London in Chains (22 page)

He stared down at her fingers curled about his mutilation. She could feel the pulse in his wrist, beating against her palm. The urge to lean forward and kiss him was suddenly so strong it frightened her. She let go.

‘It would take time to master the skill over again,' she admitted. ‘You'd need some master smith willing to take you on, but you have
friends
who can help you. I have a little money saved, and I'm sure Captain Wildman would help, too, and Ned . . .'

Jamie scowled. ‘I'll not take your savings! You're losing your place, too!'

‘Aye, but I hope I may get another one soon.'

He gave her an angry look. ‘Ned's spoken, then?'

She stared. ‘What do you mean?'

He was confused. ‘What did
you
mean, speaking of “another place”?'

‘Only that Mr Tew has offered to recommend me to all his acquaintance. What, do you think I hope to marry Ned?'

‘Don't you?'

‘Indeed not!' She glared. ‘I told him honestly that I'm all but dowerless. I'd not trick any man into marriage!'

He stared at her. ‘I think,' he said slowly, ‘that Ned may not be so set upon a dowry as you suppose.'

She started to tell him that he was wrong, then remembered how Ned had kissed her the evening before. It should have occurred to her to wonder whether he would kiss her so publicly if he was completely unwilling to be seen as her suitor.

‘You do not seem as happy at the thought as I would expect,' remarked Jamie.

‘The prospect of explaining to him that I've no maidenhead either doesn't please me, no!'

‘
That
he's guessed already.'

‘
What
? You told him that? You promi—'

‘Nay, nay, nay! I told him nothing. When we were burying Symonds and his friend, though, he asked John and me whether we thought they'd forced you. We both claimed ignorance, but the question knew its answer. He spat on the bodies before we covered them, and wished them all the pains of Hell.'

Lucy was dismayed. She twisted her hands into her apron.

‘And still you are not pleased!' said Jamie.

‘I've no wish to marry Ned Trebet,' she admitted. ‘I like him well, but I've no wish to be mistress of The Whalebone Tavern. I like printing much better.' Her heart added, in bitter secret,
I like you better, too, Jamie. If I'd never met you, perhaps I'd be better pleased with Ned.

There was a silence, and then Jamie said gently, ‘You're afraid of men, are you?'

She shrugged: let him think that. ‘We were not speaking of me,' she said determinedly. ‘We were speaking of you, and I said I see no reason why you should not become a blacksmith again. I'll not let you sink into some swill-pot wallow, Jamie: I'll nag you day and night if you try!'

There was another silence. ‘I'd rather sight along a pistol again than suffer that!' said Jamie at last. ‘Aye, very well. I'll ask John's help to find a place with a blacksmith.'

Again she almost kissed him; she even leaned forward a little. He had looked away, though, lowering his head so that his hair fell over his blinded eye. He stared down at his bad hand, bringing the good one across to circle the wrist as she had, and folded down his two remaining fingers as though to make a fist.

Nine

Lucy's new employer arrived the very next day.

She'd decided to make the best of unemployment by finishing her gown, which had been half done for a long time now. She'd completed only one sleeve, however, when Uncle Thomas came in from the shop, escorting a stranger.

‘This is my niece, sir,' Thomas said seriously. ‘Lucy, this is Mr Gilbert Mabbot, a friend of Mr Tew.'

Mr Mabbot was a big, pock-faced man somewhere under thirty; he wore a plain dark coat, none too clean, and had a sword by his side. He smiled broadly at Lucy, displaying crooked teeth. ‘Mistress Wentnor! You must be the prettiest typesetter in all London!'

Lucy set aside her lapful of fabric and stood, filled with hope and distrust. ‘You're a friend of Mr Tew, sir?'

‘More acquaintance than friend,' admitted Mabbot, ‘but certainly I esteem the gentleman. I need a typesetter, and my need is like to grow. I hope soon to start a newsbook of my own, though at present I'm but junior partner on
A Perfect Diurnall
. Nick Tew said you'd managed his press by yourself all the while he was in Newgate, that you kept good clear accounts and that you could manage all the business of supply.'

