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

Chapter 32

32

The party of two carriages stopped at the Black Bear in Hungerford for the night, and left early next morning, stopping at their second change of horses for luncheon, and after a final change, reaching Bath in good time for dinner in Laura Place.

Mr Shelbourne joined them for dinner and then left to spend the night at his cousin’s town house. The next day he would return to drive Miss Kimpshott and Mrs Codd-Phelps to The Cottage. Miss Kimpshott privately beseeched Prudence to go with them, so that Mrs Codd-Phelps would not be required as a chaperone, ‘It will be like old times,’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘The three of us in Arthur’s curricle.’

‘It is rather cold and blustery for a curricle drive,’ replied Prudence. ‘I would happily go with you, but I have an appointment that would take me away from you for at least an hour.’

‘That does not signify,’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘I believe I can be trusted to be alone with my betrothed for an hour. Arthur has the chivalric code of his knightly namesake. But where are you going? ’

Prudence did not reply to this question, but volunteered her own carriage to take them, but on the condition that they leave no later than ten, for her appointment was at noon.

The journey next morning to Beech Park seemed longer to Prudence than the whole of the journey from London to Bath. What if all her carefully laid plans came to nought?

Her habitual good sense came to her aid; there was no use worrying about what might or might not happen. She must do what she felt to be right and not lose courage. The rest was in God’s hands, and in the heart of the man she loved.

Mr Shelbourne still bore the air of a man who had lost something. He was devoted to his Regina, but a troubled look haunted him when he thought Miss Kimpshott was not observing him. But little passed Miss Kimpshott’s notice.

‘I wonder, Arthur,’ she began, when they were a mile out of Laura Place, ‘that you do not write poems any more. I thought perhaps the bustle of London had driven all poetry from you, but we are back in Bath now, and you have not once expressed so much as a simile, let alone a metaphor.’

Mr Shelbourne looked dismayed, and struggled to give an answer.

‘You have just reminded me of something,’ said Prudence. She had brought with her a leather case carrying documents, and now retrieved the case from under the carriage seat to extract a book. She held it out to Mr Shelbourne, saying, ‘For you.’

He took it and opened it. Miss Kimpshott glanced across him to see what the book was about. They made a comical pair as they both looked up at Prudence, eyebrows lifted in question.

‘It’s empty,’ said Mr Shelbourne, turning over the blank leaves.

‘Because it is waiting to be filled. Read the inscription inside the cover.’

He read aloud: ‘To Mr Arthur Shelbourne, whose friendship has been invaluable, and who has taught me many lessons of the heart by his poetry. May this Travel Journal document the first of many new adventures.’ He looked up wonderingly. ‘A travel journal?’

‘Indeed. Have I not heard you and Miss Kimpshott discussing where you will travel on your wedding journey?’

Mr Shelbourne gazed away, seeing a new vision before him. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, as though speaking to the new muse that called him to fresh literary landscapes.

‘Travel journals are vastly popular,’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘What a very good idea. I wonder you never thought of it before, Arthur.’

Prudence was well satisfied with the new light in Mr Shelbourne’s expressive eyes. Gone was the haunted look of a poet without the inspiration of unrequited love; new vision replaced the old.

They reached Beech Park, and Prudence was pressed to go into the cottage and take refreshment, but she sought the time from Mr Shelbourne’s pocket watch, and learning that it was a little after half past eleven said that she must go directly to her appointment and would return to them shortly.

‘Where is this appointment?’ said Mr Shelbourne, puzzled. ‘You did not say.’

’And who is it with?’ asked Miss Kimpshott, but Prudence hurried away, saying that she would explain all later.

Before leaving Laura Place that morning she had asked the young groom who sat beside the coachman to run ahead of her up to Beech Park on their arrival. He was to carry a note. He walked behind her until they reached the carriageway to the manor house, and then took off at a brisk pace to the house while she walked on, turning aside through a small gardener’s gate into the grounds.

