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

Chapter 19

19

The eventful day was followed by a surprisingly peaceful night. Prudence rose and dressed in her kitchen gown, for when she had done the disagreeable but necessary task of sending Bessie away that morning, the household cooking would fall upon her shoulders again.

She peeked in at her uncle’s door to see if he and Pickering were awake and desirous of tea. But there was no movement within the darkened room. She heard Pickering’s low snore from the truckle bed, and closed the door softly; they both needed their sleep.

Amos offered to take Pip for a morning walk. ‘Best I’m not in the house when you turn off Bessie,’ he said. ‘Or do you think she might kick up a dust?’

Prudence assured him, hiding her own doubts, that she could manage Bessie Mason very well, and Amos made his escape. She had just filled the teapot when the back door opened, letting in a gust of wintry air and a few windblown leaves.

Bessie let out a whoop as she burst through the door, slamming it behind her. ‘Blowing a gale out there, miss!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thought my petticoats would be blown over my head coming down Milsom Street! Wouldn’t that give the coves something to look at?’ She laughed heartily, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Prudence could barely manage a smile of greeting. It was an unpleasant task, dismissing an employee, and not one she’d had to do before. ‘Before you take off your coat, Bessie,’ she began. ‘There is something I must say.’

But Bessie Mason wasn’t attending to her. She was staring past Prudence with a wondering look. Prudence turned round. ‘Pickering?’ she said, not only surprised to see him standing in his nightshirt, showing his thin legs and bare feet, but taken aback by the strange look on his face.

‘He’s gone,’ said Pickering.

‘Who is gone?’ Prudence moved towards him to urge him to go and put on his dressing gown and slippers, for it was a cold morning.

‘The master.’

‘Gone where?’ As soon as she said the words, she knew the answer. ‘Oh! Oh, Pickering!’ she exclaimed softly, dismay filling her. ‘Are you sure?’

She did not wait for an answer, but hurried away to the other end of the house to see for herself.

The room was still dark. Mr Sealy lay very still. There were the usual smells of woodsmoke and camphor and the mustiness of a room that was little aired. She drew back the curtains at the window. The pale December light fell thinly through the panes. She felt constrained to move slowly, feeling it was a solemn moment as she carefully drew back the bed curtains and took up one of her uncle’s thin hands, the fingers clawed by rheumatism.

There was no pulse from the wrist. But she already knew at first glance that he was gone.

She folded his hands neatly together. He looked strangely childlike in death. The lines of his face smoothed, and his habitual scowl gone. She said a quiet prayer at his bedside and slowly left the room, taking Pickering’s gown and slippers with her.

‘We must call for the doctor,’ she said, on returning to the kitchen.

‘What for?’ said Pickering bleakly.

‘Put your slippers on, Mr Pickering. You must wear your gown, it is cold. Come and sit by the fire and have a cup of tea. We must send for the doctor to verify his…’ She found it hard to say the word. ‘As you said, he has gone. He is at peace now.’

‘Stone me!’ exclaimed Bessie, who was sat down, having already helped herself to the teapot. She put her cup down with a clatter that made Pickering jump. ‘Is the old feller dead?’ She got up hastily. ‘Sorry, miss, but I can’t be in a house with a dustman lying in it.’

‘What’s she doing here?’ said Lizzy, coming in and glaring at Bessie. ‘I thought you were going to—?’ She caught sight of Pickering’s dazed face. ‘What’s wrong?’

Bessie had crammed on her bonnet and was refastening the buttons on her coat. ‘You let me know when all’s taken care of, miss.’

‘Actually, Bessie,’ said Prudence, a little ashamed at the relief she felt at this interview being made smooth for her. ‘With Mr Sealy gone, the household will be broken up and the house closed. Let me give you your wages.’

She had already counted out the money in advance. Bessie didn’t notice this in her haste to leave.

‘There is an extra week’s wages here,’ said Prudence. ’To make up for the inconvenience of such short notice.’

