Prudence (16 page)

At which thought a hiccuping sob threatened to erupt from her throat, and she was relieved to see the twins flying back, waving flowers of pink and yellow.

‘These are pretty, Miss Prue,’ said Lotty as she placed one in the basket. ‘What are they?’

Prue had been obliged to call to mind all her scanty botanical lore, for the girls had little understanding of English plants and were inclined to disparage the lack of variety in the wildflowers they had found.

‘Primroses. Does not your uncle have them in his gardens?’

‘Uncle Julius never tells us nothing about his flowers,’ said Dodo scornfully.

‘Have you ever asked him?’

Both twins blinked at her. Then Lotty grinned. ‘He don’t like us to plague him, you know that, Miss Prue.’

Dodo was counting the different colours in the basket. ‘Six blue, two purple. And only one pink. Look, Lotty, there’s too many yellow! Why is everything in England all yellow?’

Lotty instantly disputed this assumption, declaring that green was the predominant colour, which was why England differed so much from the countries they had lived in. Dodo paid no heed, picking out one of many flowers they had collected with a globular head of yellow.

‘There’s too many of these. What are they again, Miss Prue?’

‘Lavender cotton,’ said Prue, removing the delicate plant from the child’s unfriendly fingers. ‘You must not poke it so, Dodo, or it will fall to pieces before we can press it.’

‘Who cares? We’ve got lots and lots of them.’

Lotty frowned disapprovingly at the flower. ‘See, that’s silly. How can it be called Lavender when it’s yellow? Lavender isn’t yellow.’

‘Very true,’ agreed Prue in a placating sort of way, ‘but perhaps it is the cotton that makes it yellow.’

‘I don’t see how. I shall ask Uncle Julius.’

‘A very good notion,’ agreed Prue, aware of a faint tremor in her voice—and a slight chill in her body.

An abrupt realisation caused her to dismiss all thought of Mr Rookham. She cast a glance at the darkening sky.

‘Oh, dear, the sun has gone in.’

How remiss of her not to have noticed it before! That was what came of allowing her thoughts to stray in dangerous directions.

But they had set out on a perfect spring day, warm enough to dare the expedition with only a light covering. The twins had on short cloaks over their usual blue gowns, and Prue had herself ventured forth clad only in the grey Seminary uniform, which had been returned to her refreshed and neatly laundered. It had been a point of courtesy, Prue felt, to resume wearing it, despite finding in herself a newfound distaste for the garments that had received so severe a wetting.

The ominous greying of the clouds mocked her now, threatening a second drenching. The twins, she discovered, had no thoughts to spare for the changing weather. They were squabbling over who had found the most flowers. Prue broke in without ceremony.

‘We must start back. I am afraid it is going to rain.’

A flood of protest was nipped in the bud by an abrupt spitting from the skies. Both girls turned up their faces to catch the spots. Prue attempted to steer them homewards.

‘Pooh, it’s only a drizzle!’

‘Look, I can get them on my tongue!’

‘Girls, we must get home!’

They consented to walk, but at a crawling pace, stopping every moment as they vied with each other upon the cleverness with which each sought to capture the
fleeting drops. Impatience itched at Prue as she cast another apprehensive look upon the lowering clouds.

There was a sudden flash, forking through the sky. Gasping with fright, the twins froze, clutching at Prue.

‘Lightning!’

‘There is a storm coming!’

Sure enough, a low rumble in the distance rapidly grew in volume, ending in a fearful crack almost above their heads.

Prue’s heart was hammering, but her only thought was for the now whimpering twins. She must get them to shelter! Her eyes pierced the woody thicknesses around them. Too many trees. They would be safer in more open country, but she did not know in which direction she should go to find it.

There was another flash, followed almost immediately by the echoing thunder behind. And then the heavens opened.

The girls abruptly broke away, running for the nearest tree. Prue dropped the basket and started after them.

‘No! Not under the trees! Come back!’

But she had to seize both of them, forcibly pulling them to a stop. They were crying, but Prue had no time to deal gently with their natural fright.

