‘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.
Over the course of the day she gathered that the older man was John Bourne; the younger one – also called John – was ‘& Son’. There was also a Mrs Bourne, the wife of the younger man, a sullen woman with a scowl, who emerged from the house occasionally to ink, then darted back again. All three Bournes made it clear that they were much displeased to have a strange woman intruded upon them. Samuel Pecke, when he turned up mid-morning, was – unfortunately – delighted.
‘Why, it’s the pretty Leicestershire dairymaid!’ he cried, and tried to kiss her. She jerked away, glaring, and he laughed. ‘Nay, come, sweet, give us a kiss! We’re to be workmates!’
‘When I was a dairymaid I worked with cows,’ she told him. ‘I never kissed them, and they had sweeter breath!’
Pecke tittered and smote himself above the heart. She saw immediately that ‘No’ was not an answer he took seriously, and resolved never to be alone with him.
Learning how to print a newsbook was compensation for the company. A Perfect Diurnall had been growing for nearly eight years, and its sales now exceeded a thousand copies a week. This was more than could be printed on a single press during one day: hence the second press. Like all newsbooks, it was printed in stages, each day’s news being set and printed consecutively. Pecke and Mabbot assembled the news from their various informants, and every morning one or the other or both of them would deliver a handwritten sheet to John Bourne, who was charged with setting and printing it. The front cover and final page were always done last, and if a lot of news came in late, it had to be packed in by using smaller type. The Diurnall came out on Monday, but since Sabbath-breaking was unlawful it was finished off on Saturday night, which also gave the sheets time to dry.
The printing itself was little different from what Lucy had been doing before. The pace was a bit faster, and she was no longer free to pause to catch her breath when she wanted to, but, on the other hand, she no longer had to haul loads of paper or ink across London or fear discovery by the Stationers’ agents. The thing she most enjoyed about the work, though, was getting the news as soon as it came in – including the items that didn’t make it into print. Pecke was full of entertaining anecdotes, good company as long as she kept him at arm’s length.
The Bournes were another matter. They didn’t speak to her, and at dinner-time they disappeared into their kitchen, pointedly leaving her to eat alone in the shop. (Samuel Pecke invited her to join him, but she declined.) She guessed that Mabbot had hired her without consulting them, and possibly in place of someone they’d chosen. She told herself that it was natural that they should resent this, but their silent hostility was depressing.
The first two days at work she was too busy learning or too tired to do anything about asking after Jamie. The third day, however, she walked out of the shop at dinner-time and went to visit The Whalebone.
She met Ned in the common room. ‘Lucy!’ he cried, setting down a handful of tankards and catching her in his arms. ‘In a fine new gown! Where have you been?’
‘I’ve a new job,’ she told him, extricating herself with a smile. ‘I’m working on A Perfect Diurnall. I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see my friends.’
‘A Perfect Diurnall?’ Ned asked in alarm. ‘What, with that whoremongering rogue Pecke?’
She was taken aback: previously Ned had been happy to take advantage of Pecke’s susceptibility to pretty women. ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘he writes much of it. I was hired by his partner, though, a Mr Mabbot, a friend of Mr Tew – and, anygate, I see far more of the printers than the writers.’
‘I’m surprised your uncle permitted this!’ said Ned, frowning.
‘It’s honest work!’ she exclaimed, surprised and hurt. ‘It
’s even lawful! Mr Mabbot is Licensor of the Press!’
Ned stood silent a moment, still frowning. She suddenly understood that he hadn’t expected her to get another job. He’d thought she would go to live quietly with her uncle, and that he could, if he made up his mind to, pluck a grateful bride from her humble dependence. ‘Is your uncle so short of money that he must hire you out to strangers?’ he asked resentfully.
‘Ned,’ she said impatiently, ‘you were a stranger when I began printing!’
‘Your uncle knew me,’ Ned replied, ‘and you were helping Will Browne, his good friend. I confess I like this not at all!’
‘I like it well enough! I’m doing honest work for a good wage!’
‘Aye, but surely you’d be happier working among friends than—’
‘If by that you mean I’d be happier working on Tew’s press, aye, I would, and I’d throw this new job over in an instant if I could go back. But I can’t, and if you think I’d be happier helping my aunt at home, I’ll tell you plainly, you’re mistaken! She’s an ill-tempered woman and very close with her money.’