She hoped the girl would not ask her for a reference and was ashamed again of the relief she felt when Bessie took the money, saying with a toss of her head – perhaps for Lizzy’s benefit, for Lizzy was stood hands on hips glaring at her – ‘I’d have left by Christmas anyhow. My uncle at the Mason’s Arms is plaguing me to work for him. Offered me eight pounds a year, and says I can keep tips.’ She pocketed the money and resumed her usual expression as she thrust forward her chest, saying, ‘Says I’ll be good for business,’ and winked.

‘I do not doubt it, Bessie,’ said Prudence. ‘I wish you all the best.’

Unfortunately, this easy dismissal was ruined by the back door opening and Amos stepping through it with Pip at his heels. ‘Wind’s in the east today,’ he said with a muffled voice, for he had drawn his scarf up over his lower face.

‘Morning, Amos,’ said Bessie silkily. ‘Take more than an east wind to blow over a big, strong fella like you.’

Amos looked cornered as his gaze swung between Bessie’s grinning countenance and Lizzy’s blazing one.

‘Give us a kiss goodbye, for I’m off for good,’ said Bessie, reaching for him. He managed to dodge her grasp; a few strides brought him to Lizzy’s side. He put an arm round her shoulders saying, ‘Wishing you all the best, Bessie. You’re a fine girl, but there’s only one girl in the world for me.’

Bessie laughed and said he’d know where to find her if he changed his mind, and left, slamming the door behind her and making the house rattle.

‘I need to talk to you,’ said Amos to Lizzy.

‘I think Mr Sealy’s dead,’ replied Lizzy, looking to Prudence for confirmation.

Prudence nodded.

Amos pulled his hat off and bowed his head as he said quietly, ‘Poor old fella. ’

‘Amos, would you go for the doctor?’ said Prudence. I’ll have breakfast waiting when you get in.’

‘To be sure I will, miss.’ He put his hat back on, saying to Lizzy in a low, urgent voice, ‘We have to talk later,’ before hurrying away again.

The tea in the pot had stewed without Prudence having tasted it, so she put the kettle on for a second time. But before she had poured out a cup the front door sounded.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Lizzy, when the sound failed to rouse Pickering from his dulled state. The door had not been unlocked yet that morning. ‘We ought to put black crape on the knocker,’ she murmured in parting.

A brisk, booted step was heard coming down the hall. For a moment Prudence’s heart leaped at the thought that it might be Sir Robert returned earlier than expected; she had a sudden, sharp ache for Sir Robert’s strong, decided presence at this time of trouble. But even before she saw Mr Shelbourne appear, she knew it could not be Sir Robert.

‘Is it true?’ said Mr Shelbourne. ‘Is your uncle dead?’ Prudence confirmed that it was true, and Mr Shelbourne gave his condolences and said he was at her disposal in any way he could help. He was carrying something in his hand. ‘Letters,’ he said, waving them. ‘I beg pardon for not returning yesterday, but the post office was closed when I reached it. I should have called to tell you, but as I stood outside the post office, I had a sudden revelation of how the lead character in my narrative poem might communicate his innermost wrestlings by letter – which he never sends – and so I rushed home before the idea escaped me, and then before I knew it, it was midnight, and so I went first thing this morning, and what do you think, Miss Grace?’

Prudence shook her head to show that she did not know what to think .

‘When the postmistress said she had no letters for you, I queried her, for I could see the woman was half-blind by the way she held up letters to her nose, she needs spectacles, and I told her so. She said she had a pair somewhere but lost them three weeks ago and was still waiting to find them, but, as I pointed out, it is very difficult to find something if you can’t see it in the first place. So I pressed her to look again, for I was sure Miss Kimpshott would not go for two whole weeks without writing to you, it would not be like one who is as faithful as the moon in its seasons, as—’

Here Prudence interrupted him as his inward eye turned to planets. ‘And are those letters for me ones that went astray?’

‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ He held them out. ‘They were pigeonholed under the name Miss Grey. ’

‘That explains why I have heard nothing from my sisters,’ said Prudence, looking through the letters. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Shelbourne. I am very much obliged to you. I never thought to query the postmistress.’

‘And are there any from Miss Kimpshott?’

‘There is one.’ She pulled out a letter addressed in Miss Kimpshott’s hand.

