Free Theft of Life by Imogen Robertson

him.
    Behind Ferguson, two others inked and pressed the forms, the second man pulling free the damp sheets and hanging them to dry over the racks that ran the whole length of the room. There was a rhythm to it that Francis appreciated. It was a pleasure to him to see things being done well.
    ‘My guardian has a shop where he prints music,’ the boy said. Francis was surprised; the children were far better dressed than he would expect the wards of a printer to be. ‘But it is not like this. Mr Crumley works on copper plates. I’ve seen them.’
    Francis realised finally who the boy and girl were. Thornleigh … of course. ‘That is more like engraving. I have seen Crumley’s work. He is a fine artist. You must be one of Mr Graves’s wards then? I have not met him, though I know something of him, of course. Are you the Earl of Sussex? I apologise – should I have been calling you My Lord all this time?’
    The boy gave a windy sigh. ‘No. I’m only an Honourable.’ He became still, staring at Ferguson as he transferred another half-dozen lines of type to the form. ‘Graves started looking after me after my mother killed herself and tried to kill me. She set fire to the Hall and she had Jonathan and Susan’s father murdered. They don’t really blame me, but I know they think about it sometimes. Especially Susan when people try and make her a lady and she wishes she still lived over the music shop.’ He said it simply. ‘I remember she was beautiful.’
    ‘Your mother? Have you not seen her picture?’ Francis asked.
    The boy shook his head and reached out to touch the damp sheets. The breeze from the window stirred them, and they seemed to sigh and whisper. ‘I am not supposed to talk about what happened. It upsets people.’
    ‘It must,’ Francis answered, then hesitated. Perhaps the boy’s guardian had his reasons, but Francis had last seen his own mother when he was six years old; her face had become clouded in his memory as if it were sinking away. He wondered what he would give to see her portrait. ‘Come with me, Eustache.’
    He led him downstairs, picked a volume off the shelves as he passed, and took the child to a quiet corner. Susan had begun to sing as she played, one of the dozen tunes that appeared each month about flowers and sweet maidens. She had a pleasant voice. Francis opened the book he held to one of the illustrations sewed in with the text and showed it to the boy. It was an engraving of Eustache’s mother, copied from the Gainsborough portrait. The engraver had added a frame, and an inscription of her name,
Jemima, Countess of Sussex
. She was indeed very beautiful, and her large, dark eyes were the mirror of Eustache’s own. The boy took the volume in his hands and stared. Francis put his hand on his shoulder and felt him tremble. He would happily have made him a present of the book, but he could not. It was a volume of family romances, and contained an account of Jemima that Francis felt Eustache should never read.
    The street door opened behind them and the music came to an abrupt halt. Francis heard Mrs Service’s voice; her tone was a little sharp, and he turned away from the boy so he could greet his latest guest.

I.9
    T HE DRIVE FROM ST Paul’s to the Barbican was painfully slow, and though Mrs Westerman was an excellent horsewoman, she had to concentrate to manoeuvre the little vehicle through the carts and carriages along St Martins Le Grand. Once or twice her groom hissed as she came rather close to a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. She managed to ignore him. Mr Bartholomew was either well used to the London traffic, or had developed a quick and absolute faith in her skills. He supplied the conversation himself and it seemed to centre more on Sir Charles Jennings than on Mr Trimnell or his widow.
    ‘He is a remarkable man, of course. So many men who inherited wealth in the West Indies remained in England and left their estates to be run by lesser men and