Read Online The Courteous Cad by Catherine Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Palmer
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woman.
“A devil ,” Prudence corrected. “You are a devil!”
“And you’re a—”
“Miss Watson,” William cut in, “you look lovely this morning. I am pleased to see you have chosen to pay us a visit. Perhaps you would like a tour of the mill? I shall be happy to oblige, but may I first speak to you in private? Your sister awaits us outside.”
“No, Mr. Sherbourne,” she replied. “Privacy is impossible in such a case as this. We must converse here, where all may hear us. As you see, I have taken up the cause of this great company of men, women, and children gathered inside your mill.”
“Cause? What cause have my employees to cease their work and assemble themselves into such an unruly band?”
He took two steps closer to the woman. Her breath was shallow, her hands trembling. She was afraid, William saw, and he congratulated himself for having provoked at least a small measure of dread from one so bold and headstrong.
No matter that her heart might quake, however, Prudence addressed him without hesitation.
“It is my cause,” she told him, “not theirs. Ending the mistreatment of those who labor in your mill is my mission, sir. I speak for the children in particular. I am their champion.”
“Ah yes, we discussed this last evening after dinner at Thorne Lodge. Perhaps you recall our conversation in the library?”
His reference to their awkward moments alone together did not dissuade her. “Indeed I do, Mr. Sherbourne, and now you see for yourself how the children are compelled to labor in the most perilous circumstances. Some are crippled, yet they must carry on laboring in order to earn their pittance. These poor piecers creep beneath your dangerous looms to tie broken threads together again. Their backs are bent and broken. Their legs are twisted and lame. They have no schooling, no time for rest or play, nothing to look forward to in life but crawling about in the darkness from sunrise to sunset.”
She stretched out her arm, finger pointed at him, and raised her voice as she concluded her tirade. “You, Mr. Sherbourne, are no better than a slaver!”
At the accusation, the crowd gave a collective gasp and began to murmur. William let out an audible sigh. Though tempted to pitch Miss Prudence Watson over his shoulder, carry her out of the mill, and drop her into the nearby pond, he refrained. Her allegations were serious, and her listeners awaited their master’s response.
Should he fail to quash the woman’s revolutionary ideas, she might foment a mutiny in the mill. He could ill afford to lose another hour of production, let alone days or months to rebellion.
“Miss Watson,” he said, removing his hat and making her a bow somewhat too grand for the setting, “I submit to your admonishment, for I know from whence it comes. Your purpose is good. Your ambition, noble. You speak from a motive of the heart. Love, in fact, fuels your cause. Am I wrong?”
“Love?” For a moment, she appeared flustered. Uncertain where he intended to take his argument, she paled a little. But he was pleased to see her recover.
“You are correct, Mr. Sherbourne,” she informed him. “My purpose is born of love. And that love is inspired by God Himself. Yesterday, as you will recall, an incident occurred which—”
“Forgive my interruption, dear lady, but I cannot deny you the object of your mission another moment.” Looking toward a stairway that led to the mill’s second floor, William bellowed a command. “Mr. Walker, come down! Mr. Walker, blacksmith of Thorne Mill, show yourself at once!”
Prudence let out a little cry as the man himself appeared suddenly in full view. Eyes fixed on the woman, he descended step by step. William saw at once that his blacksmith was displeased. His hooded eyes darkened as he drew nearer. His mouth was a grim line. Miss Watson pressed both hands to her heart, no doubt likely to swoon at any moment.
Neither party would welcome a proclamation of their
“A devil ,” Prudence corrected. “You are a devil!”
“And you’re a—”
“Miss Watson,” William cut in, “you look lovely this morning. I am pleased to see you have chosen to pay us a visit. Perhaps you would like a tour of the mill? I shall be happy to oblige, but may I first speak to you in private? Your sister awaits us outside.”
“No, Mr. Sherbourne,” she replied. “Privacy is impossible in such a case as this. We must converse here, where all may hear us. As you see, I have taken up the cause of this great company of men, women, and children gathered inside your mill.”
“Cause? What cause have my employees to cease their work and assemble themselves into such an unruly band?”
He took two steps closer to the woman. Her breath was shallow, her hands trembling. She was afraid, William saw, and he congratulated himself for having provoked at least a small measure of dread from one so bold and headstrong.
No matter that her heart might quake, however, Prudence addressed him without hesitation.
“It is my cause,” she told him, “not theirs. Ending the mistreatment of those who labor in your mill is my mission, sir. I speak for the children in particular. I am their champion.”
“Ah yes, we discussed this last evening after dinner at Thorne Lodge. Perhaps you recall our conversation in the library?”
His reference to their awkward moments alone together did not dissuade her. “Indeed I do, Mr. Sherbourne, and now you see for yourself how the children are compelled to labor in the most perilous circumstances. Some are crippled, yet they must carry on laboring in order to earn their pittance. These poor piecers creep beneath your dangerous looms to tie broken threads together again. Their backs are bent and broken. Their legs are twisted and lame. They have no schooling, no time for rest or play, nothing to look forward to in life but crawling about in the darkness from sunrise to sunset.”
She stretched out her arm, finger pointed at him, and raised her voice as she concluded her tirade. “You, Mr. Sherbourne, are no better than a slaver!”
At the accusation, the crowd gave a collective gasp and began to murmur. William let out an audible sigh. Though tempted to pitch Miss Prudence Watson over his shoulder, carry her out of the mill, and drop her into the nearby pond, he refrained. Her allegations were serious, and her listeners awaited their master’s response.
Should he fail to quash the woman’s revolutionary ideas, she might foment a mutiny in the mill. He could ill afford to lose another hour of production, let alone days or months to rebellion.
“Miss Watson,” he said, removing his hat and making her a bow somewhat too grand for the setting, “I submit to your admonishment, for I know from whence it comes. Your purpose is good. Your ambition, noble. You speak from a motive of the heart. Love, in fact, fuels your cause. Am I wrong?”
“Love?” For a moment, she appeared flustered. Uncertain where he intended to take his argument, she paled a little. But he was pleased to see her recover.
“You are correct, Mr. Sherbourne,” she informed him. “My purpose is born of love. And that love is inspired by God Himself. Yesterday, as you will recall, an incident occurred which—”
“Forgive my interruption, dear lady, but I cannot deny you the object of your mission another moment.” Looking toward a stairway that led to the mill’s second floor, William bellowed a command. “Mr. Walker, come down! Mr. Walker, blacksmith of Thorne Mill, show yourself at once!”
Prudence let out a little cry as the man himself appeared suddenly in full view. Eyes fixed on the woman, he descended step by step. William saw at once that his blacksmith was displeased. His hooded eyes darkened as he drew nearer. His mouth was a grim line. Miss Watson pressed both hands to her heart, no doubt likely to swoon at any moment.
Neither party would welcome a proclamation of their
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