The Linnet Bird: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

Mr. Broughton had let me experiment more than once in those few moments of stolen time. I had washed vellum and colored initials and even stamped gold tooling into a ruined piece of calfskin. He seemed to enjoy the clandestine activities—quickly showing me this and that, glancing over his shoulder all the while—as much as I did.
    Da’s snicker had turned to laughter and he enjoyed himself for a full minute before telling me, as he wiped at his eyes, to do what I did best—fill his bowl with more potatoes—and to never again mention such ridiculous plans as governesses or finishers.
    Later that evening the fever that had been toying with my mother for the last twenty-four hours took a firm grip.
    And less than a year after she died, Da brought home Mr. Jacobs.

 
     
    Chapter Three

     
    A FTER THE VISIT FROM M R. J ACOBS, R AM KEPT ME BUSY. I never again called him Da; I rarely addressed him at all, but if I did, it was by his name. Ram couldn’t bring customers to our second-floor room on a regular basis, afraid that if the landlord got wind of what was going on we’d be thrown out or, worse for my father, the landlord would demand a percentage. Instead, after I came home from my ten hours at the bookbinders, he’d make me change out of my ragged and stained work dress into a clean, childish frock and pinafore he’d bought from the pawnshop. I’d plait my hair, put on the straw bonnet with blue ribbons he’d brought home along with the dress and pinafore, and then he’d take me to the customers.
    I never knew how he found the men. They were always old, or so they seemed. And they were men who liked what I was then, a small, delicate child who appeared at the doors of their hotels or lodging or boarding houses, my hand held by the short, broad, loutish fellow.
    There were all manner of men. Most came to Liverpool on business from London or Manchester or from Scotland or as far away as Ireland. Some were rough, and some were kind. Some took ages to finish and others were off almost as soon as I lifted my skirt and sat on the edge of the bed or leaned over a table.
    While I might visit two unknown men some nights, an hour each—Ram was always waiting to knock on the door to collect the money when their time was up—there were also regulars who paid for the whole evening. I had a Monday, a Wednesday, and a Thursday. These three became quite dear to me, really, because they were the kind ones; they would rather see a child smile than cry. With them I knew what to expect and from them I learned about myself.
    Monday insisted on calling me Ophelia and always wept after his rather lackluster, predictable performance, giving me bags of sweets and stroking my hair. He told me about Shakespeare, quoting from his plays and sonnets. Monday said he was a playwright as well, like Mr. Shakespeare, but could get no recognition. He said when he’d grown obsessed with his need to have his work taken seriously, ignoring all else, his wife left him, taking their young daughter. At this his tears turned to deep sobs and he would shake his head, gazing at me in the rumpled bedding as if it grieved him terribly to have me near him, and yet he couldn’t keep away. “My innocent,” he’d say, wringing his hands. “So innocent, so pure, but one born of a need to understand life’s mysteries. I see it there in your face, your desire to make sense of all that’s around you.”
    Wednesday simply wanted to watch me bathe and always had a copper hip bath filled with warm water waiting for me in front of a cheery fire. After I’d washed all over, soaping my hair with sweet-smelling lavender soap (he brought a new bar each week and let me take home the used one), he’d dry me with thick soft towels and carry me to the bed. He found his pleasure in looking at me and cautiously touching my skin; whether he was unable to perform or simply ashamed of something beneath the clothing he kept tightly buttoned at all times I never knew, but