among the occupied tables collecting empties and delivering fulls. The atmosphere was much happier than of yore; Peg seemed to be on the mend at last. She could marshal an occasional smile, did not fuss over William Henry, and in bed she sometimes turned of her own volition to Richard to offer him a little love. Not the old sort of love, no. That was the stuff of dreams, and Richard’s dreams were busy dying. Only the young can conquer the mountains of the mind, thought Richard. At five-and-thirty years of age, I am no longer young. My son is nine, and I pass the dreams to him.
Along with a dozen other men, Richard signed his money over to Mr. Thomas Latimer for the express purpose of developing a new kind of fire engine; none of the investors, who included Cousin James- the-druggist, were given any interest in the brass foundry itself, devoted to manufacturing the flat, hook-linked chains for the Admiralty’s new bilge pumps.
“I am closing down for Christmas,” said Mr. Thomas Latimer to Richard (who was so fascinated that he visited Wasborough’s almost every day) on the eve of that foggy, mournfully grey season.
“Unusual” was Richard’s comment.
“Oh, the workmen will not be paid! It is just that I have noticed that nothing is done properly during Christmas. Too much rum. Though what the poor wretches have to celebrate I do not know,” sighed Latimer. “Times are no better, in spite of young William Pitt as Chancellor for the Exchequer.”
“How can times be better, Tom? The only way Pitt can pay for the American war is to raise existing taxes and think of new ones.” Richard grinned slyly. “Of course, ye could make a happier Yuletide for your workmen by paying them for the holidays.”
Mr. Latimer’s cheerfulness did not abate. “Could not do that! Did I, every employer in Bristol would blackball me.”
It was pleasant for Richard, however, to be able to spend more time at the Cooper’s Arms over Christmas, for William Henry had no school and the tavern was full of wassailers. Mag and Peg had made delicious puddings and pots of brandy sauce to go over them, a haunch of venison roasted on the spit, and Dick made his festive drink of hot, sweet, spiced wine. Richard produced presents: a second cat for Dick, tabby grey, to dispense gin; a green silk umbrella each for Mag and Peg; and for William Henry, a parcel of books, a ream of best writing papers, a splendid leather-covered cork ball, and no less than six pencles made of Cumberland graphite.
Dick was mighty pleased with his gin cat, but Mag and Peg were overwhelmed.
“Such an extravagance!” cried Mag, opening her umbrella to study the effect of lamplight through its thin, jade-colored fabric. “Oh, Peg, how fashionable we will be! Even Cousin Ann will be cast in the shade!” She pirouetted, then shut the umbrella in a hurry. “William Henry, do not
Of course the ball was the best present as far as William Henry was concerned, but the pencles were pretty good too. “Dadda, you will have to show me how to sharpen them, I want them to last as long as possible,” he said, beaming. “Oh, Mr. Parfrey will admire them!
Mr. Parfrey was top of the trees in William Henry’s estimation, everybody knew that by now; William Henry had been dinning his excellence in their ears ever since Latin classes had begun early in October. Clearly this was one schoolmaster who knew how to teach, for he had captured William Henry’s interest on his first day, and William Henry had not been the only one. Even Johnny Monkton voted Mr. Parfrey first rate.
“He may admire your pencles, but not take,” said Richard as he folded William Henry’s hand around a small parcel. “Here, this is a present for Johnny. A pity the Head insisted all boarders remain in school for Christmas Day, it would have been nice to have him here with us. Still, he shall have a present.”
“It is pencles,” said William Henry instantly.
“Aye, pencles.”
Peg seized the moment to enfold William Henry in a hug and press her lips to his wide, ivory brow. As if understanding that this was one gift he could give his mother, William Henry suffered her embrace, even kissed her back.
“Ain’t Dadda the best father?” he asked his mother.
“Yes,” said Peg, waiting in vain to be told that she was the best mother. A year ago her son’s indifference coupled with a remark like this would have generated a surge of hatred for Richard, but Peg had learned that hating Richard could not change a thing. Better then to get on with him, please him. Her son adored him so. What else could a woman expect? They were men together.
When the new year of 1784 dawned, Richard walked up to Narrow Wine Street to visit Mr. Latimer at Wasborough’s foundry.
What one saw from Narrow Wine Street was a barnlike structure built of limestone blocks so grimed from the smoke of its chimneys that they were black; along its facade were a number of very large, battered wooden doors, always thrown open to reveal the activity within as well as let out some of the heat and noise.
How odd! All the doors were closed. A long holiday indeed for Latimer’s poor workmen, not paid since before Christmas. As he walked down the length of the building Richard tried each door in turn: locked. The back way, then. He took advantage of a tiny alley to attain the Froom side of the building, and there found one open door. Silence greeted him as he entered; the furnaces were unlit, the hearths empty, and the quenched fire engine sat brooding among its idle lathes.
Emerging, he walked to the Froom, running full, and as grey and gelid as the sky.
“Richard, oh, Richard!”
He turned to see Cousin James-the-druggist come out of the alley, wringing his hands.
“Dick said you were here-Oh, Richard, it is terrible!”
Something in him already knew, but he asked anyway. “What is terrible, Cousin James?”
“Latimer! He is gone! Absconded with all our money!”
An oak mooring post probably as old as the English Romans stood at the edge of the river; Richard leaned against it and closed his eyes. “Then the man is an idiot. He will be caught.”
For answer, Cousin James-the-druggist began to weep.
“Cousin James, Cousin James, it is not the end of the world,” said Richard, putting an arm about his shoulders and leading him to a slab of foundry junk upon which they could sit. “Come now, do not cry so!”
“I must! It is my fault! If I had not encouraged you, your money would still be safe. I can afford to pay for my own stupidity, but-oh, Richard, it is not fair that you should lose your all!”
Not conscious of any pain beyond concern for this beloved man, Richard stared at the Froom without seeing it. This was not like losing little Mary, nor was it a millionth as important. The money was an external thing.
“I have a mind of my own, Cousin James, and you should know me better than to believe I can be led where I do not want to go. It is no one’s fault, least of all yours and least of all mine. Come, dry your eyes and tell me,” said Richard, proffering his nose rag.
Cousin James-the-druggist produced a proper handkerchief and mopped away, gradually calming.
“We will not see our money, Richard,” he said. “Latimer has taken it and fled to Connecticut, where he and Pickard intend to manufacture fire engines. Since the American war, Watt’s patents are worthless there.”
“Clever Mr. Latimer!” said Richard appreciatively. “Can we not take a lien on Wasborough’s foundry and get our money back by making chains for the Admiralty?”
“I am afraid not. Latimer does not own Wasborough’s. His father-in-law is a wealthy Gloucester cheesemaker, and bought it as a dowry for Latimer’s wife. Her papa also owns the house in Dove Street.”
“Then let us go home,” said Richard, “to the Cooper’s Arms. Ye can do with a mug of Cave’s rum, Cousin James.”
To give him credit, Dick said not one word, let alone “I told you so.” His eyes had gone from Richard’s calm face to Cousin James-the-druggist’s devastated one, and whatever he thought he kept to himself.
“There is really only one significant consequence,” Richard said to him later, “and that is that I no longer have the money to educate William Henry.”
“Are ye not angry?” Dick asked, frowning.
“No, Father. If losing my money is my share of trouble, then I am glad.
What if it had been losing Peg?” His breath caught. “Or losing William Henry?”
“Yes, I see. I do see.” Dick reached across the table and gripped his son’s arm strongly. “As for William Henry’s
