Prudence (21 page)

Julius ostentatiously reseated himself, throwing up his hands. ‘Behold me! Now write, if you please.’

The pens began scratching again, and Julius’s mind wandered. How Prudence could bear to sit and watch this laborious exercise was beyond him. No wonder she chose to vary the tedium of her days! Were he obliged to sit here day after day, he might also seek for ways in which to lighten the load. Or was it for the sake of the twins that she invented games involving daisy chains and woodland wanderings?

He was obliged to admit that he had hardly expected this easy a return to a dull writing task. What had she said? That it was difficult to get them to write? Yet they had consented to continue without a fight. Was it
because he ordered them? Julius did not think so. Despite all his misgivings, it was plain that Prudence had made progress.

When he was at length permitted to read the effusions presented to him at the end of another half hour or so, he was astonished to discover how much improvement had been made in the twins’ English. Search how he might, he was unable to discover more than half a dozen spelling errors. And the writing was relatively neat, with few splotches.

He had seen their efforts before Prudence came, and the change was remarkable. In so short a time too. And he had been disparaging in his mind, believing her to be as inept as she thought herself.

The dilemma that had been presented to him loomed the larger. How was he to tell her? What excuse could he now present to her, when he explained—as he must—the content of his sister’s letter?

There was no excuse, he realised. He must give her the truth. That she would be bitterly disappointed, he could not doubt. For himself, there was—there had to be!—relief. It was what he had himself predicted, and he must be glad of it.

Feeling that the sooner the deed was done, the better, Julius chose to broach the matter later that day. Taking with him the specimens of the twins’ writing efforts, he betook himself to Prudence’s parlour after partaking of a light luncheon.

Opening the door softly, he found her dozing on the day-bed, an open book in her lap. From the window, a shaft of rare sunlight filtered, playing over her face. There was no sign of the kitten.

Julius stood looking down at her, his thoughts un
steady. There was that about her pose that he found infinitely appealing, but he was determined not to yield. He was upon the point of deliverance, and though he itched to lean down and kiss that pale face, he knew it would be madness to give in to the impulse.

Prudence Hursley and he could not deal together. It was only a passing fancy. He could not subject himself—or her, if it came to that!—to a lifetime of regret. Better to let her go.

What he ought to do was to go to town for a spell and find himself another mistress. He had been too long alone, and that was not good for a man. He must not let himself be tempted to uproot his whole existence merely for the sake of a whim.

The whim opened its eyes and blinked up at him in a dazed fashion for a moment. Then the grey orbs widened and Prue started up.

‘Mr Rookham!’

He held up a hand and stepped back. ‘Stay where you are! I had no intention of disturbing you, and you looked exceedingly peaceful.’

Prue smothered a yawn. ‘I feel peaceful.’

Or she had, she reflected. But a tattoo had begun pattering in her veins, and her chest had tightened. She tried to steady it, feeling relieved for the comfortable scrolled end of the day-bed at her head. At least she need not attempt to sit or stand in his presence, which gave her a decided advantage.

‘Where is Folly?’

‘With the girls. They took him for his feed at luncheon.’

She watched Mr Rookham take the straight chair by the desk and turn it, placing it at the foot of the day-bed. He came to her and held out two sheets of paper.

‘Your charges have done well.’

Prue took the proffered sheets with an automatic gesture, but her scanning eyes took in little of the matter written upon them. From the periphery of her vision, she saw him seat himself in the chair so that he faced her. The flurry of her heartbeat increased. He looked as if he meant to remain for a space. Prue did not know whether she was glad or sorry.

‘I was surprised at how few spelling mistakes they made.’

She tried to concentrate her mind upon the sheets she held in her hands, but the letters were nothing but a blur. She blinked to focus her eyes, and brought the papers closer. Seeking to prevaricate, she threw out a remark at random.

‘Their spelling is better, it is true.’

‘So I perceive. I congratulate you.’

Prue glanced up at him. ‘It is little enough.’

His eyes became fierce. ‘But it is something. Don’t belittle yourself so!’

She swallowed. ‘If you are pleased, I must be thankful.’

