Setting aside her pen, Charlotte Sloane took up a fine-pointed sable brush and added several bold strokes of blood-red crimson to her drawing.
Man versus Machine.Her latest series of satirical prints was proving very popular. And thank God for it, considering that there had been no sensational murder or flagrant royal scandal of late to titillate the public’s prurient interest. As A. J. Quill, London’s most celebrated gadfly, she made her living by skewering the high and mighty, as well as highlighting the foibles of society.
Peace and quiet put no pennies in her pocket.
Charlotte expelled a small sigh. Financial need had compelled her to take over her late husband’s identity as the infamous Quill, and she was damnably good at it. However, her income would disappear in a heartbeat if it ever became known that a woman was wielding the pen. She, of all people, knew that no secret—however well hidden—was perfectly safe. But among the many hard-won skills she had acquired over the last few years was the art of survival.
Forcing aside such distractions, she turned her attention back to her drawing. The recent unrest at the textile mills in the north had struck a raw nerve in the country. A heated debate was now raging over whether steam power would soon replace manual labor. Many people lauded the new technology.
And many feared it.
Charlotte leaned back in her chair, studying the violent clash of workers and local militia she had created, the human figures balanced precariously on the iron-dark pistons and condensers of a monstrous, steam-belching engine.
We are all creatures of habit, she mused. However awful, the known was preferable to the unknown.
The thought caused a wry smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. She seemed to be one of those rare souls drawn to exploring beyond the boundaries of convention.
“Not that I had much choice,” she murmured.
Not to begin with, perhaps. But honesty compelled her to admit that the challenges, no matter how daunting, were what added a spice of excitement to the humdrum blandness of everyday existence.
Raising her gaze, Charlotte looked around at the half-packed boxes scattered around the room and was once again reminded of the current theme of her art.
Change.
“Change is good,” she told herself. Only unimaginative minds saw it as terrifying.
But at the sight of all her earthly possessions—a rather unimpressive collection of flotsam and jetsam—lying in disorderly piles, she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of trepidation.
For several months she had wrestled with the idea of moving from her cramped but cheap quarters on the fringes of the St. Giles stews to a more respectable neighborhood. The previous week she had finally made up her mind, and, with the help of a trusted friend, had leased a modest house on Buckridge Street, near Bedford Square.
Her art was now bringing in a handsome salary from Fores’s print shop. And along with the unexpected windfall she’d received for partnering with Lord Wrexford . . .
Charlotte expelled a long breath. She had not yet come to grips with how she felt about taking the earl’s money. Yes, she had earned every last farthing of it. And yet . . .
Beggars can’t be choosy.She silenced her misgivings with an old English adage.
All those lovely gold guineas would allow Raven and Hawk, the two homeless urchins she’d taken under her wing, to have a chance at bettering themselves. Basic schooling, decent clothing, entrée to a world outside the sordid alleyways in which they had been abandoned.
Rising, she rolled up her finished drawing within a length of oilcloth and carefully tucked in the flaps, readying it for delivery to the engravers. A glance at the clock on the rough-planked table showed it was past midnight.
The boys had not yet returned from their nightly rambles and Charlotte tried not to worry about why. From the first time she had found them sheltering in the outer entryway of her tiny house, there had been an unspoken understanding that they were free to come and go as they pleased. She tried to make sure they had more than pilfered scraps of food to eat and better than tattered rags to wear. They were very bright and clever, and under her guidance they had learned to read and write . . .
But there were moments when she thought she detected a half-wild gleam in the depths of their eyes. A fierce independence, an elemental wariness that refused to be tamed.
What if they hated the idea of a nicer house, and proper schooling?
What if . . .
Whatifwhatifwhatif—
Steeling her spine, Charlotte cut off such thoughts with a self-mocking huff. Hell’s bells, if she had a penny for all the times in the past she fretted over the consequences of a decision, she’d be rich as Croesus.
She had done her best to always be forthright with them and be deserving of their trust. Unlike John Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s legendary seer and spymaster, she didn’t possess a magical scrying glass in which to see the future. She could only try to deal with the present.
And at this moment, the present was grumbling for a cup of tea.
At least she could now afford the luxury of a spoonful of sugar to sweeten it.
