to persuade Stroud to reconsider. “Please, sir,” she begged, heedless of what it might cost her, thinking only of the need to preserve the means of her brother’s release. “You will condemn him to prison, with no means of support, if you take these things. You will condemn me to a life without a livelihood. Please, I am begging you, sir.”
Her pride decimated, she pleaded without shame. The catcalls escalated but she closed her ears to their insults. All of her energies were for the man before her, who held her small family’s future in his hands. “If you have any mercy in you, if you have the slightest spark of human goodness in you, please do not do this.”
Stroud shook off her hand with an irritated gesture. “We are done here,” he announced. “You and your brother deserve every punishment that will be meted out to you, in this world and the next. I take no leave of you. You do not deserve any such notice.” He stalked towards the heavy cart, giving curt directions to the driver. Around her, the crowd grew noisier and she heard their slurs.
Jezebel.
Whore.
Molly’s piece.
There were no friendly faces. She took a slow step back and then another, her arms wide in supplication. A clod of dried dung hit her shoulder, shattering on impact. Another missile—a turnip?—narrowly missed her head.
She reached behind her, groping for the comfort and reassurance of Jeremy’s arm, but she felt nothing. She turned in a panic and saw that the young apprentice had fled. Why had he left her now? She wanted to cry out. Fear, real and black, churned her gut. She was all alone. There was no one to help her.
Thomas’s face flashed before her eyes. If only she had not been so proud. If only she had not sent him away. He would not be afraid of people like this. In that moment, she would have given anything for the strong protection of his arms. But he had washed his hands of her.
Her prayers were jumbled and incoherent.
Dear God, please. Thomas, please.
She ran towards the shelter of the shop but the men crowding around her were too strong and she was pushed back, landing inelegantly on the street. One of her shoes had fallen off. She crawled to her feet beneath a hail of garbage.
The street was crowded with bodies, all of them shouting invectives and many brandishing further ammunition.
Hester never knew who threw the first rock that shattered the window with a shower of glass. But it was as if a signal had been given, and suddenly, she was caught in a maelstrom of debris and masonry. She could not withdraw. Everywhere was confusion, and when she looked up and saw Stroud, his cane raised in his hand, her first thought was he meant to strike back against the rioters.
Her next to last thought, before the polished silver end struck her temple with a resounding blow, was that she would not have thought George Stroud capable of such a thing.
Her last thought was that she had clearly been wrong.
* * *
Lost in the minutiae of a particularly cumbersome manifest, it took Thomas a moment to realize that the raised voices were coming towards his office. Frowning, he looked up. Larkin should have better control of the staff than to allow them to behave in such—
Before he could finish voicing his mental complaint, a boy burst into his office, nearly prostrate, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Hard on his heels, Larkin and a handful of his clerks followed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” his manager puffed, trying to catch hold of the interloper’s arm. The boy evaded him, sending a cascade of account books across the floor with his struggles.
“Shop…Aspinall…rioters…” he heaved, resisting Thomas’s staff’s efforts to drag him from the office. “Come…immediately!”
The breathy words suddenly snapped into focus. Thomas realized where he had seen the young man before. He’d been one of the youths speaking to Hester outside her brother’s shop two days ago. One of the apprentices Aspinall had taken on.
Her pride decimated, she pleaded without shame. The catcalls escalated but she closed her ears to their insults. All of her energies were for the man before her, who held her small family’s future in his hands. “If you have any mercy in you, if you have the slightest spark of human goodness in you, please do not do this.”
Stroud shook off her hand with an irritated gesture. “We are done here,” he announced. “You and your brother deserve every punishment that will be meted out to you, in this world and the next. I take no leave of you. You do not deserve any such notice.” He stalked towards the heavy cart, giving curt directions to the driver. Around her, the crowd grew noisier and she heard their slurs.
Jezebel.
Whore.
Molly’s piece.
There were no friendly faces. She took a slow step back and then another, her arms wide in supplication. A clod of dried dung hit her shoulder, shattering on impact. Another missile—a turnip?—narrowly missed her head.
She reached behind her, groping for the comfort and reassurance of Jeremy’s arm, but she felt nothing. She turned in a panic and saw that the young apprentice had fled. Why had he left her now? She wanted to cry out. Fear, real and black, churned her gut. She was all alone. There was no one to help her.
Thomas’s face flashed before her eyes. If only she had not been so proud. If only she had not sent him away. He would not be afraid of people like this. In that moment, she would have given anything for the strong protection of his arms. But he had washed his hands of her.
Her prayers were jumbled and incoherent.
Dear God, please. Thomas, please.
She ran towards the shelter of the shop but the men crowding around her were too strong and she was pushed back, landing inelegantly on the street. One of her shoes had fallen off. She crawled to her feet beneath a hail of garbage.
The street was crowded with bodies, all of them shouting invectives and many brandishing further ammunition.
Hester never knew who threw the first rock that shattered the window with a shower of glass. But it was as if a signal had been given, and suddenly, she was caught in a maelstrom of debris and masonry. She could not withdraw. Everywhere was confusion, and when she looked up and saw Stroud, his cane raised in his hand, her first thought was he meant to strike back against the rioters.
Her next to last thought, before the polished silver end struck her temple with a resounding blow, was that she would not have thought George Stroud capable of such a thing.
Her last thought was that she had clearly been wrong.
* * *
Lost in the minutiae of a particularly cumbersome manifest, it took Thomas a moment to realize that the raised voices were coming towards his office. Frowning, he looked up. Larkin should have better control of the staff than to allow them to behave in such—
Before he could finish voicing his mental complaint, a boy burst into his office, nearly prostrate, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Hard on his heels, Larkin and a handful of his clerks followed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” his manager puffed, trying to catch hold of the interloper’s arm. The boy evaded him, sending a cascade of account books across the floor with his struggles.
“Shop…Aspinall…rioters…” he heaved, resisting Thomas’s staff’s efforts to drag him from the office. “Come…immediately!”
The breathy words suddenly snapped into focus. Thomas realized where he had seen the young man before. He’d been one of the youths speaking to Hester outside her brother’s shop two days ago. One of the apprentices Aspinall had taken on.
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