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

Chapter 20

20

Prudence was unpleasantly revived by the smell of burnt feathers.

‘She’s coming round!’ Lizzy called.

She opened her eyes to see a blur of anxious faces peering down at her, and the quill pen from the writing desk wafting acrid smoke.

‘Give her room,’ ordered Lizzy. ‘Don’t crowd her. Are you well, miss?’

Mr Shelbourne advised that Miss Grace drink the glass of sherry he had poured out for her, but Pickering intervened, saying that it weren’t sherry, it were the master’s sleeping tonic, and the laudanum in it would put Miss Grace to sleep for the rest of the day, if she were to drink it. Amos reassured her over Lizzy’s shoulder that they had thrown out that Crofter fella, so she was not to worry about him. He bore a streak of blood under his nose, so she guessed he had come to blows with the man.

Mr Rowlinson fretted that it was now past eleven o’clock, and the coach left at noon and waited for no man.

Prudence roused herself, pushing away the feather, the sleeping draught, and summoning all her strength to say in as even a voice as she could muster that she was very well, and the only thing she desperately needed was a hot cup of tea.

Lizzy ran away to make this. Prudence sat up, saying, ‘I understand you must leave, Mr Rowlinson. I have no wish to detain you. Only tell me, before you go, what exactly has my uncle left me, and what must I do next?’

It was surprising, she thought wryly, how altered Mr Rowlinson’s manner toward her was now that she was Miss Grace the heiress, and not the nameless housekeeper. He was all deference and politeness as he assured her of his hope that she would rely on him for all her legal assistance, just as Mr Sealy had.

‘In short, Miss Grace,’ he said, laying out the documents handed to him by the grinning Mr Fidler, you are the owner of this house, a second house in Westgate Street, currently occupied by a long-term tenant, two shops in Milsom Street with apartments above, a tenement building south of the river, and many shares and investments, too numerous to relay, but you may read them for yourself in this document. Some investments are not very profitable, but some have been most lucrative. And of course, there is a tidy sum in the bank.’

‘What do you call a tidy sum?’ enquired Prudence, feeling dazed.

Mr Fidler handed Mr Rowlinson the correct paper. ‘Here is the exact figure,’ said Mr Rowlinson, handing back the sheet to Mr Fidler, who carried it to her.

She stared at the rows of figures, not comprehending them. ‘Two thousand pounds?’ she marvelled. ‘I have two thousand pounds?’

‘Not two, ma’am,’ Mr Rowlinson said. ‘Look again. ’

Prudence did so, and her mouth fell open. It was not two thousand; there was another nought on the end. ‘Twenty thousand,’ she said breathlessly. Such a sum could not be comprehended.

‘Look again, ma’am.’

The zeros swam before her eyes.

‘Two hundred thousand,’ Mr Rowlinson assured her. ‘At current interest rates, in addition to the yearly rents and investment profits, it yields an annual income currently about twelve and a half thousand a year, give or take a hundred.’

Prudence could only stare stupidly at him.

‘The total sum, ma’am,’ continued Mr Rowlinson, holding out a hand to his assistant. Mr Fidler smilingly handed him another sheet of figures. He held the sheet away, peering at it. ‘The aggregate sum of your assets, Miss Grace, total, hmm, let’s see… a little under two hundred and forty-seven thousand pounds.’

‘Lawks !’ There was a dreadful crash as Lizzy dropped the tray of tea things. ‘Oh, miss, I’m mortal sorry! The only teapot in the house, and I’ve gone and smashed it!’

‘Miss Grace can afford as many new teapots as she wishes,’ said Mr Fidler cheerfully.

‘There must be some mistake,’ said Prudence, still too stunned to even notice the smashed tea things that Lizzy and Amos were busily trying to clear. ‘My uncle was poor.’

‘Your uncle were a miser,’ said Pickering. He rose, left the room, then returned carrying a chest which he deposited on a table near Prudence.

‘What is this?’ she asked as he produced a key hanging on a chain. She recognised it as the one her uncle had always worn round his neck. ‘Please will you open it, Mr Pickering?’ she said, feeling that she could hardly bear any more surprises. He did so, and everyone crowded round to see the contents, and gasped.

‘Lawks, miss!’ cried Lizzy. ‘I’ve never seen so much money.’

The chest was full of coins and notes. ‘The master liked to have plenty of gingerbread close by,’ said Pickering. ‘Wouldn’t put it all in the bank. Couldn’t see it there. All the rents Crofter collected went into that box. An’ there’s more.’

