Clapping and laughing, even the poorest among them was soon coughing up a penny to bring the story home to share with their families. Others would just paste the woodcut on their walls, to have something to enjoy during the long winter nights that lay ahead.
Lucy hung back while Master Aubrey was collecting his pennies. When the crowd dispersed, she followed him into his shop. Inside, she breathed deeply, always surprised at how the whiff of the printing press gave her such pleasure.
Master Aubrey, returning to his press, glanced at her when she came in, but did not stop what he was doing. Fascinated, Lucy watched him unroll a sheet, lay it down, and then roll it over the inked typeset letters.
“What brings you to my shop, lass?” he finally barked out, not bothering to modulate his voice despite the cramped confines of the shop. Lucy wondered if the noise of the printing press had deafened him over the years. “Did the Hargraves send you again?” He was referring to another time when she’d come seeking important broadsides related to a murder, claiming that Adam had requested she do so.
“Er, no.” Lucy paused, wondering how to proceed.
“Is there something you want to buy? Astrological predictions for love? Dr. Pumphrey’s cures for warts?” When she shook her head, the printer added, not unkindly, “I can’t have you reading all my tales for free, lass. You understand. Besides, I’m busy. Today was the first day the Stationer’s Company allowed us to print—those of us printers who survived the Fire, that is.”
Lucy took a deep breath. “I thought you’d need some help, Master Aubrey. Selling books, or even working here in the shop.”
“Already got a lad. ’Sides, I thought you were working for the Hargraves.”
Lucy didn’t answer, and wandered over to the other press. It was open and it looked like the letters were waiting to be inked. Though backward, she could see they all related to the Fire. She read the titles: An Elegie on the late Fire And Ruines of London, by E. Settle. One by R. L’Estrange, called An Anagram on the Citie London.
She read it out loud.
“The Citie London when I now behold it
In its true Anagram Then I Condole it.
But when’t revives, whose Triumph shall transcend
Turning the Anagram, Let Ioie contend.”
Seeing her quizzical expression, Master Aubrey laughed. “Oh, that Roger L’Estrange, I despise him, but he is a witty one. See this line, ‘Then I Condole it.’ How about you find the letters for ‘The Citie London.’ That’s the anagram. You get it?”
Lucy frowned, not wishing to admit she didn’t quite understand. He pointed to another one. “Lass, try this one. ‘London’s Fatal Fal, an acrostic.’ Here you can just read the letters down. L-O-N-D-O-N.”
Lo! Now confused Heaps only stand
On what did bear the Glory of the Land.
No stately places, no Edefices,
Do now appear: No, here’s now none of these,
Oh Cruel Fates! Can ye be so unkind?
Not to leave, scarce a Mansion behind …
Master Aubrey looked at the last page of his collection. Lucy could see a great white expanse without any text or picture. “’Tis a shame to leave it blank. Just one or two more short pieces, is all we need.”
Lucy only half heard him, murmuring the words of another poem.
One Merchant swears the Elements conspire
Rescu’d from Water to be wrackt by Fire.
Finding more mercy in the rageing Waves
Whose sinking billowes but present their Graves
Which here too true he finds: His Merchandise
In a confused Chaos buried lies.
She tapped it. “A ‘confused chaos’ is right,” she said. “I was helping clear the debris yesterday and there was all manner of odd stuff popping up out of the ashes.” Thinking of the poem that had miraculously survived the fire, Lucy pulled her copy from her pocket. “Perhaps you might be interested in this piece. It came from the Fire. You could say ‘From the charred remains, here is a poem.’”
The master’s apprentice walked in then. He was the same redheaded boy who had worked there long ago, although not so pimple-ridden as he’d once been. Even though he’d been a bit rude to her in the past, Lucy was glad to see he had survived the plague and the Fire.
Master Aubrey and the printer’s devil read the poem. “Pomegranates, roses, pineapples … Makes no sense,” the apprentice sniffed. She thought she remembered his name was Lachlin, or some such Scottish name.