It was a gusty day, and she hoped she was not looking very windblown as she let herself into the glasshouse. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink from the wind, and from the mounting nervousness she felt.

She did not have long to compose herself. She soon felt a blast of cold air as someone opened the glass house door and entered. She could not see the door from where she stood, for a wall of trellis screened her from view, but she heard that familiar, brusque voice call out, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

She moved to make herself visible, but the rustle of her movement was enough to bring the owner of that deep voice in quick, long strides to where she stood.

‘You!’ exclaimed her surprised visitor, coming up short at the sight of her.

‘Good afternoon, Sir Robert.’ She was amazed that she could speak so calmly and make so neat a curtsey. ‘How do you do?’

He stared at her. ‘You sent this?’ He lifted the note, requesting that the appointment arranged between himself and the anonymous purchaser of Beech Park should take place in the glass house.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It was unfair of me to surprise you like this, but I did so wish for informality… and privacy. ’

He spoke slowly and incredulously as the truth dawned on him. ‘You are the new owner of Beech Park.’

‘I am. I hope you are not displeased.’

‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘Would you have sold it to me if you had known who made the purchase offer?’

He did not answer, but stared some moments more. She forced herself not to flinch under his penetrating gaze, but returned his look. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why do you want it?’

‘For a school. A charitable school. Is that not a good use for it?’

He considered this. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. He took a step nearer. ‘But why are you here?’

‘To exchange papers.’

‘Why are you here ? In my glasshouse.’

‘ My glasshouse,’ she could not resist saying.

He took another step nearer and her heart beat a little faster. This was harder than she had expected. She turned away, saying, ‘As I said, I wished for privacy. For there is another matter I wish to speak to you on.’

She walked quickly towards the beds of rose bushes. He caught her up immediately, and would have demanded more of her but she forestalled his questioning by putting out a hand to a beautiful scarlet rose, saying, ‘Have you your pocket knife to hand, Sir Robert?’

He looked a little bewildered, but he did take out his pocket knife and reached to cut the rose, but she moved her hand to block his reach, saying, ‘I wish to cut it.’

‘I suppose you may do what you like with your own roses,’ he said dryly. ‘Be careful,’ he added, watching her with an inscrutable look.

She cut the rose and handed him back the knife. She raised the bloom to her nose, inhaling it. ‘Roses in February,’ she murmured appreciatively.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about? he demanded, watching her every movement.

She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she began, ‘that I am not some heroine of high sensibility out of one of my sister’s novels or your cousin’s poems.’

‘I never thought you were,’ he drawled, his voice a little dangerous.

‘Despite my youth, I believe I am sensible and know full well my own mind, and… my own heart.’ Her courage wavered a little, and she dropped her gaze to the rose in her hands.

‘Go on, Miss Grace.’

She took another steadying breath. ‘And so I have decided to take action, rather than wait around for something that may not ever happen. Do you know what day it is, Sir Robert?’

She had the gratification of seeing him blink in surprise; it made her feel a little less vulnerable to know that he did not feel in command of the situation much more than she did.

‘It is Tuesday,’ he said slowly.

‘The twenty-ninth day of February,’ she added. ‘Leap year.’

She felt rather than saw his countenance change as understanding dawned. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, wonderingly. ‘You surely don’t mean…?’

She took courage from the softening of his tone, and looked up, holding out to him the red rose and blushing almost as deep as the colour of the velvety petals as she said shyly, but determinedly, ‘I claim the old custom of a lady’s right to propose on the day of a leap year. Will you…?’ she began, her voice faltering a little, ‘Would you do me the very great honour…?’

She got no further, for the rose was promptly plucked from her fingers and she was taken by the arms as he caught her up to him. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, cupping her face with the hand that was not on the small of her back so that she was forced to look directly at him. His voice softened. ‘If there’s any proposing to be done…’

She lifted her hands to his shoulders, certain that at long last he would actually kiss her, but he gently released her, saying, ‘I wanted to ask you to marry me months ago, before you left Bath.’