Ned scowled and did not reply.
‘What ails you?’ Lucy asked in exasperation. ‘Do you think I’m one to let Mr Pecke or any other man take liberties?’
Ned relaxed a little but he still seemed dissatisfied. ‘It’s only that it’s . . . well, I’ve not thought it through, so I’ll say no more. I’m glad to see you, Lucy. Will you have some dinner?’
‘I can’t, Ned. It wouldn’t be honest to dine at your charge when I’m no longer working for our cause and our friends; I’d be ashamed to sponge on you! I’ve not time to stop long, either. I only came because I . . . I missed my friends.’
His expression softened. Nancy Shorby bustled through from the kitchen and looked with dismay at the tankards Ned had set down. ‘Oh, Lord-a-mercy!’ she cried. ‘The party in the panelled room are banging on the table, Ned, wanting those!’
‘God damn it!’ cried Ned. Nancy and Lucy both stared: it was most unlike him to blaspheme. Ned picked up the tankards so roughly that the contents sloshed on to the floor. ‘Come this evening!’ he ordered Lucy. ‘I need to speak to you!’
Nancy watched him go with surprise, then gave Lucy a doubtful look. ‘I thought you’d lost your place to Nicholas Tew?’
‘Aye,’ agreed Lucy, embarrassed. ‘I did. But I found another, printing a newsbook.’
Nancy regarded her a moment warily, then drew her aside into a passageway to talk privately. ‘I ought not say this, but . . . Ned said you’d warned him plainly you had no dowry. He’s a fine young man, and you should know that his friends expect his bride to bring him some money. If he weds a girl with none, there’ll be trouble. He has an uncle, in particular, who’s promised him a legacy, but might well deny it – and there are other friends he’d be very sorry to disappoint.’
‘I’ve no wish to make Ned quarrel with his friends,’ Lucy replied, face hot. ‘It’s why I warned him.’
‘Well, that’s fairly spoken!’ declared Nancy. She gave Lucy a level look. ‘You don’t love him, then?’
Lucy set her teeth, feeling her temper rise. ‘I like and esteem him,’ she said carefully. ‘But I would not wed unequally and have all the world cry shame on me. Nor would I have him come to repent his choice and grow to hate me. At present, too, I am my own mistress, and I like that very well indeed.’
Nancy gave a small snort of appreciation. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, then, that your warning’s weighed with him less and less over the summer, and after you went to Bridewell he said outright that he could find no finer girl in all England. We managed to persuade him to consider his friends and think it over for a few more months, but it eased our minds when Mr Tew took back his press: we thought he’d see less of you and there’d be more chance for another maid to catch his eye.’
Lucy noticed that shift from his friends to we: Nancy had been among the persuaders. She bit back an angry retort, reminding herself that she didn’t want to marry Ned Trebet. ‘He’s already seeing less of me,’ she pointed out. ‘I’ll not come again for the council meetings on Thursday, nor yet every day for dinner, but I’ve no wish to avoid The Whalebone altogether! All my friends meet here!’
‘Oh, you should never go as far as that!’ said Nancy in alarm. ‘He’d suspect, then, that we’d warned you off. Just come when you are like to meet other friends here, and we’ll try to keep Ned too busy to speak with you. And I’ll tell him you’re sorry, but tonight your uncle expects you at home, shall I? Thank you, dear, for being so obliging!’
Lucy left feeling shamed, grimly angry and with a strong desire to be disobliging. She told herself she was being stupid: if Ned did propose, it would be a disaster. If she accepted him, she’d have to give up her work and her independence and . . . and any hope of marrying anybody else; she’d have to become Mistress of The Whalebone, a job she didn’t fancy, and all of Ned’s friends and family would look down on her and disapprove of his choice. If she turned him down, though, he would inevitably be hurt and offended: she would lose his friendship, and her family would be angry and disappointed that she’d thrown away such a good match. No, her best course was the one Nancy had suggested: see less of Ned, avoid any private conversation with him and hope that someone more suitable caught his eye.
She was still angry – and bitterly disappointed. Ned would’ve been certain to know what had happened to Jamie, but she hadn’t had the chance to ask. She didn’t even know if Jamie had kept his promise to ask his friend Wildman for help.
She was on Coleman Street, only a block from Will Browne’s shop, and impulsively hurried to his door.