‘Stop it at once! This is no time for tears. You must be strong, do you understand?’

Lotty made a valiant effort to swallow her sobs, but Dodo wailed mightily. Prue took her by one shoulder and dealt her a light slap on the cheek. The child gasped, her tears arrested.

‘Ouch!’

Prue nodded, only half aware of the battering rain upon her bonnet and face. ‘That’s better. Now, follow me!’

Turning, she led them back out onto the path, and once again searched the surrounding area. Within the forest on the other side, she spied a fallen log. Grabbing the twins, she made for it, as swiftly as she could for the clinging bracken below.

Within a few minutes, she had sat the girls down in a little hollow formed by a dead branch against the trunk, and was busily employed in gathering bracken to form a roof above it. She was oblivious to the intermittent thunder grumbling overhead, as much as to the soaking of the rain into her garments. All her attention was for the protection of the twins. She was panting with effort by the time Lotty from within informed her that it was now relatively dry inside their improvised shelter.

‘You better come in now, Miss Prue.’

At which point, Prue became conscious of her sodden state. Would she not take the rain in with her? Besides, she did not think there was room for an adult. Nevertheless, she could not remain here, standing in this downpour as the momentum of the storm grew, whipping at the leaves.

‘I will try for another place,’ she told the girls. ‘Stay there until I come for you.’

Her progress back to the path was distressingly slow, aware as she had now become of her own discomforts. The rain had already soaked through her jacket to the skin, although her layers of petticoats afforded limited protection. They were rapidly gathering moisture, however, weighting heavily about her legs as she trudged through the bracken, assailed by a horrible feeling of
dêjà vu.

But as she emerged from the trees, she heard the sound of fast-moving feet. Straining into the sheeting
rain, she spied someone coming towards her. Attired in a bulky greatcoat with a hat upon his head, he looked to be a working man.

Without hesitation, Prue hailed him. He checked. Then catching sight of Prue, he hurried towards her. He was of sturdy build, and, for what she could see under the driving rain, of middle years. His voice was heavily accented in the local burr.

‘What be ye doin’ out in this, missie?’

‘I was walking with the girls in my charge,’ Prue told him, loud against the hammer from the heavens. ‘We have come from Rookham Hall. Pray can you help us?’

‘Is that the master’s little ’uns? Twins they be, as I heard.’

‘Yes, indeed. But is Mr Rookham your master?’

‘I be forester here, and these be his lands, missie.’

Relief flooded Prue. She dashed the wet from her face. ‘How far are we from the Hall, do you know?’

‘Too far, if you was thinking o’ going now.’

He looked up, and Prue realised that the rain had lessened. Was this the end of it? It was apparent that the forester did not believe so.

‘Do you think it will come on heavy again?’

The fellow nodded. ‘Aye. Seems I’d best take you to the hut yonder. I was going there meself.’

‘You have a hut nearby? Oh, thank heaven!’

She led him to where the twins were hidden, and with his assistance, freed them quickly. They eyed him at first askance, clinging to their governess’s wet form. But the man only glanced at them, and immediately led the way beyond their little shelter, weaving through the trees.

It was not long before the hut became visible ahead,
a rough construction of thorny wood and straw with a thatched roof. But already the rain was thickening again, and Prue was relieved to be able to usher the girls inside and herself get into the dry.

The little hut was dim within, lit only by one small window open to the elements. It was also cold, and as her eyes became accustomed, Prue discovered that the girls were shivering. She was herself excessively wet, but no thought of her own danger entered her head. She turned to the forester, who was busy with a pile of straw or grasses.

‘Have you any sacking? I must try to keep the girls warm.’

The forester was ahead of her, indicating where he had already created a bed of sorts, into which he suggested that all three should huddle.

Prue shook her head. ‘I am too wet. I shall only make the girls damp, and there is not room enough for three.’

