Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
No one thought to tell me this news?
Chapter 8
I stew all the way home, muttering and cursing under my breath, having numerous full-blown and quite heated discussions with my father in my mind. I triumph in every single one of them.
As my Hackney coach is rounding the corner into Belmore Square, I see our family coach bumping across the cobbles, heading out on the other side. ‘Follow that coach,’ I yell to the jarvey, prompting him to look back to see in which direction I am pointing, and to which coach, as there are a fair many of them on the square. I lean out to keep my eye on Papa. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘On these cobbles, sir? I’ll lose my wheels.’
Bugger it, I could run faster. ‘This is a––’ I’m suddenly catapulted forward when the jarvey yanks on the reins, stopping the horse quite abruptly. ‘Fuck!’ I hit the front section of the coach with so much force, I am sure I hear the wood crack. Then I fall to the floor in a crumpled heap.
‘Apologies, sir, a lady stepped out in front of me.’
I wince and curse my way up, propping myself against the side, looking out as I rub at my sore head. Lady Rose wanders casually across the road, oblivious to the chaos she has caused, the feathers of her hat swaying in long, slow waves to match her slow pace. ‘Take your time,’ I yell, making sure the old deaf wench hears me. Of course, that then means she stops and delays me further. ‘Get out of my way!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she splutters.
God help me. I smile through my teeth. ‘I said, I hope you’re having a lovely day.’
‘Splendid.’ She gets going again, at a much slower pace, which is an achievement because she was already travelling like a snail. She eventually makes it to the gardens and the jarvey orders the horse onward. I settle in my seat and work to compose myself and cool my temper, for presenting myself and my grievance to Papa with anything less than full control would be quite foolish. I must appear reasonable.
Our family coach comes to a stop outside Gladstone’s and Papa enters. I slip the jarvey a few coins, tell him I am done with his services, and follow Papa into the gentleman’s club.
I find him at a table in the corner going over some papers. ‘Papa?’
He looks over his glasses. ‘Frank, what are you doing here?’ He drops his spectacles on the wood as I take a seat. ‘How has your day been?’
I laugh to myself. I am beginning to wish I had never bothered to rise on this morn, for my day has been quite intolerable from the moment I woke and has got progressively worse. I have so many grievances at the moment, I do not know where to begin! ‘Enlightening.’ I am, apparently, a rake and a disappointment. I suppose I only have myself to blame.
‘How so?’
I suddenly know where to begin. ‘I paid a visit to the printworks early this afternoon.’ I definitely notice a slight falter in my father’s soft smile. ‘Eliza? Editor-in-Chief, Papa?’
‘Oh, that.’
‘You didn’t think to tell me?’
‘Since when do you care about the running of our family business?’
Ouch. ‘Since now.’
‘You want to be Editor-in-Chief?’ he asks, almost laughing.
Again, ouch. ‘Why is that so amusing, Father?’
‘Frank, son, you have expressed very little desire to manage our business, even less desire to write. I hired Porter, God rest his soul, because of that. Now you’re telling me you want to? What’s changed?’
How do I explain this? ‘There was an incident, Papa.’
‘An incident?’ He appears very worried. ‘What kind of incident?’
‘An encounter.’ I frown to myself. ‘With … someone.’
‘Who?’
‘The highwayman. Or woman.’
His eyes widen. ‘Woman? You think the highwayman is a woman?’
I look around nervously for listening ears. It would be tragic if the rumours were to break and ruin my story. ‘Well, one of them. I think.’ I’m sure, but I can’t say with confidence that I would put my life on it. ‘I’m still investigating.’ Doesn’t it speak volumes that my sister has not shared this with my father? Is she feeling threatened? I am not like other men she has faced, she knows that. I do not wish to take anything away from her. But I should also like some energy and excitement for myself. She should be thrilled that I have found this … this … this … whatever we are to call it.
‘Oh my,’ Father muses, and then he smiles. ‘You’ve been sparked.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Sparked. It happened to me, and it happened to your sister. My spark came when Mrs Jones – she was the washer woman back home – was accused of being a witch!’ He sits forward in his chair. ‘I felt compelled to prove it was utter claptrap. I swear, Frank, my boy, my hand couldn’t keep up with my brain. I wrote, I researched, it consumed me!’ He smiles wistfully. ‘Eliza’s spark was the butcher boy who was accused of stealing. Your sister knew it not to be true and set on a mission to prove his innocence and therefore save his hand.’