Julius got up abruptly, and took a hasty turn about the room. Hell and damnation! He had known it would be difficult. Only he had not bargained for her agonizing humility. Had forgotten it! Pleased? Nothing could please him but that she went away from here. Far away, so that he could resume his former comfortable existence!

Prue eyed him with growing trepidation. What had she said? He was angry again! Did he mean to attack her?

But to her relief, he returned to the chair, almost throwing himself down. Prue pretended a studious ex
amination of the papers, reading swiftly words that made little sense in her head.

‘For God’s sake, put those down!’

He regretted his tone immediately, for her hands dropped and a look of dismayed reproach entered her face. Julius leaned forward and twitched the papers out of her hands, laying them upon the desk. When he glanced at Prudence again, he found her with her hands over her face. Remorse swamped him.

‘I beg your pardon! Pay no heed to me, Prue!’

Her hands came down, and he saw a smile waver. ‘I am only a little tired, sir.’

‘And my brutish manners are making you feel worse! Accept my apologies.’

A gurgle escaped her, and her features lit abruptly. ‘If I do, I dare say it will not be long before you are scolding me again.’

He was obliged to laugh, despite a sudden sensation of deadness in his chest. ‘You are probably right.’

A silence fell, and Prue eyed him with a quickening at her breast. Why was he so moody? There was a deep frown between his brows, making the hawk-look of his jutting nose stand out. Abruptly, a great sigh swept out of him and he leaned forward, resting his clasped hands upon his knees.

‘Prudence, I don’t know how to tell you, but I must.’

Shadows gathered in the corners of her mind. ‘Tell me what, Mr Rookham?’

He hesitated, his eyes raking her in a manner that made her feel as if he probed to her very depths. Then he brought it out flat.

‘My sister is betrothed. She writes that she wishes to take the twins upon a visit to her prospective husband’s estates.’

The pit of Prue’s stomach seemed to vanish. Then she must leave here! She must leave him. It was finished.

She did not know that she spoke. ‘When is it to be?’

‘Soon. A week or two only.’

‘So soon?’

Her chest had hollowed out. She did not know that in her eyes was all the emptiness she felt.

Julius could hardly bear to look at her. He could no more doubt the reason for her evident despair than he could doubt his own attraction to her. For the first time, he acknowledged that he had known it all along. Had guessed it! And it was his fault. What had he done, blundering his way into her affections without thought for the consequences?

He recalled a remark she once had made. About regretting the intimacy of this unorthodox friendship when she must in the end move on.

For a breathless moment, he toyed with the notion of throwing caution to the winds—only to make her some reparation. But a deeper knowledge told him that it would be a greater wrong than that he had already committed. Unless he could offer her his whole heart, he had no right to offer her anything at all.

The dreadful news had sunk in, and Prue’s shock began to recede. In a way, it was a comfort. To know that she must go from his vicinity. It would hurt, but less than to live with the dreadful uncertainties and unbidden hopes that must attend her here.

She sought for a neutral note. ‘Well, I shall be sorry to leave here, Mr Rookham. Where is it that we must go?’

We! The moment had come. He could no longer avoid the issue. How hard it was to say it!

‘I am afraid it is not as simple as that, Prudence.’

Dear God, the dread effect of those vulnerable orbs! He wished she would not look at him. Or that he had not chosen her little parlour where there was no possible way for him to avoid her gaze. There was enquiry there, and it was hard indeed to be obliged to say that which must inevitably deal her the harshest blow. And he would see it in her eyes!

‘What do you mean, Mr Rookham?’

His intent upon softening the news fell apart. There was no way to soften it. He only hoped his voice did not come out as harshly as the words he must say.

‘Trixie has engaged a governess of her own choice in London. I am sorry, Prudence, but your services will no longer be required. You must find yourself another post.’

Prue lay on the day-bed, the
Morning Post
spread neglected across her lap, gazing at the sunlit grounds outside. At her feet, Folly slept, a splash of multi-coloured warmth stretched out in the sun’s rays. She had been resting here all through Sunday and again on Monday, forbidden by Mr Rookham from resuming her temporary duties.