So the twins bedded down in the straw, now hugely enjoying the adventure, and Prue covered them over. The forester did indeed have sacking, which he insisted upon placing around Prue’s own shoulders. It afforded little warmth, but she was grateful for the man’s kind thought and thanked him prettily as she sank down upon a heap of grasses.

To pass the time, and to distract the twins from a quarrel over whether one of them had stolen straw from the other, Prue offered to tell them a story.

By the time the storm at last ceased, she had been obliged to dredge up half a dozen tales from a wayward memory, and had fallen back upon rhymes and nursery songs. Prue’s voice was cracking, and she was shivering uncontrollably. Nothing could have been more
welcome to her ears than the forester’s considered pronunciation.

‘Seems like it’s over, missie.’

‘Thank heaven!’ She moved to extract the twins. ‘Pray, would you be so kind as to lead us home?’

With hands that shook, Prue dragged off her ill-fortuned Seminary uniform. Having handed the twins over to a scandalised Yvette, she had made her way to her own chamber, bedraggled and worn.

With her charges safe, she was able to turn attention to her own condition, and found she had barely strength to get herself undressed. How she longed for a repeat of that far-off day when her sodden body had been immersed into a steaming bath. But it was not to be on this occasion, for her situation was unknown this time to the author of that instruction.

The forester had left them at the start of the gardens, and they had gained the house without anyone seeing them, coming in by a side door. Once she had the twins in their bedchamber, Prue had rung for the Frenchwoman, knowing that however furious Yvette might be, she would attend to the needs of her nurslings better than Prue could.

Nevertheless, she had already persuaded them out of most of their wet clothes before the nurse arrived. Yvette had listened in unconcealed fury, black eyes snapping, as Prue had explained their unfortunate predicament. Protesting in voluble French, Yvette had announced her intention of stripping the twins down and huddling them into towels. She then turned on Prue herself.

‘Eef you are wise,
mam’zelle
, you also weel take off ze clothes
toute de suite
.’

Advice with which Prue had been in complete agreement. Leaving the girls to Yvette’s competent ministrations, she had made the best of her way to her chamber, and at last discovered her own sorry state. The remembrance of that earlier disastrous wetting could not but obtrude, but Prue shrank from requesting assistance.

For no consideration would she expose herself to the scornful taunting of Mrs Polmont. The housekeeper would not help her without positive instructions from the master of the house. And nothing in the world would persuade Prue to sue to Mr Rookham. What would he think of her?

Not that she was to blame this time, for no one could have foreseen that such an apparently fine day would turn sour so quickly. But he would undoubtedly amuse himself at her expense. To be found once again in this distressingly wet condition? No, he must not know of it.

A sneaking little voice deep down within her conscience belied her. Would he not be angrier for her
not
seeking his help? He would think her foolish beyond permission to suffer in silence, when she knew well that he would insist upon her receiving every possible assistance did he know of her plight. Only she could not let him know it.

How could she tell him that her wits had gone wool-gathering, indulging in such foolish fancies that she had not noticed the changing condition of the weather? She might well have had ample time to return to the Hall had she not been so self-indulgent. Guilt swamped her as she towelled herself dry before the cold ashes in the grate, kicking aside the heap of sodden clothes.

Abruptly, a wave of weakness swept over her, and
she staggered blindly to the bed. Falling upon its surface, she gathered the quilt up around her, and for an endless while lay shivering, fighting the dizzying sensation of faintness.

After what seemed an age, she managed to drag herself up and sought under the pillows for her nightgown. Tugging it on, Prue thrust herself under the bedclothes, pulling them up around her shuddering frame.

S
omeone was shaking her shoulder. Prue struggled to open her eyes, which felt unbearably heavy. Like the thick fog in her head which prevented coherent thought.

‘Miss! Miss, wake up!’

A pale blurry face appeared above her. Prue found it vaguely familiar, although the features remained unclear. She tried to answer.

‘Wh-what is it?’

‘It’s nigh on five o’clock, miss, and the master is expecting you for dinner.’

Prue blinked bleary eyes. The thought of food made her tired. ‘Pray tell him I cannot eat.’

