She was called to lunch, and before she left the table a note was given into her hands. Her heart hurried at receiving it, and settled back to a dull thud when she discovered the spiderly scrawl of Dr. Ashington.
“Which of your beaux is sending you a billet-doux?” Clarence asked.
“It is not a love letter, Uncle. It is from Dr. Ashington.”
“Wants to do another piece on you, does he?”
“No. It is a curious note. He wants me to meet him at Hatchard’s. What can it be, I wonder? It sounds quite urgent-’as soon as possible’-he ‘would not impose on my good nature but for knowing my interest in his work.’ It must be someone he wants me to meet-some writer, I suppose, or something of the sort.”
“Lord Dammler has not come yet,” Mrs. Mallow reminded her.
“No, he was to drop by this morning. Odd he did not come, but this sounds quite urgent. I think I must go. Perhaps-I hope I shall be back before Dammler comes.”
“We’ll ask him to stay,” Clarence assured her. “It will be a chance for him to see around my studio.”
Prudence dashed off without even finishing her lunch to Hatchard’s in her uncle’s carriage-always available to her when her errand involved a well-known person. Dr. Ashington awaited her at the door of the shop and asked her carriage to wait.
“Miss Mallow, how kind of you to come!” Ashington took her arm and led her inside.
“What is it you want, Doctor? Why did you ask me to come? I am agog with curiosity.”
“I should not have asked you. I feel guilty about it but I hoped you might help me out of a difficulty.”
“I shall be happy to if I can.” She was more curious by the minute. What could it be?
“The fact is, I brought Mama out to select some books, and she has taken a weak spell. She seldom leaves the house, and it was too much for her.”
“Oh, is she ill? I hope she has not fallen.”
“No, no, it is not that bad. Just a fainting spell, but the matter is, I have an appointment, and am unable to take her home. Her falling ill has detained us and upset our schedule.”
Prudence assumed he had an important meeting he must attend, and while she thought, when she saw his mother sitting at her ease and leafing through a novel, that she might safely have been sent home in a hackney, she was not entirely incensed. Ashington had been kind to her. She agreed with no ill humour to take his mother home, happy that she would be home within three-quarters of an hour herself, and not likely to miss Dammler. This always was at the back of her mind.
“I had planned to drop by your place later on,” Ashington added. “This will save me the trip.” He offered her a largish sheaf of papers. ‘These are some notes I have dashed off on my lecture the other night. You liked it, I hope?”
“Yes, it was very enlightening,” she congratulated, not for the first time, but she hoped for the last. She thought the notes were meant for her further perusal, and took them with a heavy heart.
“How kind of you to say so. I hope it shed some light on the subject. We are publishing it in the magazine next month.”
“I see. How very nice.” Why did he not wait and let her have a printed copy-easier to read than these notes, which were quite crossed out and jumbled up, with lines and arrows all over, and a disheartening number of footnotes, she saw at a glance.
“Again I must impose on your kindness. Would you be so good as to act as my amanuensis?”
“I beg your pardon?” The last word was not known to her.
"They need to be copied out. They are quite a mess, but you will sort them out. You are a clever girl.”
The meaning of the unknown word was becoming clear. “Do you mean you want me to copy them out?” she asked, her anger rising, and the full imposition of not only this but the use of her as a delivery woman for his mother also descending on her with clarity.
“If you will be so kind. Reading them will help settle it in your mind. There is a good deal of material there. It will be helpful to you.”
“Yes, a very good deal!” she said. “Too much for me to possibly copy I’m afraid.” She handed it back to him.
He did not seem to understand. “Oh not today, Miss Mallow. I will not need it for a day or two-do it at your leisure-a little break from your story writing.” He shoved it back at her.
With great firmness and a martial light in her eye there was no pretending to ignore she pushed the papers back.
“I do not copy out material any longer, Dr. Ashington. I finished with that some time ago.” During her talks she had mentioned to him her early work as a copier. “I know a few people who do that sort of work at four pence a page, if you would like their names.”
He was greatly offended. “Well! Well! This is gratitude, I must say,” he declared angrily.
“You may accept my taking your mother home as my gratitude for any slight favour you may have done me,” she charged back. “You do not ask Mr. Hazlitt or Lard Dammler to do your copying for you, I notice.”
“Well, but they are men…"
“They are writers, like myself. Good day, Dr. Ashington.”
She climbed into the carriage without his assistance, and the coach bowled down the street
“So kind of you, my dear,” Mrs. Ashington smiled, not having heard the altercation through the window. “Lawrence appreciates it. It wouldn’t do for him to miss his appointment. He must get his hair trimmed, for he dines with the Philosophical Society tonight.”
“Dr Ashington is on his way to get his hair trimmed?” Prudence asked. Her voice was cold, but a volcano was forming beneath it.
“Yes, he always goes to Rolland-so hard to arrange an appointment with him, but it is worth waiting for, he does it so well. He would have had to wait two or three days if he hadn’t made it this afternoon. Otherwise he would never have disturbed you, for he is so very thoughtful.”
“Yes, I appreciate his thoughtfulness,” Prudence answered with awful irony that went undetected. Until she had half carried his invalid mother in to Miss Gimble’s waiting arms, Prudence could not give full vent to her anger, but when she was alone, she beat the seat of the carriage in frustration. So that’s what he thinks of me. Calling me on a fool’s errand, interrupting my lunch and speaking of urgency, when he means only to get his hair trimmed! While that old fool gets his hair cut, Lord Dammler sits cooling his heels… And Dammler using her like dirt too. Saying he would come when he had no intention of doing anything but dashing off to Finefields to see the Countess. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes flashing when she entered the house.
Dammler preceded her by a quarter of an hour, coming directly from his luncheon with Murray. Clarence had informed him of the note and the urgent flight to Hatchard’s. He confided that she was to meet some great famous person of unknown or at least unstated name. But the name Ashington had registered clearly, and Dammler was already in a certain mood himself, the charter in his pocket forgotten. Clarence's inconsequential chatter, usually amusing, irritated him and the quarter hour that he waited seemed much longer.