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

Chapter 16

16

The middle of November passed by. Cooler winds carried away the fallen leaves in the parks where Prudence walked Pip in the afternoon, while her uncle had his customary afternoon nap.

She was hailed in the street as she walked back into town after such a walk. It was Mr Shelbourne driving his curricle. He reined in his horse to take her up, saying that he had been coming to call upon her. She warned him that Pip was particularly muddy, having discovered a rabbit warren in the park and almost dug himself into it, but Mr Shelbourne said he cared not for a bit of mud on the floor, it could be swept out again soon enough.

‘What a pleasure to see you,’ she said, settling her skirts about her on the seat. ‘I began to think you must be staying away from Bath the whole winter. You went away to fetch your clockworking tools, and never returned.’ She looked at him and saw the telltale signs of artistic endeavour in his wan cheeks and shadowed eyes. ‘I dare say you are only here because you have used up all your ink and paper again. ’

He nodded. ‘I have been writing a narrative poem,’ he confided. ‘Five cantos.’

‘Indeed!’ said Prudence, hoping that he did not notice her dismay at the thought that he was going to deposit reams of scrawled lines on her kitchen table for her to decipher. So she was very relieved when he said, ‘I cannot show them to you yet, for my protagonist travels through Europe as he searches for the meaning of life, whilst following the vision of a being of light who comes in the night watches to tell him which way he must journey the next day.’

‘A silvery being?’ Prudence could not resist asking.

He looked at her in amazement. ‘How did you know?’

She hid a smile, saying, ‘But why cannot you show it?’

‘Because I have never been to Europe. I begin to think I must go, that I might draw the daytime scenes with realism to counter the mystical scenes of the night.’ He sighed heavily, then said, ‘Has Miss Kimpshott written to you?’

‘I have received two letters from her since she left. She is well. London is quiet at this time of year, so she is not very busy, she says. But she is enjoying the novelty of the galleries and museums and parks and the shops.’

‘She is not unhappy, then,’ said Mr Shelbourne wistfully.

‘You would not wish her to be, would you?’

‘I should like her to miss her friends.’

‘She has said in both letters that she has so many pleasant memories of Bath and of her kind friends whom she misses sorely.’

‘I suppose she means Carlyle. Has he followed her up?’

Prudence hesitated, but she could not lie. ‘She did mention seeing Lord Carlyle at the theatre.’

‘Seeing him at the theatre, or with him at the theatre? ’

‘If it is any consolation, she said that he quite ruined Othello for her, for it cast him into tragic attitudes for hours.’

‘ Othello ,’ said Mr Shelbourne with a sneer. ‘Should rather have been Midsummer Night’s Dream , with him in the attitude of the donkey fellow.’

Prudence tried to cheer him by relaying that Miss Kimpshott wrote that she was quite determined to enjoy School for Scandal the next night, which was her favourite play, without Lord Carlyle being with her to ruin it.

‘She prefers Sheridan to Shakespeare?’ said Mr Shelbourne, looking troubled.

Prudence changed the subject. ‘How is Sir Robert?’ she enquired, wondering why her voice sounded a little higher. ‘Is he away on business?’

‘No, he’s busy with his new house. He rides over every day, usually at the most inconvenient hour when I’m deep in the middle of a stanza.’

‘It is kind of him to look in on you,’ said Prudence, who had been brooding a little over the fact that Sir Robert had not looked in on her once since the visit to Beech Park almost two weeks ago. This circumstance, however, had answered one of her internal questions regarding him – the question of whether he liked her. She had never been quite sure, and now she knew: he did not care a button for her friendship. He would not have stayed away so long if he did.

‘He told me to send you his warmest regards,’ said Mr Shelbourne, drawing up outside Mr Sealy’s house.

‘Warmest? Did he?’ She glowed, then told herself not to be foolish over what was only a commonplace civility.

‘Warmest, or kindest, or best. Something to that effect. And to say he’ll be in Bath this week and will look in on you. ’

‘Did he say which day?’ she asked casually.

‘No.’ Mr Shelbourne lifted the reins. ‘I shall stay at Brock Street tonight. May I call later?’

‘Of course. Come and drink tea this evening. I would invite you to dine, but it is only the usual plain fare. My uncle can only tolerate plain cooking.’

She waved him off. Amos must have seen the carriage pull up for he opened the door for her, but she said she would go round the back as Pip was too dirty to go through the house. Why should it disappoint her, she wondered, as she trailed round to the rear of the house, that Sir Robert did not fix a day to call, but took a mere chance of finding her at home? It was another confirmation that she was nothing to him other than an acquaintance.