There was a pause, and Prue thankfully closed her aching lids. But a tickle at her nose made itself felt, and she let out a violent sneeze.

The face retreated, and a disembodied voice delivered itself of a sage pronouncement.

‘You’ve caught cold, miss, if you ask me. And no wonder, caught out in the rain like that.’

Prue was struggling with the gathering moistures, hunting desperately under her pillows for a handker
chief. The visitor seemed to divine her need, for she heard rattling and a muttered question.

‘Now where does she keep them?’

‘In the top shelf, on the right,’ Prue uttered, realising that the girl must be searching in the press.

In a few moments one of her supply of cotton cloths—hemmed in Nell’s neat stitch—was put into her hand. She clutched it gratefully, and mopped at her nose. But she was possessed of a creeping lethargy, and even this small action was an effort.

‘Dearie me,’ fussed the face, once more bending over her. ‘Seems I’d best fetch Mrs Polmont to you.’

Panic thrust in upon Prue, and she half-rose in the bed. ‘No! Pray don’t bring her here.’

‘Mrs Polmont, miss? But it’s her business to look to you.’

Too little mistress of herself to consider her words, Prue thought only of prevention.

‘For pity’s sake, don’t let her come in to me! She will say such things, and look at me in that hideous way she has, and I have not strength to withstand her now.’

There was puzzlement in the girl’s tone. ‘But someone has to know, miss, as you’re not fit. Seemingly Mrs Polmont ought to tell the master.’

With an effort, Prue managed to sit up. She recognised the maid now, the same who had helped her on the last occasion. She reached out to her as a name floated into her head.

‘Pray don’t tell him, Maggie. Or if you must, send to him by Creggan rather than Mrs Polmont.’

‘I suppose I could ask Jacob to do that. He’s the footman, miss.’

‘Yes, do so, if you will. But say only that I have a
little cold in the head and will keep abed until morning.’

‘If you say so, miss.’

Was there doubt in the voice? She could not tell. It was superseded by a new thought forcing its way into her sluggish mind.

‘The girls! Are they all right?’

‘Merry as grigs, miss,’ replied Maggie, laughing. ‘It’d take more than a bit o’ wet to put them two out of frame!’

Relieved, Prue sank back upon her pillows. ‘Does Mr Roo—does the master know about them being caught in the rain?’

‘That Frenchie went and told him.’ The maid hesitated, frowning. ‘Now I think of it, seemingly she never said nothing about you, miss, for the master ain’t asked after you. Only he sent for you to come to dinner.’

There was no question of going down to dinner. Prue knew she could not even stand up. She was vaguely aware that there was another, more cogent, reason why she should not go.

‘You must make my excuses, if you please.’

‘Very well, miss. And shall I bring you something up? A little broth, perhaps? They do say as you should feed a cold.’

Prue shook her head. ‘I feel cold, but I am not hungry, only thirsty.’

The maid tutted in sympathy and promised to bring up a jug of lemonade. Then it went quiet and Prue deduced that she must have left the chamber. But a pattering sound came to her ears, and next moment Folly landed on the bed. Mewing at her, he trotted up to the pillow and thrust an investigative nose into her cheek.

Prue brought out a wavering hand to stroke him, but was taken with a fit of shivering which sent Folly retreating to the end of the bed, where he sat, the green eyes bewildered.

‘Poor mite,’ she murmured regretfully. ‘I’m so sorry.’

And then a wave of heaviness engulfed her head. Prue was aware only of this, and shivers that intermittently attacked her from head to foot. She felt feverish, and although a little dribble of moisture had to be dealt with from time to time, it was not at all as if she had a cold. It was excessively uncomfortable, but Prue took a morbid satisfaction in what she conceived to be a fitting punishment.

Had she not been so stupidly engaged upon daydreaming, she would not have been caught in the rain. Her only consolation lay in having taken sufficient care of the twins to ensure that they were not similarly suffering. That would have been infinitely worse to bear.

