“No, thank you,” came her voice. “I can do it myself. My father is meeting me at the quay.”
“Very well, good afternoon,” said John, and he and Richard walked away.
“Poor girl—what a shame,” said Richard, his loud voice carrying across the ice. “Nice eyes. Pretty hair, too. Too bad about her face.”
“What about her face?” asked John.
“The pock-marks, what d’you think I meant!” Richard laughed. “There isn’t enough ale in London to make her into a beauty.”
Something was making John feel uncomfortable. He was not sure what it was. He thought he should go back to talk to Miss Imlay. “You go on, Richard,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
He ran, slipping and sliding, back along the rows of stalls, dodging children and stray dogs.
Prudence Imlay was still clearing the books off the counter.
“Even if you do not need help, Miss Imlay,” said John, “I can help you. That is, do you want help?”
Prudence tossed her head but made no reply.
“Is something wrong? Are you angry?” asked John.
“Leave it to you, John Price, to not know when somebody is angry,” said Prudence. “A fine thief catcher you would make, if you do not know if someone is angry, or happy, or sad.”
“Are... you feeling sad?”
Prudence sighed. “I caught the smallpox when I was a child, and I did not die, but I know what I look like, and—and—that is just the way things are and I cannot change it. And I do not want to talk about it.”
“All right,” said John. He was rather relieved, because he was not good at that sort of talking. But Prudence went on talking anyway.
“And you can tell your stupid brother I do not care what he says. Tell him he looks like a baboon himself.”
“Why should you care what he says?” asked John. “He does not know you. I am the one who knows you. I know what you really look like. That—that other is only your skin, not what you look like.”
Prudence looked at him, surprised. Then a slow smile broke across her face.
“Well, since we know each other, I suppose you may call me Prudence.”
* * * * * * *
After a lonely twelve months in prison in York, William Gibson was transferred to London to serve out the final year of his sentence.
Gibson, Lord Delingpole had written:
Do not flatter yourself by supposing I have exerted my influence out of esteem or concern for you—in fact, my chief motive was to exasperate and confound Lord Sidmouth. And you will no doubt be interested to learn I made a point of presenting a copy of your latest novel to everyone at our recent cabinet meeting—a gesture which cost me quite a few guineas. But it was worth it to see the look on Sidmouth’s face.
Another thought occurs—I confidently expect you to put the character of a Home Secretary in your next work—a vile, suspicious, ignorant, and exceedingly ugly man. You could name him Lord Bigmouth.
I charge you to destroy this letter in a suitably dramatic style.
I am, etc.,
Delingpole
Mr. Gibson’s new place of captivity was Surrey Gaol in Southwark, and owing to the great success of his writing, he had more than sufficient funds to rent an apartment set apart from the common cells.
In fact, considering the fame Mr. Gibson acquired upon the publication of Steam & Sagacity, and the equal success of his latest work, Pistons & Pressure, he might be forgiven for thinking that even his enemies would now proudly acknowledge him as an acquaintance. Even the wiry little turnkey who hopped and skipped beside him as he was escorted to his new lodgings, put him more in mind of an obliging tavern-owner with an honoured guest than a jailer in charge of escorting a notorious state prisoner.
“How fortunate for you, Mr. Gibson, that Mr. Hunt has just vacated these rooms!” exclaimed the jailer as he unlocked the door to the apartment which was to be Mr Gibson’s home.
“Very fortunate, indeed, Mr. Ives,” Mr. Gibson mustered a smile. He had to duck his head to enter his new apartment—then he stopped in amazement as he took in the rose-patterned wallpaper, the built-in bookcases and the writing desk. Good heavens, even the ceiling was painted sky blue with fluffy clouds. “I confess, sir, I never imagined anything like this. You say that this was the old infirmary?”
“Yes, but Mr. Hunt had it redecorated specially. And look at this!” Mr. Ives hurried eagerly to the nearest window and pulled on a draw-cord. “These are Venetian blinds—the latest thing.” He rolled the blind up and Gibson looked through the bars at a small courtyard, fenced round with a decorative trellis. “You even have your own private garden in which to take exercise. The bedchamber is through here. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hunt took the carpet away, and the pianoforte,” Mr. Ives added apologetically, “when her husband was released.”
“I shall have to make shift without them,” said Mr. Gibson. “So... Mr. Hunt liked having roses on the walls?”
“You might as well be in the countryside, eh, Mr. Gibson? All yours then, sir, and welcome! And of course, I am at your service, sir, to fetch anything you might need from the shops—or the tavern—anything or anyone you might want. And if I’m not about, there is my boy Tom. Just whistle for us.”
“I was informed I might receive visitors here. I trust that is correct?”
“Oh, certainly! Of course! Of course! Why, Mr. Hunt, he had dozens of folks here, day and evening. We can order in a good dinner for you and your guests, so you might want to lay in some good bottles of wine and so forth. I can obtain anything you need. So then, what can I get for you?”
“Nothing at present, thank you,”