Lucy frowned, but watched Master Aubrey count the lines of the poem. The master printer grinned. “Yes, it will work. Let’s get to it, so we can make the next printing. See to it, Lach.”
Lucy felt absurdly pleased, as if she had written the poem herself. “We could mention the body that was found nearby too.”
Master Aubrey swiveled around, and Lachlin stared at her. “Body?” the printer asked. “Lass, have you lost your senses? What body?”
“Oh, yes. I suppose I forgot to mention that. When I was working, clearing away the ashes and rubble and such, someone found a body stuffed in a barrel.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that?”
“Well, no,” Lucy stammered. “I didn’t think—”
“Woman, poems don’t make pennies, corpses do. Tell me, was he murdered?” Master Aubrey asked, looking hopeful.
“Had to have been, unless he hid in the barrel,” Lachlin piped up. “Afraid of the Fire, he must have been.”
Master Aubrey swatted the back of his printer’s head. He looked heavenward. “Lord, what I must put up with.”
Lucy answered the printer’s question. “Verily, he was murdered. He had a knife through his chest.”
“How’d I not hear about this? I’ve been cloistered in here like a damn nun.” Aubrey rubbed his hands together. “Never mind! Murdered, you say? All the better! Lucy, tell me all about it. I’ll write it, and we can set it tonight. Print in the morning.”
Lucy smiled at him, as engagingly as she could. “How about I write the tale myself? I could recount how we found the body, and the poem. There was a fair assortment of bits and pieces too—a ring, some coins.” She paused. “Although, on second thought, perhaps we shouldn’t mention that part. I don’t want to look like I was looting. How about I give you the account for a price? Maybe it’s enough to waive my apprentice fee?”
“What?” For a moment the master printer seemed stunned. “Waive your apprentice fee? Woman! Is your mind completely addled? Or is this some sort of jest?” he asked, hopefully. “Did your master put you up to this?”
“No, not at all,” Lucy said quickly, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I should like to enter the printer’s trade. I should like to learn to make books as you do, and sell them.”
Still, Master Aubrey stared at her, now at a loss for words. Lucy rushed on. “I know I could do it, I know I could! I’m strong and I work hard! I know my letters too.”
Master Aubrey blinked under the full force of her smile. “Well, what about Master Hargrave? I thought you were in his service.”
“I am, I was—” Lucy stumbled. “I mean, I think he would not mind. He has Cook and John and Annie, and three servants are more than enough help. It is just him, and,” she paused, “young Master Hargrave. I think they will not take it amiss should I leave them.”
Master Aubrey scratched his head, considering her. “One True Account will not cover the cost of an apprenticeship. Young Lachlin’s father, well, he paid me twenty pounds three years ago to teach this rascal my honorable trade. Meals, clothes, training. That’s what the fee is. Twenty pounds. That’s what the Stationer’s Company established and I’m not going to lose my printer’s license for a chit of a girl.”
“Twenty pounds?” Lucy repeated, her heart sinking. She had nowhere near that amount. “I see.”
He gave his apprentice a sidelong glance. “I could use another set of hands around here, though. Ever since my daughter off and got marrie
d, I haven’t had anyone to put supper on,” he admitted grudgingly. “That is, someone who doesn’t always burn the porridge.” Here he glared at Lach, whose face reddened slightly.
Lucy nodded, suddenly feeling more encouraged. She didn’t dare to interrupt Master Aubrey as he spoke, more to himself than to her.
The printer went on, his tone still musing. “I could use a bit of help selling. And sometimes I have to buy more supplies from the paper-maker, and Lach can’t very well run the press and sell at the same time.”
Aubrey then turned back to Lucy. “Let me hear you sing.” He handed her a ballad, a cockamamy tale of a lass cuckolding her sweetheart, an earnest potter, with a thief looking to steal everything from the home.
Lucy groaned. Of course, a bookseller’s apprentice must be able to sing. She looked at the sheet. The ballad’s author, R.A., had noted the words were to be sung to the tune of “Three Merry Maids at the Aylesbury Fair.” A common enough tune.