Once or twice she heard Folly’s plaintive mew, and tried to open her eyes. But the kitten was not on the bed, and she had not strength to pull herself up to discover his whereabouts. When she at last heard the door opening, she made a heroic effort to secure the animal’s welfare.

‘Pray—whoever it is—take the kitten to the girls. They must look after him for me, for I cannot manage—’

‘Do stop fretting, miss,’ came from the same young maid who had come up before. ‘I’ll take him to the kitchens, for I daren’t for my life put him in with that Frenchie.’

Disturbed by the disembodied voice, Prue raised her
head and blinked across the room. The maid was on her knees.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Laying down wood for the fire, miss. The master’s orders. There’s a hot brick on the way, too, and what the master calls a “toddy”.’

Prue’s eyes pricked, and she had recourse to her handkerchief—and not on account of the moistures. Had she not known it? He would order whatever he could for her deliverance. He truly was the kindest of men. Oh, how she wished she had never come here!

Maggie’s features popped into view above her, sporting a cheery grin. ‘If you ask me, miss, the master has a soft spot for you. He come down to the kitchen himself, only to tell Mrs Wincle how to make this toddy. And then I’m blowed if he doesn’t stay and insist upon making it himself!’

This intelligence almost overpowered Prue. She sniffed dolefully into her handkerchief, hoping desperately that Maggie would attribute her distressed state to nothing more than her illness. Apparently she did, for her features became solemn again and she tutted.

‘In a bad way, aren’t you, miss? Are you thirsty? Here, you’d best take a little of this lemonade.’

Prue gulped gratefully from the proffered glass, and her head cleared a trifle. She felt the maid tuck the bedclothes more securely about her.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s no trouble, miss. Is there aught else I can do for you? Are you warm enough?’

‘I should be, but I keep shivering.’

‘Dearie me, don’t say you have a fever. You look downright peaky, and that’s a fact.’

Prue crumpled the handkerchief in her hand. ‘It’s only that my head feels so hot.’

Maggie’s face vanished and Prue closed her eyes. In a moment, she felt a coolness at her brow.

‘I’ve wrung out a cloth in your basin, miss.’

The relief was immediate, and Prue sighed her thanks.

‘Now then, pet, let’s take care of you.’

A protesting mewl and the sound of a softly closing door gave Prue to understand that Folly had been removed along with the maid. He would be safe with Maggie, she thought thankfully.

Presently she drifted, losing track of time. And then there was movement at the side of the bed and a sudden sensation of heat. Her head was raised, and someone was bidding her drink. Warmth was at her lips, and she sipped upon a taste strongly sweet, with an afterkick that made her cough.

‘What is that?’

‘Don’t ask questions!’ said a peremptory voice. ‘Just drink it and be thankful. In a very short time, you will be sleeping like a baby.’

Prue forced her eyes open. It could not be Mr Rookham! Only it was. His face was a shadow against the candle glow in the background, but she could see the outline of his ragged hair and the glitter of his steely eyes.

In her semi-dreaming state, Prue had no defences. And no will against the force of him, right up there above her where he should not be.

‘Drink,’ he said again.

‘Must I?’

‘Come now, it is for your own good.’

Obediently, Prue sipped again, and this time found
the tang less strong. She struggled up onto her elbow, and tried to take the glass into her own hand. Her fingers came into contact with his, and a buzzing warmth slid into her head.

‘You should not do this.’

She was unaware of having spoken, but a soft laugh floated between them.

‘It would shock your Duck, I dare say. I shall remain, however, until you have drunk all of my medication.’

So saying, he urged the cup once again to her lips, and Prue perforce had to partake of its contents. She managed a few more mouthfuls before weakness overcame her. Her fingers dropped away and she sank back onto her pillows.

‘No more, I pray you.’

There was a moment of hesitation, and then he set the cup down upon her bedside table.

‘Very well. You have probably taken enough to do the trick, but I shall leave the rest here. If you wake in the night, drink it all down and I guarantee you will sleep again.’

