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

Chapter 30

30

‘You seem happy this afternoon,’ noted Charity, finding Prudence playing bear hunting with Alex. Hannibal made a very patient bear, repaying his capture with hearty licks.

Prudence smiled sunnily. ‘I am,’ she said.

‘Your beastly headache must have gone since this morning. You looked dreadful at breakfast.’

‘My beastly headache is gone,’ agreed Prudence.

‘Famous. I was beginning to forget what you looked like when you laugh, it has been so long. But I knew you would come about again after a long rest with me.’

Prudence laughed merrily and did not disabuse her sister of the truth of the matter – that it was nothing to do with rest, but everything to do with a new certainty that Sir Robert did love her. She did not yet know how such a knot would be untangled and he could be made to see sense, but her heart felt lighter and her hopes were restored. Alex’s nurse came in to take him away for his luncheon in the nursery.

‘I am glad you are happy again,’ said Charity, watching her son scamper away with his captured bear at his heels. ‘I wish I were, but I am pining for a good country ride.’ They walked upstairs to the dining room where their own luncheon was laid out.

‘You should take tea with Mrs Codd-Phelps,’ suggested Prudence mischievously. ‘You could pine together over your horses.’

Charity laughed. ‘She would not take tea with me, I am her sworn enemy at present.’

‘How is that?’

‘I persuaded Leon to make a bid for the most beautiful horse I ever beheld. She is exactly what I am looking for as a brood mare for my beautiful chestnut boy. Mrs Codd-Phelps is my rival, for she has set her agent to bid for her too. She begged me to back down, but why should I? She is a perfect match for Felix.’

‘I see. So that is why I am the sister of a usurper,’ murmured Prudence.

A footman announced Mr Shelbourne, and the sisters turned to greet the young man.

‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence, seeing the look on Mr Shelbourne’s face. ‘Have you spoken with Miss Kimpshott?’

‘I have,’ was the gloomy reply.

‘Do take a seat, my dear friend.’

‘Why so Friday-faced?’ said Charity, eyeing the depressed young poet.

‘Mr Shelbourne went to see Miss Kimpshott to ask for her hand,’ said Prudence, giving her sister a look of warning, that she might not say anything flippant.

‘I conclude from your expression, Mr Shelbourne,’ said Charity, ‘that the lady said nay.’

Mr Shelbourne sighed. ‘No. The lady said yes.’

‘She did?’ The sisters spoke in unison and stared at their miserable guest in surprise.

‘But this is good news, is it not?’ said Prudence, taking a seat beside him at the table while Charity sat on the other side of him.

‘How can you be blue-devilled when the lady said yes?’ exclaimed Charity.

‘Her guardian forbids it,’ said Mr Shelbourne.

‘On what grounds?’ said Charity. ‘Everyone knows that Lord Cole has been courting Miss Kimpshott, but if the lady prefers you, why should her guardian object?’

‘My blood is not as good as Cole’s. And my fortune not half so large. And I have no prospects of improving my fortune. I told her that I am an artiste. A poet. I spurn worldly ambition and wealth. I can support a wife very well in comfort, if not in luxury.’

‘Miss Kimpshott has money enough of her own,’ said Charity. ‘What business is it of her cousin’s if she chooses to marry for love instead of more money. How I detest that mercenary spirit.’

‘I countered her with the same argument. But that is not the worst of it,’ said Mr Shelbourne. ‘The worst of it is that she said I am not a poet, I am…’ He closed his eyes and gave a little shudder. ‘I am deluded. Have the oddest kick in my gallop. A pinchbeck. A booby. A dabbler. A dilettante. A woolgatherer. An… an… amateur.’

‘And she is a wasp,’ said Charity.

‘That was very unkind of her,’ said Prudence. ‘And I would not have thought she would be so very insulting.’

‘Regina said,’ — a look of pride revived his bleak expression. ‘She has told me I may have the honour of calling her by her name. Regina ,’ he said blissfully, repeating it a few times.

‘What did Reg—Miss Kimpshott say?’ said Prudence.

