chaperone. I fancy he thinks Miss Grace too young for the role.’

‘He does seem to think me a green girl,’ agreed Prudence. ‘But he is very much mistaken.’

‘Old people think anyone under five and twenty are to be treated like babes,’ said Mr Shelbourne with more than a hint of bitterness. ‘I have asked to be independent these two years, but he says I am not of age and am yet a greenhorn. Whose fault is that, I say? If I’d been sent to school instead of tutored privately, I’d have gained some bronze by now. Just because he had a brute of a time of it at school and at home, it don’t signify that I should be coddled, does it? ’

‘Why did he have a brute of a time at home?’ Prudence could not forbear asking.

‘His father was a devil,’ was the reply. ‘I don’t remember my uncle, he died when I was in leading strings, but I know the older servants still call him the Bouncer when they speak of him, and the Bouncer’s father was ten times worse,’ he added. ‘ Bluebeard , they called him.’

Miss Kimpshott’s eyes widened. ‘Why? Did something happen to his wife?’

‘The old butler says he’s amazed that none of his grandfather’s wives haunt the place, for they all had untimely ends.’

‘Did he murder them? How many were there?’ Miss Kimpshott asked incredulously.

‘There was no proof of anything smoky,’ admitted Mr Shelbourne. ‘But he had three wives who died young.’

‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Miss Kimpshott. ‘No wonder your cousin does not care for the place. You said he would sell it if anyone made an offer, did you not?’

Mr Shelbourne admitted this was so.

‘But is it yours to inherit, should he not marry?’

Mr Shelbourne shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t want the responsibility of the place anyhow. Rambling old pile. I like a cosy house.’

‘Is that why you live in a cottage?’ asked Prudence. ‘I must have been mistaken in thinking you did not live in the house because your cousin did not wish you there.’

Another slight shrug. ‘I daresay I could live there if I wished. Most of the place is shut up. My cousin is away a good deal.’

Prudence would have liked to ask more, but she did not wish to pry into Sir Robert’s private concerns behind his back, so she refrained. Miss Kimpshott had tired of the subject and the conversation turned to other things.

The iron gates of Beech Park were open in expectation of their arrival. The horses slowed to a trot as they passed through the stone pillars and down a long drive lined with beeches. The drive was a half-mile long, flanked by woodland on one side and meadowland on the other.

‘Oh, it’s charming!’ said Miss Kimpshott, as they circled round the sweeping drive, glimpsing through the windows the honey-coloured house with its pleasing symmetry and proportions. ‘How could you call it a rambling old pile?’

The groom opened the carriage door and let down the steps, and Mr Shelbourne escorted them to the entrance porch, flanked by two large columns.

‘Sir Robert is in the study,’ a matronly housekeeper informed Mr Shelbourne. ‘If you care to follow me, miss, I’ll show you to a room where you can refresh yourself.’

The ladies followed her upstairs to a bedchamber and dressing room where a fire had been lit and a washing stand prepared with soap and towels and a selection of lady’s toiletries. A promise of hot water to be sent up directly was made, and the housekeeper left them.

‘I think from her manner of speaking to us that the housekeeper thought you were my maid or companion,’ said Miss Kimpshott, half amused, half offended on her friend’s behalf.

‘It is not to be wondered at,’ said Prudence, undoing the buttons on her travelling pelisse. ‘You look the fine lady in your beautiful clothes, while I look as plain as a maid in my old gown. I wish I hadn’t sent all my best clothes back to Lindford with my sister, but I did not expect to be visiting grand houses.’

Miss Kimpshott, running an eye over Prudence’s plain, high-necked, gown and her hair drawn rather severely back into a thick knot at her neck could not argue against her appearance being very unlike that of a mere companion. She tidied her own fashionable ringlets and washed her hands in the water brought up, and splashed a little of the rosewater on her neck and temples. Their skirts were shaken free of travelling creases, and Prudence, quite as if she really were the companion, hung up their coats and bonnets in the dressing room.

‘What delightful roses,’ Miss Kimpshott said, admiring the bowl on the dressing table. She fingered the petals. ‘Roses in November. I had thought they must be silk, but they are real.’ She selected a spray and bid Prudence stand still while she tucked it into Prudence’s knot of hair, putting another one under her own hair ribbon so that it peeked charmingly between her ringlets above her ear.

