It should have been obvious what knapped meant the first time she’d said it, but the newness of the word had made me deaf to the words either side of it. My hand shook a little as I finished the sentence.

“He’s a father?” I said, watching Tilda’s face. Her eyes remained shut to the sunlight, her jaw didn’t twitch.

“Little Billy Bunting, I call him. He’s five years old. Cute as a button, loves his aunty Tiddy.” She looked at me then. “He still calls me that, even though he can talk as well as anyone. He’s as bright as Bill was at that age.”

I looked at the slip.

KNAPPED

Pregnant.

“Bill got some silly girl knapped and now he’s a daddy, working all day and half the night to feed his squalling babe.”

Tilda Taylor, 1913

Bill hadn’t told her about us. He had neither bragged nor confessed. It wasn’t the first time since giving Her away that I wished I had been able to love him.

Dr. Murray called me over. “Esme, I anticipate your workload and responsibilities will increase over the next few months,” he said.

I nodded, as if it were nothing, but I longed for more responsibility.

“Mr. Dankworth will be leaving us at the end of the day and starting with Mr. Craigie’s team tomorrow,” Dr. Murray continued. “I believe he will be a great asset to our third editor. You know, better than most, how exacting he is.” A twitch of whiskers and slightly raised brows. “Such qualities will go a long way to speeding up Craigie’s sections.”

Two pieces of good news in one conversation; I hardly knew how to respond.

“Well, what have you to say? Is it acceptable?”

“Yes, Dr. Murray. Of course. I’ll do my best to fill the gap.”

“Your best is more than good enough, Esme.” He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

I was dismissed, but I didn’t leave. I chewed my lip and wrung my hands. I spoke in a rush before I could censor myself.

“Dr. Murray?”

“Yes.” He didn’t look up.

“If I am to do more, will that be reflected in my wage?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Starting next month.”

It was clear that Mr. Dankworth would have preferred to leave without any acknowledgement, but Mr. Sweatman wasn’t going to let him. At the end of the day, he rose from his chair and began the farewells. The other assistants followed suit, each repeating general niceties and comments about Mr. Dankworth’s eagle-eye. No one really knew enough about Mr. Dankworth to say anything particular.

Mr. Dankworth suffered our good wishes and handshakes, wiping his hand repeatedly on the leg of his trousers.