‘ Regina said that her cousin is in a black mood over a horse she has set her heart on. She says I am not to take to heart any of the insults.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘Regina is my angel, my comfort. But we cannot wed without her guardian’s consent. I said I would wait four years for her to come of age, and, like Jacob waiting for his Rachel, it would be as four days, so great is my love for her.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ consoled Prudence.

‘But her cousin says that will not do. She will not be burdened with the responsibilities of my Regina for another four years. Regina must marry this season or will be sent to her other cousin, the wife of a governor in India. India !’ He shuddered again. ‘My sweet, tender angel sent to the other side of the world to be ravaged under a brazen, unforgiving sun…’ Here a distant look came into his eyes and his hand went to his waistcoat pocket for his pencil and notebook.

‘Surely she would not really send Miss Kimpshott to India,’ said Prudence, plucking the pencil from his hand and replacing it with the glass of wine Charity had poured out for him. The words molten gold gilding her lily-white brow melted from his lips as he came to himself, staring at the slice of ham and veal pie Charity had set before him in place of his notebook.

‘She said,’ continued Mr Shelbourne, ‘that Regina might marry a Chicken Nabob or a Brahmin or a monkey for all she cared, for she had done her utmost to procure an excellent match and could do no more.’

‘She would sooner send her abroad than let her marry you?’ Charity was incredulous.

Prudence had seen more of Mrs Codd-Phelps’ character to perceive that this was probably only an impassioned outburst, but she would not put it past Mrs Codd-Phelps to make good on her promise to send Miss Kimpshott to India.

‘She said,’ Mr Shelbourne added, ‘that the day I became a real poet, would be the day she would give her consent to Regina marrying me.’

‘What does she mean by a real poet?’ said Prudence.

Mr Shelbourne shrugged. ‘One who has been published.’

‘Have you tried?’ said Charity.

‘Yes. I’ve approached every publisher in town.’

Prudence sat back, musing a while. Charity abused Mrs Codd-Phelps’ inhumanity a few minutes more before beginning a hearty luncheon.

Prudence urged Mr Shelbourne to share their meal, but Mr Shelbourne said that he felt too oppressed to eat, and would take a long walk about Regent’s Park.

‘In this rain?’ said Prudence, glancing out of the window at the grey January drizzle.

‘It suits my mood,’ was the sad reply. ‘All my best poems come to me in the rain.’

Prudence urged him not to despair, and moved to the window to watch him trudge away into the gloom. She turned thoughtfully back to the table. She did not attend much to Charity’s chatter for the rest of the meal. She was thinking about all the letters to be written that afternoon. She had much to arrange. It was time to put her plans into action.

Charity had complained for some time that she never saw anything of her sister these days. For the past weeks Prudence had been consumed with appointments and interviews with bankers, agents, solicitors and all manner of strangers. Not a day passed that Prudence was not out on business matters. But things grew worse in the days following Mr Shelbourne’s last visit.

‘I wish I knew what she was up to,’ Charity said to her husband, as Prudence whisked herself from the table after a hurried breakfast, saying she would not likely be home for luncheon, but would see them at dinner. ‘I know she has all manner of grand plans for a school and overseeing the properties she owns in Bath, but she is very mysterious about it all. The coachman told me she was at a printing shop in Fleet Street yesterday, and spent hours at a publishing house? What has that to do with her financial interests?’

‘Did you ask her?’

‘Yes. She said it is a private project.’

Leon opened his mouth to reply, when Prudence put her head back round the door to say, ‘Charity, I forgot to ask you, would you be very disappointed not to get that horse you were bidding on?’

The piece of toast carried halfway to Charity’s mouth was suspended mid-air. ‘Yes. I would. Why do you ask?’

Prudence took a step into the room. ‘I have heard that a filly sired by Anticipation might be coming up for sale. It is to be kept quiet. The owner does not wish it generally known that he is under the hatches.’

Charity stared in surprise.

‘Anticipation?’ said Leon. ‘The chestnut that won Ascot last year?’

‘How on earth do you know of this?’ said Charity, lowering the toast. ‘You don’t know anyone in such circles.’

Prudence shrugged. ‘I have been meeting with all manner of people these past weeks. Would a chestnut filly sired by Anticipation be better than the one you are bidding on? ’

‘To be sure it would! But—’

‘Good.’ Prudence flashed a smile and was gone again, leaving her sister gaping after her.