‘Aye, sir,' Lucy agreed. ‘I'm glad he was pleased with what I did.'
A Perfect Diurnall!
The most popular newsbook in London!

‘Nick said that your wages were sixpence a day.'

Lucy almost agreed, but something stopped her. Mabbot had appeared very quickly, and he'd sought her out at home, rather than sending her a message through Tew. She might be eager, but so was he.

‘Sixpence
and
my dinner, sir,' she said impulsively. ‘If I must buy food at an ordinary, I'll need another threepence.'

Mabbot grimaced. ‘Ah, I feared it was too good to be true! But how can I pay an unschooled countrygirl ninepence a day, when she must work with printers who served out a full apprenticeship before they earned so much? What would you say, Mistress, to a soldier's wage?'

That, notoriously, was eightpence a day, and Lucy had no intention of paying threepence to eat at an ordinary, not when she could fix herself something at home much more cheaply. She pretended to ponder the offer, already determined to accept it.

‘Let it be understood,' Uncle Thomas broke in anxiously, ‘that my niece is under no necessity of going out to work for strangers. She first took up printing to help my friend Will Browne after Mr Tew's arrest. It shames me that she . . . that she ran into such danger under the Committee of Safety, and that . . . that is, I am determined that she will suffer no more insolent abuse!'

Mabbot smirked. ‘I can promise you, sir, that your niece will suffer no such difficulties as she did under that ill-famed Committee. Everything I cause to be printed will be properly licensed – for I myself am to become Licensor of the Press!'

‘You?' said Uncle Thomas, startled.

Mabbot bowed. ‘The Army has been unhappy with the persecution meted out to its supporters in London. Mr Rushworth, the Secretary to the Army, whom I had the honour of assisting, kindly put forward my name to Lord General Fairfax, who has forwarded it to the authorities here in London. So, Mistress Wentnor, if you come work for me, you need not fear the law! How say you?'

‘Very well,' said Lucy, her heart singing. ‘Eightpence a day. When do you want me to start?'

Mr Mabbot was keen: he wanted her to start on Monday, the very next working day, even though his proposed newsbook was still nothing more than a hope. ‘A spell on the
Diurnall
will teach you the ways of newsbooks,' he told her, ‘and, God He knows, we need another typesetter. My partner and I have just bought a second press, but it sits idle half the day waiting for a forme to be made ready for it.' He paused, then added, ‘Umm . . . you should say nothing of the new newsbook to the other printworkers. Keep mum about it to my partner, Sam Pecke, too – to him
especially.
I, uh, have yet to begin this enterprise, so there's no need to spread gossip.'

She wondered uneasily why gossip would be so bad. It seemed likely that Mr Pecke would be unhappy to discover that his junior partner was setting up in competition.

She had dinner at Thomas's house that day, which was rare enough to make her feel that it must be the Sabbath, even though it was only Saturday. Thomas wavered anxiously between congratulating Lucy on her new job and worrying about it. Agnes ate in silence, with an occasional disgusted glance at her husband. When the meal was finished Lucy collected the dishes and carried them into the kitchen – Susan had finished her own dinner and gone to the market. Agnes followed her.

‘You're to get another shilling a week,' said Agnes.

Lucy could guess where this was heading. ‘Aye.' She picked up the kettle and started to fill it with water from the jug.

‘Look at me when I speak to you, miss!' Agnes ordered.

Lucy set down the kettle and looked at her.

‘I remitted you one shilling of the two you owed me every week. Now you can pay it again.'

Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘I was glad to pay two shillings a week into the household account, Aunt, but it was no debt I
owed
to you. You remitted one because you didn't want me at your table at supper-time, and there's no buying supper in the City for less than tuppence.'

‘You insolent little slut!' spat Agnes. ‘I'll have that shilling!'

Lucy set her teeth. Why should she keep paying the better part of her earnings to Agnes? All the money she'd paid over hitherto hadn't won her any goodwill; in fact, Agnes disliked her more than ever. ‘Am I welcome at your table for supper, then?' She asked it to make a point, but even as she did it occurred to her that she
might
be, now that she would be printing a respectable newsbook instead of seditious pamphlets.