Mr Shelbourne’s face glowed with anticipation. But Prudence had more pressing things on her mind at that moment. ‘Mr Shelbourne, would you do something that requires urgency? Would you go to the White Hart and ask to speak to a Mr Rowlinson? Will you tell him that Mr Sealy has… left us. Mr Rowlinson is Mr Sealy’s lawyer, and I think he ought to know immediately what has happened. It is urgent, because he is due to leave Bath after breakfast. It may even be too late, but would you see if he is still there?’

Mr Shelbourne looked longingly at the small letter in her hand, but he rallied, and hurried away. Prudence only hoped he would not be delayed by any stray dart of inspiration.

She could not immediately read her letters, for Pickering now roused himself and said that he must return to his master. It was not right to leave a body alone. It was disrespectful. Prudence suggested that he dress himself, as the doctor would soon be coming in, and perhaps Mr Rowlinson.

Within minutes of Mr Shelbourne’s departure Amos returned with the doctor. It was a mere formality, but it felt necessary to have the doctor make the final pronouncement and issue a certificate. Pickering closed the curtains in his master’s room, stopped the clock, and threw a tablecloth over the mirror.

‘Would you like the address of a reputable nurse to lay out the body?’ the doctor enquired.

‘I shall lay him out,’ said Pickering fiercely. ‘He wouldn’t want no strange woman handling him nor touching his things.’

The doctor left, and Mr Shelbourne returned with the news that Mr Rowlinson would call directly he had finished breakfast. This reminded Prudence that no one had eaten any breakfast that morning. On returning to the kitchen she found the second pot of tea she had made to be tepid and stewed. She made a third, not having an appetite to eat anything, but laying out bread and butter and whatever she could find in the pantry for Lizzy and Amos to help themselves to.

Little Sophy arrived for work, but looked wide-eyed with fear on hearing that Mr Sealy’s body lay in the house, so Prudence sent her home again, promising she would still get her day’s wages.

Mr Shelbourne offered his services again, and Prudence asked if he knew of a local carpenter who had coffins made up. Amos said he had gotten to know many of the tradesmen in the area, and would go out and speak to one as soon as he’d finished the toast and cheese Lizzy was obligingly making for him. That accounted for the smell of burning, so Prudence had to make a hurried intervention at the stove. She was about to finally sit down to a cup of tea when the front door sounded again. Leaving everyone to their breakfast, including Mr Shelbourne, who had asked if he might write an obituary notice for the local newspaper, and was sat with a pencil in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.

She answered the door. It was a sober Mr Rowlinson with Mr Fidler the Younger behind him beaming a smile of sympathy.

‘Thank you for coming, sir,’ said Prudence, holding wide the door. ‘I thought you ought to know what has happened before your return to London. I do not know what the procedures are in such a case, but perhaps there may be some paperwork to complete before you leave.’

‘There is a will to be read,’ said Mr Rowlinson, thrusting his hat and gloves into her hands. ‘I understand Mr Sealy’s niece is residing in Bath. The young man who carried the news to me this morning assures me that she will be here to meet with me.’

Prudence was a little flustered by this mention of a will, and of Mr Rowlinson’s ignorance of who she was. Mr Fidler stepped into the hall, carrying a leather document bag. She was about to speak when the front door was pushed farther open, startling Mr Fidler, who had to jump away to avoid being hit by it.

‘You again!’ said the new arrival, stopping short in the doorway and glaring at the men .

‘Mr Crofter, this is not a good time,’ said Prudence. ‘You cannot see Mr Sealy this morning.’

‘Oh, can’t I?’ sneered Crofter, pushing past the indignant Mr Rowlinson. ‘Mr Sealy will want to see me, and it’s no-one’s business to stop me.’ And he lumbered down the hall.

‘Wait!’ cried Prudence, hurrying after the man. ‘You cannot go in there! You cannot see Mr Sealy!’

Amos called from the kitchen, ‘Anything wrong, miss?’ Prudence beckoned him to her.

