Chapter Two
Prudence Rushworth did not wait for the butler to announce her. She strode down the hall, her heavy footfalls all righteous indignation, and when she reached the end, she burst into Sir Thomas’ study.
He looked up in alarm, but when his surprise was overcome, she could see that he knew what had brought her in such a state.
“Madam,” he began, in what might have seemed a quelling tone—to a lesser woman.
Prudence did not acknowledge his protest, but held aloft the infamous letter that had broken her son’s heart. It was the latest in a series of romantic misfortunes since he had grown serious about taking a wife four years past, and if it were up to Prudence, it would be the last disappointment.
James had been inconsolable since receiving the letter the previous day, and at length he had given the vile thing over for his mother to read.
It was less of a shock to Prudence than to her son, and as Maria’s fickle foolishness had the apparent sanction of Sir Thomas, Prudence resolved to confront him first thing in the morning.
She held his gaze long enough to make the old goat uncomfortable, her elegantly gloved fingers crinkling the odious missive in her fist. She let every ounce of rage she felt show plainly in her countenance; her gaze bored into him.
Once she was satisfied that she had begun to unsettle him, Prudence slammed the crumpled paper down on his desk, her hand striking the oak heavily.
She seated herself, her velvet gown splaying out, her spine erect; she did not break eye contact for a moment.
Sir Thomas Bertram was a man of no little importance, a man of the world, who had certainly seen more of it than she. He would not be easily cowed. But she was one thing he was not—a mother.
Her worthy opponent cleared his throat and fixed her with a steely gaze.
His eyes flicked down to the letter, but he did not move to take it.
Of course, he knew what treachery it contained.
Sir Thomas steepled his fingers on the desk, but he made no other movement.
Matching her for stoic strength, he sat up straighter as he addressed her.
“Madam, I believe I can guess why you are come.”
By now the butler had caught her up, and Sir Thomas gave an authoritative wave of his hand; he waited to say more until the door to his study had been closed.
“I understand you must have some questions to put to me. It is only natural, of course, that we must endure such an unpleasant conversation for the sake of clarity, but I must begin by telling you that my decision is quite final.”
Prudence Rushworth offered him a withering glare.
“What I have for you, Sir Thomas, is not one single question, but merely the demand that your daughter honor her engagement to my son. Happily for you, my resolution is not yet fixed—you will find me willing to negotiate before my decision is quite final.” She paused, enjoying the trace of surprise he betrayed, and answered it with a haughty smile.
“I am prepared to tell the world what I know about your son.”
Sir Thomas narrowed his eyes at her. He was a broad and imposing man, his skin nearly leathery after his travels to the West Indies, and his unshaven face only added to his powerful mien.
Prudence was not afraid of him. Far from it, she was so confident in her mission that a degree of restraint was necessary, for she ought not to take pleasure in what was to follow.
“Tom is a good lad,” he said. “Oh, prone to some mishaps, I admit—whatever he is about must be dealt with as a family matter—you know how these things can go….”
“Oh—I was unclear,” Prudence replied primly. “Your namesake is a reprobate, make no mistake, but I was referring to your firstborn.”
Sir Thomas stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin, taut line. After a potent pause, he said, “You confound me, madam.”
Prudence allowed herself a moment of self-indulgent laughter. “Yes, I had expected I might. The identity of your firstborn is not common knowledge.”
She absolutely had his attention now; she proceeded directly, as she had practiced her words with great care.
“I begin to understand why you protested to the union of my niece Margaret and your brother-in-law Henry Dashwood, twenty years ago. How relieved you must have been that she only gave him girls! John Dashwood could never have Mansfield, but he has Norland now. You must be so proud.”
Sir Thomas composed himself, his chin nearly sinking into his chest as he looked sternly at her over the rim of his spectacles. “Madam, my nephew….”
“Your son.”
“Your accusation is wholly without foundation,” he thundered, leaping to his feet to loom over the desk at her.
Internally laughing at him, Prudence calmly remained seated without adjusting her posture to look up at the angry baronet.
“I suppose you must have always feared that Margaret might learn the truth about John during Henry’s lifetime—certainly you would not wish your wife to know that you have made a cuckold of her dear brother.
But I wonder that you should lead with denial, sir.
Deceit is beneath your dignity; a prudent man would at least wish to know the how and why of things. ”
Having evoked no physical reaction from her, Sir Thomas resumed his seat as if his outburst was already forgotten. “I repeat, madam, you cannot possibly substantiate your outlandish claim. I must request that you desist, and return to the matter at hand.”
Prudence gave a slow nod and a wry smile.
“That request is denied. Now, though you refuse to ask, I shall, at any rate, explain to you what has happened, and what is going to happen. My niece Margaret has made some discoveries of no little import.” Here Prudence rose and began to stroll about the room, really enjoying herself.
“What a pity that Lady Bertram was unable to condole with her Dashwood relations while you were away. I know she was fond of her brother, though in your absence she has experienced such medicated serenity as precluded her from joining me on my visit to Sussex. What succor she might otherwise have given Henry’s widow, at a time of such grief.
And a time of great revelation, too! Margaret and I were much occupied in the going over of Henry’s effects, and we were as much surprised by discovering how many of his first wife’s things remain in the house, as at what items she had been keeping stowed away in her lifetime.
One might imagine all of society fascinated at the substance of her old love letters, worn from re-reading, clearly cherished and carefully hidden.
And I can think of a few people in particular who might be most interested in the sender of these letters. ”
Sir Thomas shifted in his seat, no longer meeting her eye.
Prudence savored the triumph, and proceeded.
“Ah, but we need not give Lady Bertram such a shock, I told my niece. We need not rob John Dashwood of Norland Park and all his inheritance, the house in London—everything, even his very name. We need not deliver such a blow, I said, even when it would be such a boon to the girls. I am sure you must agree, sir, that I was quite right—it is certainly a case of some delicacy.”
Sir Thomas looked back at her once more, his countenance stony, the beginnings of resignation in his eyes. She had him; but she knew it would be thus. Though still early, he reached for his brandy and poured a drink, making a subtle gesture of offering.
Prudence nodded, fully in control of the heavy silence that was, for a full minute or more, broken only by the amber liquid spilling into fine crystal.
She let the moment linger, reaching for her glass without resuming her seat, though she knew he preferred her to sit.
She sipped at the drink, appearing quite unaware that he could not speak at such a moment, and must be quite anxious for her to continue, until all was known.
Finally she relented and obliged him. “Yes, a case of some delicacy,” she drawled, admiring the smell of the fine brandy in her hand.
“Certainly one must never jump to conclusions, no matter how one might benefit from it. You understand the need of acting with conviction—but when one has all the facts, one might act decisively. It is a happy thing, then, that I employ some of the finest solicitors in London. The initials on the love letters after her marriage were not much, but the earliest ones were signed—no doubt their author was a foolish youth with less to fear at the time. And though he might have grown more careful, there was certainly enough in the letters to call John Dashwood’s paternity into question.
Of course, I have more proof than this to substantiate my claim, you know. ”
Prudence gestured to an empty space on the wall, where a family portrait once hung.
She had purchased it, and a few others, after manipulating Mrs. Norris with such ease that it had scarcely amused her.
No doubt Maria would prove just as malleable, once she fell in line.
Sir Thomas looked askance at Prudence for a moment, before she saw the realization alight in him.
“How very similar your three sons looked in their youth—and all three such a striking resemblance to you, sir, in younger days.”
Sir Thomas had remained silent throughout her discourse, watching Prudence stride back and forth across the study with hollow eyes. It mattered little to her whether he spoke or not, only that she was rightly heard.