help; it
is monstrous to presume you and I can proceed without him. This is all quite, quite ridiculous.’
Jack had not been in his house; Peter had barked at Lizzie, his long-suffering mother, who had simply shrugged her shoulders
and offered him tea, which he refused because it would have been made with pestilential river water, and gin, which he refused
on principle.
‘What is the world coming to?’ he raged when he returned. ‘Where is the respect for age, and experience, and professionalism?
She should have begged and pleaded with me not to report Jack to the magistrates for rupture of indenture. I was surprised,
Dora, nay, I was angered, at her insolence. He is our charge and our apprentice, and he is in serious breach of contract.’
I chewed my lip as I looked down at the half-sheet of morocco, trying to solve both the problems that were presenting themselves.
I wondered if it might be best for me to take the trip to Jack’s house and speak to Lizzie myself. The nuances in her speech
and manner might have betrayed something to me to which Peter had been oblivious.
But just then I heard Lucinda calling from the house, so I left Peter in the workshop alone and scooped her up in my arms.
She sang me a little song, and started to plait my hair, and I drifted round the house holding her and pondering how to overcome
the first hitch in my master plan – that we did not have enough leather. I ran my hands over the books in the case by the
fire as if the touch of those bindings would inspire me, but their old leather gave little away. We had a good collection
of books, and there was not one I had not read cover to cover several times. They were all ragged now, for when she was smaller
Lucinda used to occupy herself with pulling them out of their shelves and heaping them on the floor. The casualties of childhood
delight were sorely in need of a re-bind, but none of the editions were special enough to merit the effort. We had a Bible
and Pilgrim’s Progress , and several volumes of poetry, and it was here that my hands lingered, as if I were looking for a few lines, a cheering
couplet, that would provide succour or inspiration. William Blake, of course. Keats. Wordsworth. But my hands did not pull
one out at random; neither did the pages fall open at some words into which I might have read some meaning. We left the books
behind, and we climbed the stairs to fold and press the laundry together.
But Wordsworth came with us in spirit, for as I smoothed the shabby sheets and checked for damp patches, I remembered reading
somewhere how his sister Dorothy would cut up her old gowns, and use them to bind the early volumes of his poetry. I had never
seen one, but I could imagine the pretty faded floral fabric enfolding his pretty floral poems with the colours of Grasmere,
and protecting them with a woman’s love. But without the genius of William’s writings within, Dorothy’s dresses would not
have been worthy enough of gracing a gentlewoman’s writing-desk as required by Mr Diprose. We needed something finer. But
still the notion persisted, and I remembered too a tale of royal libraries, of the magnificent bindings manufactured from
Charles I’s own waistcoat collection. But I had no regal waistcoats to hand or to spare in my linen press. I only had my one
fine dress – my Sunday dress, my wedding dress – which I had worn the day before and which was still muddy and drying in the
kitchen.
And then I remembered my parents’ suitcase in the box-room. Dared I see what was inside? From what was I hiding? I pulled
it out, laid it on the bed, and opened it.
On top were a few keepsakes: a gold ring the size of a shilling tooled on to a scrap of red morocco; a piece of folded card
decorated with pressed violets and clover leaves, which contained within two locks of pale yellow hair, which was not mine,
but of the sickly twin brothers I had never met; a pair of
is monstrous to presume you and I can proceed without him. This is all quite, quite ridiculous.’
Jack had not been in his house; Peter had barked at Lizzie, his long-suffering mother, who had simply shrugged her shoulders
and offered him tea, which he refused because it would have been made with pestilential river water, and gin, which he refused
on principle.
‘What is the world coming to?’ he raged when he returned. ‘Where is the respect for age, and experience, and professionalism?
She should have begged and pleaded with me not to report Jack to the magistrates for rupture of indenture. I was surprised,
Dora, nay, I was angered, at her insolence. He is our charge and our apprentice, and he is in serious breach of contract.’
I chewed my lip as I looked down at the half-sheet of morocco, trying to solve both the problems that were presenting themselves.
I wondered if it might be best for me to take the trip to Jack’s house and speak to Lizzie myself. The nuances in her speech
and manner might have betrayed something to me to which Peter had been oblivious.
But just then I heard Lucinda calling from the house, so I left Peter in the workshop alone and scooped her up in my arms.
She sang me a little song, and started to plait my hair, and I drifted round the house holding her and pondering how to overcome
the first hitch in my master plan – that we did not have enough leather. I ran my hands over the books in the case by the
fire as if the touch of those bindings would inspire me, but their old leather gave little away. We had a good collection
of books, and there was not one I had not read cover to cover several times. They were all ragged now, for when she was smaller
Lucinda used to occupy herself with pulling them out of their shelves and heaping them on the floor. The casualties of childhood
delight were sorely in need of a re-bind, but none of the editions were special enough to merit the effort. We had a Bible
and Pilgrim’s Progress , and several volumes of poetry, and it was here that my hands lingered, as if I were looking for a few lines, a cheering
couplet, that would provide succour or inspiration. William Blake, of course. Keats. Wordsworth. But my hands did not pull
one out at random; neither did the pages fall open at some words into which I might have read some meaning. We left the books
behind, and we climbed the stairs to fold and press the laundry together.
But Wordsworth came with us in spirit, for as I smoothed the shabby sheets and checked for damp patches, I remembered reading
somewhere how his sister Dorothy would cut up her old gowns, and use them to bind the early volumes of his poetry. I had never
seen one, but I could imagine the pretty faded floral fabric enfolding his pretty floral poems with the colours of Grasmere,
and protecting them with a woman’s love. But without the genius of William’s writings within, Dorothy’s dresses would not
have been worthy enough of gracing a gentlewoman’s writing-desk as required by Mr Diprose. We needed something finer. But
still the notion persisted, and I remembered too a tale of royal libraries, of the magnificent bindings manufactured from
Charles I’s own waistcoat collection. But I had no regal waistcoats to hand or to spare in my linen press. I only had my one
fine dress – my Sunday dress, my wedding dress – which I had worn the day before and which was still muddy and drying in the
kitchen.
And then I remembered my parents’ suitcase in the box-room. Dared I see what was inside? From what was I hiding? I pulled
it out, laid it on the bed, and opened it.
On top were a few keepsakes: a gold ring the size of a shilling tooled on to a scrap of red morocco; a piece of folded card
decorated with pressed violets and clover leaves, which contained within two locks of pale yellow hair, which was not mine,
but of the sickly twin brothers I had never met; a pair of
Similar Books