Crofter opened the bedroom door and stood peering into the darkness. Pickering sat in Mr Sealy’s chair by the fireside. He was still wearing his linen nightgown. He slowly rose from the chair, his white gown and white face and hair contrasting with the gloom, giving him a ghostly appearance. Crofter stepped back, knocking into Prudence and causing her to drop Mr Rowlinson’s hat and gloves.

‘I say!’ cried Mr Rowlinson. ‘That hat is a Weston’s I’ll have you know, girl!’

Prudence did not heed him. She said to Crofter, who hesitated in the doorway. ‘You cannot see Mr Sealy, because Mr Sealy is… dead.’

‘Dead?’ A few steps brought Crofter to the bedside. He hesitated outside the bed curtains. Pickering hurried to the bed, batting away Crofter’s hand to keep him from touching anything, and saying with a whispered fierceness that belied his pitiful appearance, ‘Show respect, sirrah. Take off your hat, and lower your voice.’

Crofter snatched off his hat and waited while Pickering slowly parted the curtains at the foot of the bed. Crofter stared for some minutes at the inert body until Pickering ceremoniously closed them again.

‘Well, I’ll be—!’ Crofter did not finish his low exclamation. He looked about the room where Mr Rowlinson and Mr Fidler stood respectfully near the door with heads bowed. ‘Who are they?’ he hissed to Pickering.

‘The master’s lawyerin’ men.’

‘Then I’m the man they need to see,’ said Crofter, puffing out his chest. ‘If there’s any papers to sign, we’ll do it here and now.’

‘I gather that you are Mr Crofter?’ said Mr Rowlinson.

‘You gather right. And I’m the owner of this house and everything in it, so if you’ve anything for me to sign, let’s get to it, otherwise I’ll be seeing every last one of you off my property.’ His territorial glare encompassed every person present, including Pickering, who glared back, saying in a voice tremulous with emotion, ‘I’ll not leave the master, you shame-rake!’

‘You’ll do as you’re bid, old man!’

‘Ahem,’ said Mr Rowlinson. ‘You are a tad presumptuous, Mr Crofter. I have not yet disclosed Mr Sealy’s last will and testament.’

Crofter stared at him. ‘He never had a will. He wouldn’t make one. Swore the day he made a will was the last day he breathed. He didn’t need a will. It all comes to me anyhow.’

Mr Fidler the Younger grinned nervously and raised up the bag of papers. ‘Here is Mr Sealy’s will.’

‘Shall I show you into the sitting room, Mr Rowlinson?’ offered Prudence. ‘It would be the best place for the reading.’

Mr Rowlinson agreed to this, and Prudence led the way, gesturing the lawyers to the best seats and saying, ‘I will bring tea while you arrange your papers. Amos, would you build up the fire?’

‘And send in the niece,’ she heard Mr Rowlinson say to Amos, as she left the room.

‘Niece?’ said Crofter. ‘What niece? ’

Prudence took a shaky breath in the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong, miss?’ said Lizzy.

‘It is all so unpleasant,’ said Prudence wearily. ‘My poor uncle has only been gone a matter of hours and that horrid Crofter man is like a vulture, ready to take back the house, and poor Pickering is almost prostrate with grief, bless his faithful heart!’ She finished with a soft groan. Again she was hit by a sharp longing for the strong, comforting presence of Sir Robert. How she wished away the next few days until he returned. She rallied herself, and set about making the fourth pot of tea that morning.

‘Lawks, that rent collector is a mean sounding fellow,’ said Lizzy, as Crofter’s raised voice carried down the hallway. ‘Let me make that, miss. You go and see to the lawyers.’

‘No, I’ll make it. Would you ask Pickering if he wishes to be present for the reading of his master’s will? There will surely be some provision, however small, made for him. But he must get dressed if he wishes to join us. Will you help him?’

Lizzy did as she was bid. Mr Shelbourne was wholly absorbed in his composition, seeming unaware of what was happening around him.

Prudence was surprised at how heavy the tea tray felt as she carried it to the sitting room. She did not usually feel so weak. She asked Amos to take it from her, worried that she might drop it. She poured out the tea with a slightly shaky hand. Crofter eyed the teacup she offered him, saying, ‘You should have asked me if I wanted tea making. Expensive stuff, tea. Don’t any of you be using up anything else in this house, not coal nor tea nor candles. It’s all mine.’

