The Linnet Bird: A Novel Read Online Free

anything as unimportant as a book. I kept them hidden under my own pallet and most evenings, when my mother was asleep and Da out at a tavern or public house, I’d read until I fell asleep.
    My favorites of these readers were the dozens of volumes in the
Friend to Youth
series. There were questions and answers on subjects ranging from history to business to geography to poetry. Of course I couldn’t be choosy; once, the only new one I had to study for a whole two weeks was
A Catechism of Mechanics: An Easy Introduction to the Knowledge of Machinery.
    My mother also taught me to look people in the face when I spoke to them and she always, always corrected my speech, telling me that if I spoke like the people on the street and in the factories I would never rise above them. “And you must get yourself away from here, Linny,” she’d often say. “There’s more than this, more than the street and the work. I can’t bear to think of you never knowing anything else.”
    Da laughed at her, asking her what she meant about rising above anyone. What did she think she was getting me ready to be—did she imagine I’d become a lady’s maid, as she claimed she had been? “She’ll stay at the bookbinders with you, a well-respected trade, and then find someone to marry her, get her away from my table. Let someone else worry about feeding her.”
    But my mother never stopped planning. It was as if she were desperate, determined to never let me forget that she hadn’t come from this place, and that I must leave it by any means. Dreaming of a better life for me seemed to bring her the only moments of happiness she knew.
    “She could be a governess, if given a chance. She has a fine way with reading. She would be perfect as a governess,” she’d said one night at supper. “If only she had the proper clothing, she might, through the church, be put in touch with the right people. It need never be mentioned she’s from off Vauxhall Road. She’s perfected my voice. It could be said she’s come down from Scotland. Her background need never . . .” Her voice trailed off. She had a dull sheen on her brow and more than once during the meal of bacon crumbled into boiled potatoes, which she didn’t touch, she put her hand to her forehead, then pulled away her fingers and looked at them, as if in surprise. “If she were but given a chance,” she repeated, the unusual flush on her cheeks growing even deeper, “my girl would do me proud.” There was a dangerous spark in her eyes, and interpreting it as boldness, I matched it with my own, speaking out as I never had around Ram Munt.
    “I know what I’d like to do,” I said, and my mother turned to me, her mouth in a strained smile, expecting, I’m sure, my agreement with her on her vague plan, even though we both knew that a girl from the low end of Liverpool could never pass as a governess. “I’d like to decorate the books at the printers.”
    The odd smile faded. “What do you mean?”
    “I’d like to be a finisher, like Mr. Broughton in the Extra Finishing shop.”
    Her face darkened. “When have you been up there, to the third floor?”
    “The overlooker sometimes sends me up with messages for Mr. Broughton. There are beautiful things there.” I smiled, remembering. “I’ve seen him laying a book with gold and then stamping it with heated tools. There were ever so many tools—rounds, scrolls, diamonds, and all the letters. And Mr. Broughton can create whatever design comes out of his own head, pressing those hot shapes and letters. Oh, think of it! To create such a wondrous—” I stopped, seeing disappointment on my mother’s face, hearing Ram’s snicker.
    “But that’s not a job for a lady,” my mother said. “No woman could ever do that. You know it’s only boys brought in as apprentices to the finishers. And that of course only men are clever enough for the Extra Finishing. Whatever would put that idea into your head?”
    Now I couldn’t admit that