She gave herself a firm talking to as she passed through the kitchens, leaving Pip to dry off by the fire while she removed her bonnet and pelisse, and changed out of her walking gown into the gown she now wore as her everyday kitchen dress. ‘I think I must be getting windmills in my attic,’ she told herself, using one of her sister Charity’s expressions as she hung up her clothes. ‘I suppose I have been a little isolated these past weeks without my sisters, and now without friends to see every day. I am setting too much store on things I ought not to. I have been mistaking kindness and civility for something more. Who would have thought I could fall into such emotive nonsense?’ She was addressing her walking gown, that now hung down in the wardrobe.

‘Lawks, miss, who you talking to?’

Lizzy’s head appeared around the door of the bedroom they shared.

‘Oh, Lizzy,’ said Prudence ruefully. ‘I think I’m running a little mad. ’

‘No wonder,’ was the sage reply. ‘Cooped up here, waiting on old Grumpus and cooking mutton stew and gruel all the day long.’ Lizzy slipped inside the room and shut the door, glancing back into the hallway first to check no one was in earshot.

‘How long do you think the old termagant will hold on? I think you’re growing pale and watch weary, miss, and I promised Mrs Finnistone I would persuade you home if I saw you getting fagged.’

Prudence made a decision. She was not going to linger any longer than necessary. She would be sensible and practical. ‘I have decided,’ she began, ‘we shall travel back to Lindford in three weeks. I want to be home for Christmas. I shall write and ask my sister to send the carriage for me three weeks from the date on my letter.’

‘Three weeks it is,’ said Lizzy.

‘Perhaps two,’ said Prudence, suddenly feeling homesick for her family. ‘My uncle’s condition seems unchanged. The doctor said he might go on as he is for months yet. I can come back after Christmas to see how he gets on. But, no,’ she said, ‘that is selfish. By the time Constance gets my letter it will give her little more than a week’s notice,’

‘She wouldn’t care if you gave her a day’s notice, you know she wouldn’t.’

‘No, it had best be three weeks. I shall exert myself to settle in a cook and housekeeper, and then my conscience shall be at liberty.’

‘Three weeks from today, miss,’ agreed Lizzy. ‘Or Mrs Finnistone will have my head for not persuading you home before you get worn to the bone.’

Prudence had to smile at the absurdity of Constance having anyone’s head. But she did suddenly feel weary. Something had been causing her to linger in Bath, and it wasn’t just Mr Sealy. There was nothing to keep her here indefinitely. She would hire the cook whose name and address she had from Miss Kimpshott, and she would tidy up all the loose ends, including finding Mrs Smithyman’s son a better work placement. She would exert herself to do this the very next day. She had been procrastinating, and that was not at all like her.

‘Thank you, Lizzy,’ she said. ‘You have helped me make up my mind. I am glad of it.’

Lizzy said she had best get back upstairs to help Sophy with the window washing.

‘How will Sophy manage when we are gone?’ Prudence asked, voicing a concern that she harboured.

Lizzy looked a little troubled. ‘She ain’t one for thinking for herself, miss. She needs watching over. I don’t know that she could go on here without us.’

‘Perhaps the cook I am going to see about tomorrow might be able to manage her?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lizzy doubtfully. ‘Plain cooks don’t always make housekeepers from what I’ve seen.’

A high-pitched shriek startled them. Prudence was ready to rush out, but Lizzy stayed her, saying, ‘’Tis only Sophy being bird-witted over a spider. Lawks, miss the top of the window frames are thick with webs. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned in years.’

Lizzy left the room. Prudence decided she would write that very hour to Constance to ask her to send the carriage for her. She did so, apologising for the brevity of the letter, but she had no news to tell of, for everything had been going on without any alteration to the daily routine, except for Mr Shelbourne coming this evening for tea. Whether or not he remembered to keep his appointment depended entirely on whether inspiration struck him and kept him at his writing desk in a state of oblivion to all else.

She sealed the letter, writing the address in her neat, round hand and sitting back in her chair looking at it and wondering why she had such mixed feelings at the thought of leaving this rather gloomy house with her churlish uncle who never had a word of kindness for her. She ought to be glad. The door creaked as Pip pushed it open.

‘You’ve come to find me, have you?’ said Prudence, patting her lap to signal that he might jump up for a petting. She felt in need of a little affection, even if it was only from a small, wiry-haired dog.

‘You will like Lindford, Pip,’ she said, dropping a kiss on his head. ‘At least, I think you shall. For all I know, you might be a town dog. What do you think?’