Prudence felt a rush of annoyance at the man’s heartless avarice. ‘You are wrong,’ she said coolly. ‘The coal in the fireplace and the tea in the caddy and every item of food in the pantry was paid for by Mr Sealy’s family.’

‘Mr Sealy don’t have any other family,’ retorted Crofter.

‘Lower your voice and mind your manners,’ said Amos, clenching his fists. ‘Shall I throw him out, miss?’ he offered.

‘Throw me out of my own house!’ laughed Crofter.

‘Ahem,’ said Mr Rowlinson, glaring at Crofter over his spectacles.

‘It ain’t your house!’ came a quavery, indignant voice from the doorway. Pickering came in, still looking ghastly, but hurriedly dressed in breeches and a surcoat over his nightshirt.

‘What do you know, you old fool?’ replied Crofter.

‘Ahem!’ repeated Mr Rowlinson more loudly. ‘If the niece could be sent for, I can begin. I have a noon coach to catch.’

‘The niece is here,’ said Pickering, jerking his head towards Prudence.

Mr Rowlinson stared at her. Mr Fidler grinned. Crofter gaped.

‘You?’ said Mr Rowlinson. ‘But you are the housekeeper.’

Prudence untied her apron, folding it up and placing it behind her as she sat down on the nearest chair. She was feeling strangely weak.

‘I have been acting as my uncle’s housekeeper while he was without sufficient staff. But I am Miss Grace. Mr Sealy is… was… my grandfather’s brother. He was my great uncle.’

‘Is there summat smoky going on here?’ demanded Crofter, with an ugly look directed at Prudence. She ignored him, but was glad for Amos’s presence, and when Amos asked if he should wait outside, she urged him to remain at hand. He took up position behind her chair like a watchdog.

‘Cut line!’ demanded Crofter, when Mr Rowlinson began reciting the legal jargon of the document. ‘Tell me what the old codger has written. Tell me what’s mine. This here person can claim distant kin all she likes, but I’m his son! I’m his nearest relation.’

It was Prudence’s turn to stare in surprise. ‘His son?’

‘His… ahem… natural son,’ said Mr Rowlinson over his spectacles. ‘And without formal proof. There is no birth record to support the claim, Mr Crofter. You do not have a legal claim on Mr Sealy’s estate.’

There was a low and wheezy laugh from Pickering at these words. ‘That’ll teach you,’ murmured Pickering. ‘Thought all were right and tight, but the master had the last laugh on you .’

Crofter had a snarl that was very like the late Mr Sealy’s as he bid Pickering to shut his trap, while Mr Rowlinson declared he would not read one word more of the will if Mr Crofter did not sit civilly and quietly. Amos backed this up with an offer to throw the fellow out and bar the door. Crofter sat seething, twisting his hat in hands as though he wished it was someone’s neck, but growled that he would sit and listen to whatever flummery had to be said, but woe betide anyone who tried to diddle him out of his rightful dues.

Mr Rowlinson continued.

‘ …my townhouse and contents, my business properties, my monies, my shares, all my worldly assets I leave wholly to my great-niece, Prudence Grace, with the condition that she may give no part of it away to any other person, including any charitable cause…’

Prudence heard these words as through a kind of mental fog. They did not quite make sense. She felt as though she were detached from what was being read. Crofter erupted with rage, like a picture of a volcano she had once seen. She was dimly aware that Mr Shelbourne had come in to assist Amos with restraining the irate man; every voice was raised, even Lizzy was there, berating Crofter for upsetting her mistress and showing disrespect in a house of mourning. She heard Lizzy, as though she were someone far away, asking her if she was ill, but she could not answer. The high emotions of the morning, the lack of food and drink, the long weeks of weary work and watching over a dying man overcame her. The final shock had been those strange words that Mr Rowlinson read aloud: townhouse, business properties, monies, shares, worldly assets… It was all too surprising. Her vision grew dark and she knew she was about to swoon for the first time in her life.