Agnes, however, glowered. ‘We both know well that you much prefer merry-making with your scandalous friends!'

‘They are
not
scandalous! And you know as well as I that I would not have supped in the City if I'd been welcome at home!'

‘You proud—'

‘I bore it meekly, Aunt! I made no complaint to my uncle – and I might have, you know it! I've wanted only to live peaceably here—'

‘Hah! You fell in with that vile seditious rabble of Tom's the very night you first came through my door!'

‘
Your husband's friends
, you mean?'

‘They were never
my
friends!' Agnes snarled, then stopped, because Thomas, drawn by the rising voices, was standing in the doorway.

Thomas looked from one of them to the other, puzzled and alarmed. Agnes drew a deep breath and pushed past him, leaving the room. Thomas cast a look of appeal at Lucy.

She let out her breath unsteadily and shook her head. ‘Money,' she said. ‘She wants my extra shilling.'

‘Oh,' said Thomas miserably. He hadn't said anything when Lucy was excluded from the supper table. She was certain that he understood what had happened, but he had never asked about it. If he'd asserted his authority as head of the household, Agnes would have made him pay for it.

‘I . . . I might need it for someone else,' said Lucy – and only then realized that she wanted it for Jamie. He would need help, even if he did manage to get a master blacksmith to take him on. He was unlikely to get any wages while he struggled to relearn his skills. A shilling a week wouldn't be enough for him to live on, but it would be
something
.

‘Someone else?' asked Thomas puzzled.

‘Jamie Hudson, my assistant,' she admitted. ‘He lost his place, too. I think Captain Wildman is finding him another, but I'm troubled for him.'

Thomas looked uncertain. ‘I remember the man, of course. When you were taken to Bridewell he comforted me. But, Lucy, he's a poor ugly cripple! He'll not find it easy to get another place, with that face and that hand.'

‘I
know
!' she protested. ‘I'm not . . . not proposing to
love
him! But he was an honest friend to me, and now what will he do? How can I
abandon
him, when I have good fortune and he has nothing?'

There was a silence. ‘Well.' Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Agnes has no
right
to your money.'

He was willing to quarrel with Agnes for her – but, then, he always had been, if he was pushed by a direct appeal or by public embarrassment. He knew that there would be a cost to pay, though, and so did Lucy. She imagined her aunt's hatred seeping through the house like a poisonous mist. ‘I'll try to find out if he needs it,' she said wretchedly. ‘If he doesn't, I'll give my aunt . . .
some
of it.'

Sunday, though, had to be spent in church and in visiting Hannah, who was now pregnant and more anxious than ever: there was no chance to ask after Jamie. On Monday morning Lucy put on her new, hastily-completed gown and went to work.

She'd visited the
Diurnall's
printers when she was trying to persuade Samuel Pecke to publish her story about the Reformadoes at The Whalebone, so she had no trouble finding the shop. It was at the corner of Ludgate and Fleet Street, a shorter walk than to Bishopsgate. It felt strange to walk into a printshop that had a sign above the door – ‘Jn Bourne & Son, Printers' – and printing presses standing there where anyone could see them. It was both a relief and, oddly, a disappointment.

In the shop two men were working a battered press; they paused when Lucy came in, and the elder of the two came over. ‘Mistress?'

‘I am Lucy Wentnor,' she told him. ‘Mr Mabbot has hired me to set type.'

The man gave her a hard look, then spat. ‘Aye, so he told us. Well. Yonder's the new press. The sorts for it are in the case there.' He indicated a second press of fresh unscarred oak, then went back to work.

She hesitated, surprised and hurt, glancing from him to the new press. He ignored her and worked steadily with his partner. She grimaced, went to the press and began setting out the compositor's frame and the type on the table beside it. When she was ready to start setting, she went back to her fellow-workers. The older man gave her another hard look and pointed wordlessly at one of the freshly inked sheets he'd just printed. He ignored her thanks. She stood staring at him a moment, then gave up and took the printed sheet back to her table to set type to match.