She sang the first line in her regular alto, trying not to feel uncomfortable. Lach snorted, not helping her confidence any.
“You’re not in St. Michael’s, lass!” Master Aubrey exclaimed. “Sing so people can hear you!”
Lucy thought about how the soap-seller called her wares. She sang the lines again, this time so that it sounded more like a chant.
Master Aubrey grudgingly nodded. With the air of someone making a great decision, he said, “You’ll not be an official apprentice, you understand? You won’t be with me seven years. You’ll be keeping the shop clean, cooking, doing a bit of selling, helping a bit with the presses. And I’m not sending your name to the Stationer’s Company, you understand? You’ve not paid the apprentice fee.”
Lucy nodded, her heart beginning to pound.
“I’d need you here at dawn every day.”
“I can do that!” Lucy said, growing even more eager.
“That’s a bit of a walk from the Hargraves’,” Master Aubrey hesitated. “Unless you’d want to be letting a room here? You’ve got a brother, haven’t you? I’ve got two rooms. You can have them for two shillings a week. My other tenants just left. Their whole family is going to Suffolk.” He scratched his elbow. “Mind you, make your mind up quick. I’ve got many bodies clambering for the space.”
“Two rooms? For my brother and myself?” Lucy quickly calculated her brother’s take and the coins she’d saved from the Hargraves’. Now that her brother was a journeyman, surely he could make enough to keep them. She gave the printer a bright smile. “I’ll take them both!”
As she was turning to go, Master Aubrey added, not unkindly, “Make sure that true account is good. If it don’t sell, I won’t keep you on.”
* * *
After she completed her duties that evening, Lucy sat down in the little chamber she shared with Annie to write the true account. For a long moment, she stared at the white piece of paper, unsure how to begin. She had written some penny pieces before, but had never dared submit them to be published. This piece, though, was important. She needed it to be good to sell a lot of sheets for Master Aubrey. After a few dozen scratched out beginnings, she sighed, feeling a little at a loss.
She’d already sent a quick note to Will to tell him her news, leaving out the part about her being a petticoat author. “He can find that out later.” She hardly liked to think of what her brother would say about her apprenticing herself to Master Aubrey either, but he might be glad she was leaving service.
Leaving service. What a strange way to think about leaving the Hargraves’ household. To leave Cook and John, and little Annie. To leave the magistrate, who had come to treat her as his own daughter. To leave Adam. She shook her head. “He’ll understand,” she whispered fiercely. “There’s no place for me here. I have to leave.” For a moment, tears blurred her eyes. “He’ll understand. They all will.”
She stared down at the paper again, looking at the scratched-out sentences. “The words are jumbled because I am jumbled,” she muttered to herself, standing up. Picking up her candle, she made her way down to the master’s study. Without giving much thought to her words, she knocked. When she heard the master’s assent, she went in.
The magistrate was seated in his old wooden chair, a great leather-bound book in front of him. He was chewing on the end of his pipe, but Lucy could see it was not lit.
“Ah, Lucy,” he said, his eyes brightening a bit. “What may I do for you, my dear?”
Taking a deep breath, she told him in a rush. “I talked to Master Aubrey today. He told me he would be glad to take me on as an apprentice. Well, not truly an apprentice since I do not have twenty pounds to pay the apprentice fee. But I’m hoping to learn the trade, and maybe in time, I will be able to pay the fee…” Her voice trailed off, seeing the sorrowful look on his face. “I’m sorry, sir, I did not think…” Her voice dropped off again, and she looked at him, misery tightening her stomach.
“Sit down, Lucy,” he said, regaining his usual equanimity. “Tell me all about it.”
After she explained more slowly, he nodded in his grave way. She was grateful that he did not press her to further explain her decision to leave his employ. He did ask her a few questions about her living and working arrangements though.
“You’ll be staying at Master Aubrey’s, then? Above his shop?” At her murmured assent, he went on. “I know Master Aubrey has a daughter, but she’s long been married off. There’s a lad there too, his apprentice. Is that correct?” There was no judgment in his look, but she could see a faint fatherly concern about her going off to live with two men.
