The Penny Heart by Martine Bailey Read Free Book Online Page A

that short time, ruin struck us down like a tempest. When Father came home with a ragged beard and incurious eyes, he was a broken puppet of his former self. He had lost his printer’s licence, and so ceased his trade. Thanks only to a number of stealthy arrangements: to sell the business to another printer, and to come to an agreement with a local landlord, were we saved from being turned out of Palatine House.
    Yet more ill fortune was to come. Where we might have looked to neighbours, they shied away from us in whispering groups, and then a band of Brabantist Elders came to our door. I listened from the hallway to a voice I recognised as John Francis’s father
    ‘To riot is not our way, as you well know, Moore. Nor must the law be broken. Our duty is to wait for signs, and pray,’
    I knew from the stiffening of my father’s broad back that he was roused. ‘Aye, and rake over your dusty dreams like broody hens! Aye, and wait for your God to dole out bread to starving men. How long do you wait – until they drop in their graves? You may well look shamed. You would expel me, is that it? Have you not heard Tom Paine say, were we not corrupted by governments, then man might be friends with man? You would expel me for that, would you, brother?’
    I thought his defence well spoken, and admired him for one entire afternoon. Then, at supper time, he returned from the Bush tavern, staggering up the path, blinking and purplish from a surfeit of drink. Unfortunately, John Francis appeared from the back of the house at that self-same moment. My father was sharp-eyed when drunk, and caught him in his bloodshot gaze.
    ‘Still tryin’ to sponge off my daughter, Rawdon?’ Next, he glared at me. ‘It’s not you he wants, it’s your prospects,’ he shouted. I turned to go inside, but he hailed me. ‘Listen, you! Listen when I speak, you cloth-headed child.’
    ‘Please go,’ I muttered to John Francis. Affronted, he looked from me to my father and back.
    ‘No, Grace. Go into the house. I’ll deal with him.’
    Father began to roar then, swinging his inky knuckles. ‘If I can’t have it, no one will,’ he cried incomprehensibly. I cringed away, longing for the stone flags beneath my feet to open up and swallow me. Father landed a clumsy blow on John Francis’s arm, but the lad backed nimbly away. ‘Mr Moore, sir. I don’t know what you are rambling on about,’ he protested.
    I watched, too frightened to stop Father, for fear of him striking me in turn. He edged penitently towards John Francis, then suddenly lashed out with his fist at his face. His opponent was too agile to take the full force, but received a pink graze to his cheek.
    ‘I am sorry, Grace.’ John Francis raised himself to his full height and eyed my father with determination. He then strode up to Father and landed a powerful blow to his jaw that sent him toppling to the ground. My once proud father lay crumpled in the dirt. I buried my face in my hands, praying that this scene was a nightmare and that I might soon wake and find myself in bed.
     
    *
     
    I did not wake up from that lamentable dream, only lived on with my father at Palatine House. Soon afterwards, John Francis left me a letter, tucked inside our bird’s nest hiding place:
     
My Dearest Grace,
Your father will not allow me within sight of your home and has made violent threats to my person. Worse, my own family have learned of our connection and are fixed on removing me from you and from Greaves. I am to take up a position with my uncle in Bristol; but he is a man of sympathy and I hope to persuade him of the rightness of my actions.
Grace, I cannot abandon you. Will you come with me? Naturally we must marry at once and then bide our time, but I am hopeful all will turn out well.
If you can find it in your heart to come away with me, leave a candle burning in your window at ten o’clock tonight. I shall fetch the trap and meet you at the top of the lane.
Your loving