‘Don’t ask me,’ laughed Leon. ‘I know nothing of the matter.’

‘Did I not say that she has grown mysterious of late? What is she about?’

‘She is about her own business, my love, and you will have to get used to it. Our sweet, docile little Prudence has come into her own and will surprise us all. I thought you liked surprises,’ he added mischievously.

‘Not the kind of surprises that take my little sister away from me. Next thing she’ll be telling me is that she’s going off to marry some unlikely fellow!’

‘I would not put it past her,’ agreed Leon wryly. ‘She is a Grace sister, after all.’

Prudence was very sorry to hear of the death of King George at the close of January, though she agreed with Charity that poor old Farmer George had suffered a good deal in his years of illness, and they hoped he had made his peace with his Maker and was now free from his suffering.

It was a cause of lamentation to Charity that all social events would now cease during the period of national mourning, and that black was a most unbecoming colour for her fair skin. Prudence was already in muted colours for her great-uncle, so the royal bereavement made little difference to her wardrobe, and the cessation of card parties and musicales and theatre shows gave her more time to accomplish her many plans .

There was a good deal of pleasant things one could do when one had money of one’s own, decided Prudence with satisfaction. Most of her projects were near to being finalised. Other pleasant plans were unfolding: Mr Shelbourne, shaking with excitement, had just left her, having burst into the nursery at Curzon Street where she was playing with Alex.

‘I beg pardon, Miss Grace! But I had to call and thank you!’ And to both Prudence and Alex’s surprise he had dropped to his knees before her as though to kiss her feet.

Hannibal, who was not supposed to be upstairs, but no one could figure out how the dog was managing to open the door of the back stairs to come up from the servants’ quarters to the nursery, observed this human falling to all fours and presumed he was making a play-bow.

After Prudence and Alex managed to coax Hannibal off Mr Shelbourne, and Mr Shelbourne had wiped Hannibal’s saliva from his ear and cheek and was seated like a human on a small nursery chair, an explanation was given for his devout show of gratitude.

‘For this!’ he replied to Prudence’s question of, ‘What have you to thank me for?’ as he pulled something wrapped in brown paper from inside his waistcoat. She took it and opened the wrapper.

‘Oh, Mr Shelbourne, how wonderful! But why do you thank me?’

‘Because it was you, my dearest Miss Grace who told me I must send my poems to Watling and Wimple in Fleet Street. I could never have dared hope that not only did they accept them instantly, but have rushed them through the printing process faster than…’ —here he looked heavenward for a suitable simile— ‘a shooting star! Such a thing is unheard of! Miss Grace, I tell you, I went there this morning expecting to sign the last of the contracts, I dared no t tell a soul of it all until I had signed the last of the papers – and I was presented with this!’ He took back from Prudence the small, blue leather-bound book and lovingly traced the silver tooling on the cover. ‘ Mercury’s Moon: Love Sonnets. By Arthur Shelbourne ,’ he read in a dazed voice. He thrust the book back at her. ‘For you.’

‘Thank you. I am honoured. I hope you have signed it?’ She opened the cover. ‘You have. For Miss Grace. With my eternal thanks and friendship. Arthur Shelbourne. Poet.’ She smiled. ‘I am delighted, Mr Shelbourne. And have you shared the good news with Miss Kimpshott yet?’

‘I am going there now. I wished to discharge my gratitude to you first, in case…’ He winced.

‘In case Mrs Codd-Phelps reneges on her word?’

He nodded, the light seeping from his eyes. ‘ My publishers ,’ the light returned, ‘are interested in my narrative poem once I have completed it.’

‘That is excellent news. But wait a moment, Mr Shelbourne.’ She moved to the little writing box in the corner of the nursery where Nurse wrote out laundry and shopping lists. She found a small piece of paper and a pencil in need of trimming, but made the best of it to quickly scratch out a short missive that she sealed and handed to Mr Shelbourne.

‘Pray, give this to Mrs Codd-Phelps before you make your announcement.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, just something about horses. But you must give it to her before you speak of your publication.’

She watched him leave, a smile dancing over her face until the sound of paper tearing caused her to dash across the room to rescue the newly published volume of poems from Alex’s inquisitive fingers.