‘More?’ Prudence could not believe it.

‘Under the mattress. Under the floorboard. In the wardrobe. I’ll get them for you.’

Mr Rowlinson declared that he must leave, or miss his coach. He offered to call back with all the papers for her to sign. ‘It will take some time to make over all the transferences to you, Miss Grace. Shall I write to you at this address?’

‘No,’ said Prudence weakly, finding it hard to think clearly. ‘I do not know where I shall be in a few weeks. I shall not be here. My sisters… I must write… I shall write to you, sir.’

‘Very good, ma’am. I shall await your instructions. I am wholly at your service.’ He bowed and shook hands with her. Mr Fidler gathered up papers, bowed and grinned, and they took their leave.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Grace?’ Mr Shelbourne enquired.

‘There is one vitally important thing you could do for me.’

‘Name it, and it is done.’

‘Purchase me a teapot. I have never been more in need of a cup of tea in my life.’ She leaned forward to take up with a shaky hand a half-crown piece from the chest of money. ‘I dare say this will cover it.’

Mr Shelbourne waved it away.

It was a half hour later when Prudence finally sat with a comforting cup of tea. She had begged Amos to take away all the boxes of money Pickering had unearthed, finding them obscene to look at. ‘How could he live in so penny-pinching a style when he was so rich?’ she wondered repeatedly.

‘Thought he’d live for ever while he had his pots of blunt,’ said Pickering. ‘Thought if he spent it or gave it away in a will, he’d put his spoon in the wall. An’ he were right. He wouldn’t have made a will if it weren’t for you, miss.’

Prudence looked at him in dismay, deducing from his words that he held her responsible for his master’s death. He saw her look. ‘He were ready to go, miss. He were tired, and it all ached and pinched, an’ nothing tasted of nothing no more. He were hanging on ‘cause he didn’t want to think of it all going to that wastrel by-blow of his. Beg pardon, miss. But you fair won him over, and he knew you wouldn’t squander it by being a bubber and blacklegger.’

‘I won him over?’ said Prudence, wonderingly. ‘I did not think he cared for me.’

‘He were a care-for-nobody, an’ he overplayed being seedy, with no face but his own, so as to put you off if you were after his blunt. But as time went on he could see that you knew nowt of his being flushed in the fob, and were helping him out of the goodness of your heart. He didn’t believe it for a long while, but he had to in the end.’

‘He could have left his money to you,’ said Prudence.

Pickering shook his grizzled head. ‘What would I do with it? I don’t want for nothing save a roof over my head and a plate of meat for dinner.’

‘Where will you go after... the burial?’

He shrugged.

‘You may stay here as long as you wish, Pickering. This is your home, if you wish it. I shall arrange for a housekeeper to keep it in good order.’

‘Thank you kindly, miss,’ said Pickering quietly.

There were so many things to think of. So many new responsibilities were now unexpectedly laid upon her shoulders. A few puzzle pieces had fallen into place once her mind had been loosed from the shock of the morning. Mr Sealy had owned a tenement building. Crofter had been a rent collector for Mr Sealy.

‘Pickering, what is the address of the building where Crofter collected rents?’

‘Claverton House.’

‘I thought so,’ she mused, thinking of the damp, run-down building where Mrs Smithyman lived. ‘Why did he not maintain the building?’

Pickering shrugged. ‘Left all that to Crofter. Hadn’t been able to get out to look at the place for years.’

Crofter had clearly not been doing his duty. ‘Did Mr Crofter make a very bad fuss when he left?’ she wondered.

‘When he left?’ Pickering gave a wheezy laugh. ‘When he was thrown out by his ear? Gimflashy, is what he was. Serve him right. Too much of a whisker splitter. Never trusted him. The master never trusted him, neither. Had the last laugh on him. Crofter thought he had the money sewed up right and tight, but he overplayed his hand. Couldn’t keep a civil tongue in his head, couldn’t show respect where it were due, and the master were sharp enough to know when he was being diddled, so he left it all to you in the end, an’ I’m glad he did. ’

‘Did Mr Sealy employ anyone else to look after his properties?’

Pickering shook his head.

This posed a whole new set of responsibilities. There was so much to think of that she hardly knew where to begin. It was overwhelming. But she took hold of herself; she thought that if Constance were here she would advise the making of a list. She would make a mental list. She must do the most important things first, and the most important thing was to oversee her uncle’s funeral arrangements, and to write to Constance to tell her what had happened. She would have to give her sister a date to send the carriage for her. What date should she give? How long would it take to organise so much?

