‘Words,’ I said. ‘Paper and ink. Why should words be commodities? Didn’t you say something similar to me yourself? On my first day?’

Before he could answer, the scrape and rustle of skirts and boot-heels coming to a stop. I glanced up and saw Madame, looking at me strangely.

‘Oh, yes, Madame,’ said Linux. ‘This concerns you. Your abigail has been caught, I’m afraid. Caught, yes. Thieving.’

‘What?’

Benham gave out a laugh. ‘Well, now. That’s a strong way to put it, Mrs Linux. Let the girl consider this a warning.’ He turned to me. ‘Mrs Linux will deduct from your wages a sum which I will calculate and give her due notice of. If we’re lucky you’ll pay it off before we all cock up our toes.’ He puffed himself up. ‘Let that be a lesson to us all about the grace of forgiveness.’

Linux’s jaw swung open. Her cough stuck in her throat.

I knew why Benham wouldn’t turn me out. Nothing whatsoever to do with grace or forgiveness. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, which is where all his words came from. He wanted the truth about that infant. He wanted the truth about her, also. And I hadn’t yet given him either one.

But still I wondered. Could I leave? Take myself someplace else?

Become your own woman, she’d written. The thought struck me then that perhaps I could.

I turned. Could I ask her to come? It was the drug talking, of course. The courage of the mad. She had betrayed me, I had betrayed her. But what would the world be without her in it?

She stood trembling. All of her seemed made of glass, and I saw, for the first time, her expression ‒ not shock but rage. And it was then that I looked down at her hands. There was the note I’d written, and left upstairs. My heart stuck to my ribs.

‘You have been spying on me?’

The School-house

August 1825‒January 1826

Chapter Thirty-Three

Out! Out!

Her voice rang in my ears as the door closed behind me. I stood on the step with a hand clapped over my mouth. Then I made my feet move. Across the street, past the rows of houses, along the park gates, on towards Piccadilly. Hour after hour I wandered until, when I raised my head, I saw the river. Westminster Bridge. My footsteps sounded a drumbeat, and I bent my head against the cold thwack of rain. The gas-lamps spanned one end to the other, sitting on top of their little domes. There were only a few stars. I strained to see the tall masts, and listen for the river beneath the creaking ships and the dull, rattling hackneys, wandering like great chained beasts.

I stood, clutched my shawl. Now you can be your own woman, I told myself. It was cold comfort. I had seldom been outside without a destination of someone else’s choosing. I kept hearing her last words: ‘Get out. Get out.’