“That is why I’ve asked my brother Will to live with me too.”
That bit of information seemed to put him at ease, and he said, “Well, Master Aubrey is an honorable man, and I’ve known him a very long time. I imagine he would keep his apprentices behaving in a proper manner.”
Thinking of the skinny redheaded Lachlin making advances on her, Lucy had to hide a smile.
The magistrate then had continued. “Lucy, so you know. You are always welcome here. You must understand that. If you don’t get on at Aubrey’s, or if my son—” Here he stopped, looking uncomfortable.
Lucy was glad he did not continue. She had a feeling he was about to say something about Adam. Or if Adam doesn’t marry you, you’ll still have a home with us. “Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling with slightly misty eyes.
The magistrate wasn’t done. “If you are determined to leave, I do have two small gifts for you. As tokens of my high regard.” He cleared his throat.
Hesitantly, Lucy held out her hand, expecting a few shillings. It was customary for a master to reward his servants when they left service, if they had been loyal and trustworthy.
He shook his head. “For your wonderful service to my family these last few years, I have held ten pounds for you.” He smiled when she gasped and drew her hand back to her side.
“Ten pounds! Oh no, sir, I couldn’t take such a sum! It is too much.”
“No, it is not nearly enough. Call it a dowry if you like, or perhaps a way to begin a living. Perhaps you will wish to pursue the apprenticeship with Master Aubrey in earnest. Printing is a noble profession, to be sure. How about I hold it for you, for a while, until you are ready. I should not like you to carry such a sum upon your person.”
“No, sir, no indeed, sir. Thank you, sir,” she said, her words stumbling over themselves as she tried to express her heartfelt gratitude. Ten pounds would set her up in trade or, as he said, certainly set her up with a comfortable dowry. Tears pricked at her eyes, as she regarded the magistrate in awe.
He patted her hand. “It’s alright, Lucy, I understand.” He smiled again, this time more sadly. “I have something else for you as well.” He seemed more reluctant. “My wife’s clothes, I’d like you to have them. Perhaps save a dress or two for Annie, now that she’s older.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. His late wife, the Mistress Hargrave, had exquisite taste in clothes. Such a bequest! She’d look v
ery fine for sure. Her thoughts flew to Sarah, the magistrate’s daughter. Hesitantly, she asked, “Shouldn’t Sarah inherit her mother’s clothes?”
A shadow passed the magistrate’s face and in that glimpse, she could see that he had not forgiven his daughter for joining the Quakers. For disobeying the law. For leaving England. For disobeying him. “Quakers do not wear fine linens or taffeta,” he said stiffly. “I’ll not have her selling them to promote their cause.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said hastily, vowing, in that instant, to never take her mistress’s clothes. “I’ll collect them another time.”
At the door she smiled again at Master Hargrave, but could not speak. He nodded and bid her good night.
* * *
Standing at Master Aubrey’s shop the next morning, Lucy watched as the printer and his apprentice laid out a great shallow wooden box and set it on the large table between them. The box was sectioned into a hundred different compartments, with each compartment containing an assortment of tiny metal blocks.
“This is the typecase,” the printer explained. “This box contains the font we are going to use for this folio. We are only setting eight pages, so it should not take very long.” The printer gestured toward a tray. “Pick any letter out, look at it. Ah, do you know what that is?”
Curiously, Lucy looked at the tiny metal piece she had selected at random. It did not seem to be a letter at all. “I don’t know the word for it. I know it means ‘and.’”
“That is an ampersand. There are several others too, like these,” he gestured to the bottom row, “which I mainly use for texts in Latin.” He went on. “You’ll see that I have already set the title, using roman type, thirty-six point. I put spacers, these blank ones here, between every word, with two spacers between each sentence.”
To her surprise and delight, she read the title. The London Miscellany. Underneath, in slightly smaller text, she read From the Charred Remains, a Body found among the Flames. He had moved the other pieces so this would be the first story seen. He was willing to believe, sight-unseen it seemed, that her true account would be good enough to print.
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 4