‘Why did you not? Why did you rush away leaving me wondering after you?’

‘Everything had changed. What had I to offer you when you had become an astoundingly wealthy heiress? I thought I could offer you what you did not have, but suddenly you had everything. Why would you want to marry a man of modest means ten years your senior when the world was now wide open to you? You were on your way to London where you would meet new people and see something of the world, and make a far more eligible match. It would have been selfish of me not to let you go.

‘I meant to stay away, to give you a chance to know your own mind, but I could not stay away for long. You brought me to London, but seeing you so altered was almost worse than not seeing you at all, for you felt farther out of my reach than ever.

‘Gone was the sweet, pretty, young girl, and in her place a fashionable beauty being courted by men of wealth and title. Every time I called you were out or would not receive me.’

Prudence called him an idiot, and was pulled close again for her incivility. For the second time she thought he would kiss her, but again he refrained, putting her away again that he might look at her as he talked. ‘No one would believe that you would choose me over the likes of Cavendish.’

‘The people who matter to me will believe me to know my own mind.’

‘I hate for people to think that I persuaded you into marriage for your money. I should wish to be the provider for my wife.’

‘How can you have persuaded me when it was I who proposed to you? Or tried to. And as for my money, I must inform you that I have all manner of expensive schemes that I am looking forward to carrying out. A man who wished to gain a fortune by me would be very disappointed.’

He regarded her some moments longer. ‘You are a remarkable young lady, Prudence Grace. But woefully unconventional by worldly standards.’

‘Then the likes of Mr Cavendish would be woefully disappointed in me, do not you think? I need the kind of husband who is led by conscience rather than material gain. A husband who cares more for what heaven thinks than what the world does.’

He had that rare and tender look in his eye that she loved best. Surely now the declaration of love would come, or the kiss that sealed the promise of their union. But he only said, ‘We must go up to the house before it rains.’

She must have shown her disappointment at this prosaic injunction, for he added in a softer voice, ‘I don’t want my future wife getting a soaking.’

She smiled. ‘That is very presumptuous of you, Sir Robert.’ He looked enquiringly down at her. ‘You have not actually asked me to marry you. And you threw my offering to the ground without a word of acceptance.’ The rose lay near his booted foot.

‘Firstly, my girl, I don’t want to hear any more Sir Roberts from you. Secondly, dearest Prudence, you strange, unaccountable, sweet, stubborn, remarkable girl – will you make me the happiest man on earth by becoming my wife?’

‘Yes, Robert. I will.’

The long delayed kiss was all it should be.

She persuaded Sir Robert to walk to the cottage, rather than the manor house. She wished for Mr Shelbourne and Miss Kimpshott to be the first to hear their news. ‘And I should not have left them alone,’ she confessed. ‘I am as neglectful a chaperone as Mrs Codd-Phelps ever was.’

There was barely any need for explanations when they arrived, with Sir Robert’s arm about Prudence’s waist, into the pretty sitting-room of the cottage. The young couple took one amazed look at Prudence’s shining countenance and Sir Robert’s corresponding glow and rushed to give their congratulations, exclaiming and laughing and demanding to hear all the details.

They all dined together in the cottage, Sir Robert sending up to the house for a bottle of his finest champagne, and then, pausing in his request to say to Prudence, ‘Are the contents of the wine cellar included in your purchase?’ She laughingly replied that unless wine counted as furniture, they were not.

‘I declare,’ said Mr Shelbourne, when they had toasted one another, ‘I never thought until now that happiness could be as delightful as other emotions. I thought suffering was the highest expression of love, but I believe I may have changed my mind.’

‘There is no suffering in heaven,’ Prudence said. ‘But only joy. Therefore joy must be the highest expression of love, must it not?’

Mr Shelbourne’s eyes glazed as inspiration struck. But a touch on the hand from Miss Kimpshott roused him instantly, and he took up her fingers and kissed them.