Pip had no thoughts on the subject to express. But he did lick away the tear that rolled down Prudence’s chin. ‘What a gudgeon I am,’ said Prudence, wiping away a second tear from her other eye. ‘What have I to be miserable about when I am going home very soon? In fact, I think I shall open that letter and change it to two weeks, and not three. What is there to keep me a day longer than is necessary?’ An image of a man with a stern face catching her eye and breaking into a rare and delightful smile came unbidden to her, but she shook it off, put Pip down, and reached for the letter and pen.

Before she could take hold of them, Pip startled her by a burst of excited barking. He was barking at the window where a grinning face appeared, along with a scrubbing brush scouring at the pane. Amos was washing the outer windows while the girls cleaned the insides. He waved at her, and she forced herself to smile in return, and left the room, feeling too vulnerable for anyone to see her until she had composed herself.

Mr Shelbourne did remember to call to drink tea that evening. Prudence avoided asking after his cousin, but it was not difficult to do so, for Mr Shelbourne only wanted to talk about Miss Kimpshott and her manifold perfections. Prudence listened patiently to his outpourings and kept him supplied in tea, offering to make him some toast when the cake was all gone and she had nothing left to feed him with.

‘No more cake?’ he said in surprise, looking at the plate with its litter of crumbs. He looked at Prudence, prompting her to say, ‘I did not eat it all, Mr Shelbourne, so you needn’t look at me like that.’

‘Did I eat it all? I am a yammer, to be sure! I beg pardon, I get famished when I come out of a writing spell.’

‘Yes you do,’ laughed Prudence. ‘It is not my pardon you must beg, it is Amos’s, for he enjoys his sweets, and will come looking for a slice before the evening is over.’

Mr Shelbourne took himself off at nine, for Prudence always made Mr Sealy’s bedtime gruel at that hour. He promised to call again the next day, and she told him not to call before noon, for she would be out on errands all the morning.

It was a partly successful morning; the young woman she interviewed as a cook seemed pleasant and capable, if rather loud, and agreed to start the next day. She was a tall, buxom girl, and insisted she could very well lift coal scuttles and buckets of water, and help lift a frail old man from his bed to his chair. She rolled up her sleeves to proudly show her strong arms, claiming she could still give all seven of her brothers a good arm wrestle any day of the week, save her brother George, who everyone called George-of-Gath on account of his being six-foot-three and as wide as he was tall.

‘We’re a strong family,’ the young woman assured Prudence. ‘Good, sound stock. Only my sister’s brats ain’t got the family brawn, but I warned her it would be so if she were to go and marry a beanpole of a grocer who never lifted anything heavier than a sack of taters, and stands around in his shop counting out apples and onions. A grocer ,’ she said in disgust. ‘Our family’s worked in the quarries for four generations and married quarry-workers too, and I’d work there myself if they’d have me, but they said I’d be a distraction to all the men.’ She laughed heartily at this. Prudence tried to smile, but was a little bemused. But she expressed her sympathy for this break in family tradition, and said she looked forward to seeing Miss Mason in the morning.

Her next errand was to call in at a few businesses in town to enquire if they had a place for a young lad who was looking for an apprenticeship that was not too physically taxing. She asked at the draper’s, the printer’s, and the library. The draper said he wouldn’t take on a boy who didn’t know numbers, the printer said he wouldn’t take on someone who didn’t know writing, and the library owner wouldn’t take on a lad who couldn’t read. Deflated, she went to the post office to post her letter to Constance, only to find that she had forgotten to pick it up from the dressing table. It was nearing noon, the fashionable hour for promenading in the pump room, but she felt unaccountably flat, and not in the humour for exchanging social pleasantries with the elderly, widowed ladies of her acquaintance. So she bypassed the rooms and went back to her uncle’s house.

She turned the corner into Kingsmead Street, and was but a few steps from her uncle’s door, her attention distracted by the problem of young Harry Smithyman, and her mood likewise uncharacteristically as low as the grey November clouds, when a voice startled her out of her introspection, causing a strange dart of joy to break through her gloom. ‘Good morning, Miss Grace,’ said the voice, and Sir Robert stood before her.

A smile of genuine pleasure lit up her face, and Sir Robert, watching her expression could not miss it, and though he was as grave as ever, there was a corresponding light in his eyes as they met hers.

‘I have just arrived in town,’ he said, explaining his riding boots which bore splashes of mud. ‘Would you do me the honour of allowing me to drive you out this afternoon? My housekeeper reliably informs me that the rheumatism in her left thumb has eased this morning, which is a sure sign of good weather this afternoon.’

Prudence could not have cared if it had been hail and snow that afternoon. ‘I should be delighted, sir.’

‘Say, two o’clock? It is a little early for driving, but it grows cold after three.’

‘I shall be ready at two.’

He bowed and strode away. Prudence watched him go until an irritable elderly lady in black scolded her for blocking the pavement and threatened her with her umbrella.