Little could be done until all the legalities were in place. For now she would take Lizzy and Amos and go home to Lindford and spend Christmas there. Then she would begin to take stock of her new life. There was one other major element to consider – the one thing that would change the course of her life every bit as much, if not more, than this sudden acquisition of wealth and property – Sir Robert.

If he proposed marriage to her on his return in a few days she would accept him. A rush of relief came over her like the homecoming after a difficult journey at the thought that as Sir Robert’s wife she would not have to shoulder all her new responsibilities alone. They would make decisions together. This thought encouraged her and put everything into a new light.

Pickering resumed his watch over his master. The reading of the will had disclosed her uncle’s wishes for there to be no money wasted on funeral finery – no showy horse and carriage or professional mourners, and no expense wasted on mourning clothes. He had a burial plot in the churchyard where his parents lay. She would ask Mr Shelbourne to drive her to the vicarage to make the arrangements.

Only herself and Mr Shelbourne were now seated in the sitting room. Mr Shelbourne was scribbling away at the bureau on the opposite side of the room from her. He was fully absorbed in whatever he was composing. His scratching of the quill, the tap of the inkwell, and the soft crackle of the fire were the only sounds, and she was glad of the peaceful lull after such a morning. She would write to her sisters when she had finished her tea.

This thought reminded her of the unread letters in her apron pocket. Her apron was behind her, folded up neatly, where she had laid it. She fished out the letters, putting them in order of date, reading Miss Kimpshott’s first, it being the first to be sent.

She scanned it quickly to read the gist of it, more desirous to get to Constance’s letters, that she might be reassured that all was well with her.

Miss Kimpshott had received her third marriage proposal since arriving in London, Prudence would not mention that to Mr Shelbourne, but Miss Kimpshott had not accepted any of them. Lord Carlyle was still in attendance, being encouraged by Mrs Codd-Phelps who still thought him an eligible candidate for Miss Kimpshott’s hand. Miss Kimpshott was beginning to think that he might be a good choice of a husband because he would not interfere in any way with her wishes, he being wholly enamoured with himself. He had no real vices that would vex her or make her life miserable, she wrote, she could manage him very well, and yet… she did not know if she would accept him if he were to come to the point. Prudence would not relate any of this to Mr Shelbourne either .

There were only some descriptions of clothes and outings, and they could be perused later. She folded the letter up and broke the wafer on Constance’s first letter.

All was well in her sister’s world, though Prudence could discern her sister’s anxiety regarding her absence from home. She opened the second letter.

I was so happy to receive your letter, dearest. I will certainly send the carriage on the eighth, as you request.

Prudence frowned. She had not requested that Constance send the carriage on the eighth. She had written it, but the letter had not been sent. It was still on her dressing table. She thought hard for a moment, recalling that she had not seen that letter on her dressing table for some time. She quickly read the remainder of the letter, then opened the next one from her sister Charity.

…I know the travelling carriage is a hulk of a thing, but the springs have been repaired, so it is far more comfortable, and the new leader horses are capital. You shall be amazed at how Alex has grown in three months, he is very much looking forward to seeing his Aunt Pru. We shall have a famous Christmas and see all our old London friends…

Prudence frowned again. What was Charity talking of? She seemed to think that she was taking Prudence to town. She opened the next letter from Constance, which was dated the day after Charity’s.

There has been an alteration of our plans, dear. Charity has reminded me that you are due to go to hers in December, so she will call for you. Our godmother has persuaded C to spend the season in town that she might spoil little Alex and hold a Christmas dinner. C does not need much encouragement to agree to a scheme of pleasure, and so shall be the one to call for you and take you to Curzon Street.

I know you do not have any good clothes with you, but Miss Carina always has things made up that can be altered, and she knows exactly our tastes. Tell her to forward any bills to me, and do not skimp. It shall be our Christmas gift. You will need at least two ballgowns, also walking and morning gowns. I know you find fittings as tedious as I do, but C will not let you get away with your old gowns, and your wardrobe does need sadly updating, dear…

Prudence rose, letting the letters drop on the chair behind her. She walked quickly to the room she shared with Lizzy, and searched the dressing table drawer, her writing box, then the wardrobe and bedside table. She looked through her work basket, and even lifted down the pair of bandboxes on top of the wardrobe, having to clamber onto the dressing table stool to do so. She searched in vain; her letter was no where to be found.