They followed the housekeeper’s directions to the drawing room where they was told they were to take a nuncheon after their journey. Sir Robert and his young cousin awaited them. Polite greetings were exchanged. Prudence, as usual, could not read Sir Robert’s expression, and was unsure if he were pleased to see them or not. But his manners were faultless as he welcomed them and ensured they made a good repast of sandwiches and cake. After they had eaten, a servant came in to say that the gigs were ready.

‘The ground is very damp,’ said Sir Robert. ‘It rained heavily in the night. I thought it better to drive to the cottage by gig. I will show you as much of the grounds en route as can be seen by carriage. ’

‘May we go over the house also?’ asked Miss Kimpshott.

‘By all means. Though most of it is under dust sheets. But let us see the gardens while the weather holds, and then the house. I have ordered a very early dinner that you might be home before dark.’

Coats and hats were reclaimed for the outing. There were two gigs; Mr Shelbourne appropriated Miss Kimpshott as his companion, and Prudence sat beside Sir Robert. It was a very different experience to be driven by Sir Robert’s smooth and skilful driving than by Mr Shelbourne’s distracted manner.

They were limited to areas with pathways wide enough to take the gig, but observing from her perch the woodlands and arboretums, the cider and pear orchards, and the countless walkways and trails and formal gardens, Prudence remarked that surely one could take a long walk every day of the year around the grounds and never walk the same way twice. Sir Robert agreed that it was so. He shared some historical details regarding the formal gardens, but on asking Prudence if she would like to walk through any of them and offering to pull up and hold the horse if she would like to see the fountain beyond the wall to their right, she replied that she would sooner visit the kitchen gardens.

‘The kitchen gardens?’ He looked down at her in surprise.

She smiled apologetically. ‘I like pleasure gardens as much as the next person, but I take the greatest pleasure in seeing an orderly, prosperous vegetable garden.’

‘I see,’ he said in his usual grim tone which made her wonder if he disapproved of her. ‘Then I shall not trouble you with the Iron Age fort, but perhaps show you the vinery in the glass house, for I don’t think the kitchen gardens are at their best this time of the year. Nothing but leek and carrot tops to be seen.’

‘I should like to see the glass house very much.’

‘I will drive back that way,’ he said. ‘Around that line of larches there is the turning to the cottage.’

Prudence laughed when she saw Mr Shelbourne’s cottage. ‘I imagined something entirely different!’ she said, explaining her mirth.

‘Let me guess,’ said Sir Robert, drawing up on the neat, paved drive and waiting until a young groom darted out from behind a laurel hedge to take the horse’s head. ‘You were led to expect some ramshackle, timbered gardener’s abode complete with old thatch and ivied walls. Some humble dwelling that an orphaned, disinherited, misunderstood poetic genius has been driven into to dine on barley bread and bitter herbs, while the tyrant lord of the manor lives in luxury eating fatted calves and truffles.’

This made Prudence laugh again. ‘He did not exactly say so,’ she said.

‘But that was the impression he drew.’

Sir Robert had come round to her side of the gig to lift her down. Their faces were level, and he seemed for a few moments to be quite captivated by her laughing face. There was a corresponding laughter in his own eyes, though he did not express it, but she saw it, and thought how different he looked with that gleam of humour.

‘What are you in whoops over?’ said Mr Shelbourne, escorting Miss Kimpshott from their own gig.

‘But this can’t be your cottage, Mr Shelbourne,’ Miss Kimpshott said, looking wonderingly at the house before them.

‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Shelbourne. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘To be sure I do. It is a very handsome house. I thought when you spoke of your little cottage , that I would see… well… a little cottage .’

‘It’s always been called The Cottage,’ said Mr Shelbourne, a little defensively. ‘I’ve not been wrinkling you.’

‘I am sure you haven’t,’ said Miss Kimpshott, sharing an amused look with Prudence.

‘Are you going to take the ladies in, Arthur?’ said Sir Robert. ‘It’s a trifle cold standing out here.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Shelbourne, rousing himself to perform his duties as host.

‘You did warn your staff to expect you and your guests?’ Sir Robert enquired, as they walked to the door.’

Mr Shelbourne looked stricken. ‘Should I? Mrs Green always keeps good order with enough to feed a troop in her pantry.’

‘Then let us hope it is not her day off,’ said Sir Robert dryly.