Prue felt the bed shift as his weight was removed from the side. A sensation of loss attacked her. To hide it, she retreated further under the covers.

‘Good night, my poor Prue.’

It was softly uttered, and Prue’s heart swelled. There was movement in the room. Then the door latch clicked, and she was left to silence and a feeling of aching loneliness.

Having been out for his usual morning’s exercise on horseback, Julius was partaking of a late breakfast. Digging his fork into a substantial helping of ham that
accompanied a couple of poached eggs on the platter before him, he turned his attention to his butler, who was pouring him out a cup of coffee.

‘Creggan, have you news of Miss Hursley’s condition this morning?’

The butler shook his head, laying down the coffee pot. ‘I have not been informed, sir. Would you wish me to institute enquiries?’

‘No, don’t trouble. I will go up myself.’ Something in Creggan’s immobile features made him add a rider. ‘I ought, in any event, to check those imps are none the worse for wear.’

Now why had he said that? He watched Creggan shift to the dresser and slice bread from the fresh baked loaf. Why must he account for his movements to his own butler? Was it unnatural in him to wish to know how the governess fared? Yes, of course it was! But then Prudence had become, by degrees—or was it leaps and bounds?—much more than a governess. He counted her a friend, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have gone in to her last night with his potion.

Only Prudence had herself deprecated his presence—even at a moment when she was obviously unwell and not herself. Strictly speaking, it was the height of impropriety to be in her bedchamber at all. But then Miss Hursley was not a debutante, nor he a raw youth of fashion. There were no gossips here, and no question of compromise. Yet he must feel himself at fault to be making excuses to his butler!

He accepted two of the proffered slices of bread, transferring them to his side plate and spreading on butter with a lavish hand. He sipped at his coffee in a meditative way.

It was not the first time he had been in her room, he recalled. There had been that other time with the episode of the frogs. But there had been every excuse on that occasion. Who could blame him for investigating the cause of a scream? And no man of honour would refuse his assistance in such a case on the score of impropriety. Besides, the governess had been decently clad in a dressing-gown, and had not been in bed.

Here his conscience smote him. He had known she was in bed last night, and there had been no perceived excuse for his entering her bedchamber only to give her a drink. Any one of the female servants might have acted as his deputy. Only no-one could have ascertained to his satisfaction the true nature of her condition.

Annoyed to find that the matter had been of so much importance to him, Julius attacked an egg with such ferocity that it shot off the plate, spattering yolk across the pristine whiteness of the covers.

‘Hell and damnation!’

He half rose from his chair, but Creggan moved smoothly in, armed with suitable implements.

‘Allow me, sir.’

Julius reseated himself, taking a moody swig of coffee as he watched the butler remove the offending egg together with the worst traces of its ravages. He regarded the remaining contents of his breakfast platter with a jaundiced eye.

Before he could make up his mind whether or not to instruct Creggan to remove it, an interruption occurred. The door opened, and Julius briefly saw the disgruntled features of the nurse Yvette before the butler moved to intercept her.

A brief muttered colloquy—Creggan attempting to
prevent the woman’s entrance, he made no doubt!—was enough to inform him that unusual circumstances must lie behind this unprecedented move. He intervened.

‘Let her come in, Creggan.’

The butler stood aside. With a sinking heart, Julius watched the advance of the fierce little Frenchwoman. Not for the first time, he was struck with a passing pang of sympathy for his nieces. They were abominable minxes, but it was a trifle hard on them to be under the rule of this diminutive tartar.

‘Eet ees as I sink,
monsieur
,’ began the black-eyed female in her cross-grained tone. ‘Ze
enfants
, zey ’ave now zees cold in ze nose.’

‘Ah, have they?’ replied Julius mildly. ‘Are you keeping them in bed?’

‘In bed, yesse.
Naturellement
, I make
tout ce qu’on demande
for make zem well. But zees I do not come to say. I come of zees
gouvernante
zat I weesh to complain,
monsieur
.’

Julius became conscious of his own stiffening, and a spark ignited in his breast.