Free A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper by Alan M. Clark Page B

or that her love might shift from John to Percy, leaving the older child out in the cold. With relief, she quickly discovered affection for both.
    To help make room, John, at present two years old, slept in his grandfather’s room. With the extra work the infant brought, Polly’s days began to run together.
    Her desire for drink had stalked her since her last sip of gin, distantly at first, but as time had passed, the urge had moved closer. At present, the beast crouched, barely concealed behind the closest hummock of unforeseen circumstance, looking for the right time to pounce; perhaps a moment when emotional hardship tested Polly. Aware that her abstinence was fragile, she imagined the predatory desire watching her from a distance with Mr. Macklin’s glowing eyes. She tried to keep a close watch on the beast.
    Bill brought home cases of type, tins of ink, bundles of paper, and a dozen or more additional metal and wooden devices that had to be installed on the press for it to perform its function. Polly learned how to create blocks of type to place in frames, or coffins as Bill called them, which were then placed on wooden beds and locked in place on the press. She learned how to ink properly, and then to use the great lever of the press to squeeze paper and type together to get an impression. At first, she didn’t have the strength to work the lever with enough force to get consistent results on paper.
    “Do no better than that,” Bill said, “and I’ll have to work nights as well as days to make a go of it.”
    Looking at the expression of disgust on his face, she wondered if he tried to discourage her. Shaming will not make me stronger. “I shall gain the strength,” she said calmly.
    “See as you do.”
    With persistence, she became proficient with the press. Bill brought home jobs for her to do, simple single sheet jobs at first, then more elaborate orders that required several broadsheets to be folded together, sewn, and cut to form a small book.
    Polly became fascinated with the process and the machinery. She spent her days tending her children, and trying different configurations of the mechanisms to improve her results. Within a few months, clients were coming to the lodging in Trafalgar Street to receive their orders directly from Polly and pay her. She earned more than she ever had with piece work.
    Bill kept up with all the transactions at first, yet with his mind on the work he did for his employer, he began to forget to make entries in the bookkeeping.
    “I can keep the books for the printing,” Polly told him. “You have enough to worry about.” With all the responsibilities she had with housekeeping, the two children, and working the press, she didn’t know why she’d made the offer, but she had a suspicion and decided not to look at her misgivings too closely.
    Bill looked at her skeptically.
    “I learned my maths when I were a girl in school,” she said.
    Her father overheard. “She’s always done the ciphering for me when I’ve had need of it.”
    “Show me,” Bill said.
    They sat at the table in Papa’s room, and Polly demonstrated her abilities with numbers. To see the surprise in her husband’s eyes left her simultaneously annoyed and satisfied.
    Bill came to trust her to keep the accounts for the printing. He also put her in charge of getting the ink and paper she needed and keeping a record of the costs. Within a few months, Polly was skimming off a penny here and there to go on small adventure s, as she liked to think of them; she’d stop at a pub for half an hour and have one drink. During the second adventure of that sort, she saw her old neighbor from the Scoresby Street address, Judith Stanbrough, at the Compass Rose pub.
    “If you see Bill, don’t tell him you saw me here,” she told the woman as she sat at the table with her. Judith appeared plumper than in the past. If anything, she had more freckles.
    “I won’t tell your husband, if you won’t tell mine,”