Puzzled, she drifted back to the drawing room where Mr Shelbourne was still engrossed in composition and Lizzy was clearing away the tea tray.

‘You haven’t eaten a bite today, miss,’ scolded Lizzy. ‘I’ll bring you something before I go to the market. You don’t want to be fussing with making stew today, nor would I let you, so I thought to get a pie from the bakehouse.’

‘Lizzy, did you see a letter on the dressing table?’

‘Letter? No miss. Sophy was dusting yesterday, perhaps she moved it.’

’I wrote it some time ago. It was a request that Constance send the carriage for us in three weeks, but I put off sending it.’

Lizzy frowned as she thought back. ‘I did take a letter to the post for Mrs Finnistone two or three weeks back.’

‘From the dressing table?’

‘Yes,’ said Lizzy slowly, casting her mind back. ‘It were all sealed up ready, and I was going that way. ’

‘Then that explains it,’ said Prudence, sitting down again, for she felt strangely tired.

‘You look dreadfully pale about the gills, miss. I shall fetch some bread and butter before I go out. I promised Mrs Finnistone I would see you were looking after yourself.’

Prudence felt too weary to argue. She was not hungry, but she knew she ought to eat something, so she obediently nibbled on the thick hunk of bread Lizzy had hacked off, slathered with butter and blackberry preserve.

‘May I present my work to you, Miss Grace,’ said Mr Shelbourne, rising from the bureau chair and thrusting a page of inky scrawls at her. She found it too difficult to decipher his appalling handwriting at that moment, so she handed it back after a staring at it for a minute two, and gave him a forced smile, saying, ‘I thank you, Mr Shelbourne.’

He bowed, saying, ‘I shall go directly to the printer of the Chronicle and the Gazette. But before I go…’ he looked plaintively at the little pile of letters he had brought her. ‘Does Miss Kimpshott send any news?’

Prudence put aside her plate and took up Miss Kimpshott’s letter. ‘It is a short letter,’ she told him. ‘There is very little to tell. She has been attending the theatre and opera and some private gatherings. She regrets that she has not been to any balls yet. There was to have been a ball at Mrs Brandison’s, but Mrs Brandison’s brother-in-law died unexpectedly and the ball had to be cancelled. She regrets that her new ballgown is still in its silver paper, but there is a postscript to say that her sponsor hopes to get an invite for her to the Mertons’ Christmas ball.’

Prudence scanned the lines, omitting to relate anything that mentioned marriage proposals and any new acquaintance that included marriageable men .

She looked up with an apologetic smile. ‘There is really nothing more to tell. You would not care for all the details of her new gowns and hairdressing, etcetera.’

‘Not care to hear descriptions of her finery?’ protested Mr Shelbourne. ‘Not wish for a portrait to be fresh drawn in words, describing her every look, her every ensemble?’

‘Very well,’ said Prudence, stifling a sigh and finding the place in the letter. ‘She wore a new sarcenet gown with a woven design of roses to Lady Tunbridge’s Venetian breakfast. It had a pointed lace trim at the neckline and sleeves and hem, and she considered it looked very well with her pearls. She was given a set of mother-of-pearl combs which likewise looked very well in her hair.’

‘Who gave her a set of combs?’ said Mr Shelbourne in alarm.

‘Um…’ Prudence scanned the letter. ‘Her sponsor. Lady Brindle. But they were only a loan, though she thinks she shall purchase some like them, for she had a good deal of compliments.’

‘From whom?’

‘From a deal of people.’ Prudence strove to keep impatience from her voice; she was not in the mood for Mr Shelbourne’s romantic obsessions at this moment. Her uncle’s body was lying not many feet away and she had a host of concerns to deal with. Miss Kimpshott’s hair combs seemed of little importance.

‘And her ballgown?’

‘Silver gauze over white satin, her favourite combination. She gives no other description other than it has five flounces at the hem and seed pearls on the skirt.’

She made no mention of Lord Carlyle’s expressed intention of wearing a silver and seed pearl waistcoat upon hearing of Miss Kimpshott’s planned gown, nor of her newest admirer being the earl of Leicester’s unmarried son, Viscount Cole.

Mr Shelbourne looked dissatisfied with these crumbs of news, and remarked gloomily that Miss Kimpshott would be glad to hear of Miss Grace’s sudden good fortune, for they were now fellow heiresses, and went sadly away into town.