Temporary—a horrid word! She had known from the first that it might be so. Only she had not bargained for a double loss, the greater of which gnawed like a hungry rat within. All hope was abandoned. Had he intended to offer her a different future, then would have been his opportunity. He had not taken it.

Nor had he so much as mentioned the departure in prospect on those two brief visits he had made to her parlour—only, so he said, to ensure that she was obedient to his orders, and was not behaving like the goose
he knew her to be. Prue was forced to recognise that he was reconciled to her going.

She had wept it out now, there in the secret confines of her lonely bedchamber. Shock had held the grief inside through those first hideous moments. And there had been that in his face, when he had told her, which had its own balm. Prue had known then that he cared—only not enough. He must not be made to feel in any way to blame for what he could not help.

After all, she had told herself, when he had left her—he had stayed but a moment, thank the Lord!—what she’d had from Mr Rookham was a great deal more than she had ever looked for, or deserved. Who was she to bay for the moon?

But the tears had wetted her pillow half the night. With the result that she had slept overlong upon the Sunday, leading Mr Rookham to decree, when he heard of it, that she must spend a further day of rest. It was ironic, Prue thought, that Mrs Polmont was not now—when she might have had reason—at pains to accuse her of malingering!

The housekeeper had been in once or twice, and the obvious triumph in her features told Prue that she was in possession of the news. But no one could have accused her either of neglect in her duties or of incivility. It was to Maggie that Prue was indebted for her knowledge of how the rest of the household had taken it.

‘Mrs Wincle is fair rattled, miss. She keeps on saying as she’d never have thought it, and it’s all a great mistake. “Mark my words, Maggie,” she said to me, “we ain’t heard the end of it nohow. I seen what I seen, and I know what I know,” she said to me.’

Even the austere butler was inclined, according to the maid, to ‘wait and see’. As for Maggie herself, it
was the severest trial to Prue to be obliged to listen to her veiled doubts and attempts to bolster Prue’s own hopes.

‘Don’t take it so hard, miss. There’s time yet. As I heard it, that there Mrs Chillingham ain’t nowise coming to fetch them twins this side of May. If you ask me, there’s them as will change their minds afore that day comes!’

It did not take a genius to work out that the maid’s elusive ‘them’ was in reference to Mr Rookham. And May—as if she was not herself counting down the hours, never mind the days!—was less than two weeks away. Since such conversations could only give her pain, Prue refrained either from encouraging Maggie or arguing with her. Her solution was to find things for the maid to do in order to be rid of her.

‘If you will be so kind, Maggie, as to fetch me the daily journal when Mr Rookham has finished with it, I shall be grateful.’

Not that the maid had let the request pass without comment. ‘I’ll fetch it to you, miss, with pleasure. But if you was meaning to look for another position, I’d not waste your time. You ain’t going to need one, not according to Mrs Wincle.’

It should have consoled her to know that she had well-wishers among the domestics. But the truth was that though this support was kindly meant, its effect was merely to rub salt into the wound.

Sighing, she took up the newspaper and scanned the advertisements. There were several, but only two for which she might be thought suitable. With a heavy heart, Prue read the requirements more closely.
Knowledge of the globes and the French tongue? Yes, she was on safe ground there. Some artistic ability. That would depend upon how much was needed. A lively personality? Well, that must rule her out at once! She was more dead than alive, and she could see no diminution of this condition in the foreseeable future.

Perhaps Mrs Duxford would be able to help her. She had written to her old preceptress yesterday, with the hope that if she was unable to secure a position immediately she might at least return to the Seminary. She would have to pay her board—all the old students did so when they stayed—but there would be considerable comfort in the company of Kitty, and she would hear news of Nell. Only it must depend upon whether there was room. If the Seminary was full, she would have to take a lodging until such time as she found herself another place.

The prospect was uninviting, but not as chilling as it might have been in other circumstances. Numbed as she was by the greater evil, Prue was able to contemplate this possibility with equanimity. Nothing could be worse than her removal from Rookham Hall.