Liza came into the shop when Lucy knocked: she smiled delightedly when she saw who it was and came over to give Lucy a hug. Lucy realized, with some surprise, that the girl was now taller than she was.
‘We’ve just sat down to dinner,’ Liza informed her. ‘Come and join us!’
William Browne seemed equally pleased to see Lucy and insisted on giving her dinner. He was deeply interested in her news, particularly the part about Gilbert Mabbot becoming Licensor. ‘I’ve met him,’ he said, grinning. ‘He may not be a Whaleboneer, but it was John Wildman introduced us, and he has great sympathy for our cause. Excellent news, sweet, excellent! With him as Licensor, those informing rogues will be on short chains!’
Browne had, however, heard nothing of Jamie Hudson during the past week: a second disappointment. It turned out, though, that he was acquainted with the Bournes – hardly surprising, in the small world of City printers and booksellers. ‘Honest people,’ he said approvingly. ‘Godly and hard-working, if a trifle dour.’
‘A trifle?’ asked Lucy unhappily. ‘They’ve scarce spoken a dozen words to me since I came there!’
Browne looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘They wonder at Mabbot’s hiring you, perhaps. Or perhaps it’s nothing to do with you. Last winter, John Bourne’s wife died of the smallpox, along with his daughter and his first grandchild. Such losses would silence any man, and he was a quiet fellow from the start.’
Lucy winced and resolved to give the Bournes another chance.
When she got back to the printshop, the three Bournes were already at work. They paused when she came in. ‘Been to see Mr Mabbot?’ asked the younger Mr Bourne with a sneer.
‘Nay,’ she said, surprised. ‘I went to visit William Browne, my uncle’s good friend. He sends his regards.’
The three looked at her, nonplussed. ‘I know Will Browne,’ said the elder Bourne. His tone was almost accusing.
‘Aye, else he would not have sent regards! Why did you ask about Mr Mabbot?’ She suddenly suspected the reason.
The younger Bourne shrugged. ‘We thought he was a friend of yours.’
We thought you whored your way in here. ‘I never even met the man until he hired me!’ she protested angrily.
They looked at one another. Mrs Bourne said cautiously, ‘It’s strange, then, that he should hire you.’
/> Lucy considered possible answers and chose the honest one. ‘Not so strange. He wanted someone with experience managing a press but didn’t want to pay a master printer’s wages.’
The elder Bourne looked doubtful. ‘You’ve managed a press?’
‘Aye,’ she said coldly. ‘Nicholas Tew’s press, while he was in Newgate.’
There was a silence. ‘Oh!’ said the younger Bourne, impressed. ‘What, John Lilburne’s press, that the Stationers never found?’
‘Aye. I started by helping Mr Browne, but then he was sent to Newgate, too.’
There was another silence, this one almost respectful. ‘So you’re one of that crew?’ asked the younger Bourne.
She had no trouble understanding what he meant. ‘Aye. Though I fell into it through wanting honest work and to help my uncle’s friend. I’d never even heard of John Lilburne before I came to London.’
‘Is Mr Mabbot of your company?’ the elder Bourne asked curiously.
She hesitated. ‘I’ve not heard him spoken of as one of us, but certainly he’s a friend of those who are.’
Mrs Bourne had evidently been thinking along a different track, because she suddenly burst out, ‘Why’s Mabbot want someone who can manage a press?’
‘You’ll have to ask Mr Mabbot,’ Lucy said primly. ‘I was simply pleased to find work.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I don’t think he could be dissatisfied with aught of yours, though.’
‘He’s young,’ said the elder Mr Bourne thoughtfully. ‘He thinks Sam Pecke much too cautious. Now he’s become Licensor he grows ambitious.’ He nodded. ‘Well, that’s Pecke’s concern, not ours. I doubt that aught Gilbert Mabbot comes up with does any harm to the sales of the Diurnall.’ He gave Lucy the first smile he had ever bestowed on her. It was, to be honest, not much more than a quirk of the lips, but she decided it was meant to be a smile and smiled back.
She kept her agreement with Nancy Shorby and did not go to The Whalebone that evening. The following morning, however, she rose early and made her way north to Moorfields. She wasn’t sure where Jamie was staying now, but she thought there was a chance he would continue to lie rent-free in the barn, at least until the end of summer.
London in Chains Page 17