before she was this. Hanging silks on tenterhooks and her love of bright colours which had stayed with her. A picture book of memories of the fields beyond the slums where they pegged out the yarns, the colours flapping like spun gold, the flags of some ancient emperor’s palace. But then the ice water sprinkled her from the tip of an overeager oar and the boatman said, ‘Sorry Miss,’ and the shock of it woke her.
She could see the islands up ahead and the looming warehouses. The boatman held the lamp aloft and helped her up the frost-grazed steps. Nightmen looked up from their work as she glided past and tried to catch her attention and call after her.
‘Heh, my pretty? Don’t leave me, my heart is breaking.’ They laughed.
‘Lord, what a beauty. Come back, angel. We loves you, we do.’
She smiled back, black ice glinting in the moonlight, but she knew there were bridges up ahead. Pushing her svelte frame against the chill, she swished on. And there along a lane by the river, an entrance brick plain, and above, a stag bellowing in pain.
She looked at the creature briefly, then turned away, reminding herself that she would speak to the Duke tomorrow. Make a visit to where the rich people lived. She despised all of them and would soon topple their empire, but not yet. She knew she had to wait. Sedition was a piece-by-piece endeavour. Revolution a misnomer in this country, not helped by the view of fools like Ashby, that with hard work and deference something good might happen. But Madame Martineau was not of this opinion. Her vision for the future was bigger and bolder, but ambition, she had learnt, like the clothes she stitched, often came with a snag. And her snag was money. Money to keep all of this going. Hadn’t she learnt that from the king himself? The Duke of Monreith, her most loyal customer.
She turned on her heels, knowing that a deal was a deal, whoever the player. She would honour their original agreement. And Monreith would pay her. Every damn guinea for this one. She felt cold, and began to shiver and pulled her stole around her, but then changed her mind, and using nimble fingers, loosened it a little. Yes, he would pay her, she thought. Or he’d hang with her, as well.
Her printing rooms were just along a bit from the Machars Trading Company. She lit a candle and the room flickered into life, illuminating her weapon store, which was not stuffed to the gill with cudgels, pickaxes, and swords but with an artillery of papers, illustrations, and all manner of seditious material. And in the centre of the room, a printing press, which wasn’t the latest or the fastest but would do the job well enough. The Chartists with their demonstrations and calls for justice had failed. But words circulated. Periodicals were debated. Ideas stimulated. Even here in England, Madam Martineau was certain, there was still a chance.
And how ironic that her secret printing press was just a spit away from Monreith’s sprawling empire, and how he didn’t know that this was how she spent the money he paid her. Not on bottles of rum or shots of opium, or the curse of gin which so many women in her predicament favoured, but words. Superheated words which promised to ignite everything, because all around her was the grinding poverty of labour. Long ago, Madame Martineau had vowed, that come what may, she would play her part. And that these nightmen and watchmen, these sailors and rope makers, would be grateful for her. They would rise to the occasion, lit by her words. They would bring the Duke of Monreith, and all like him – the dogs and their bitches – down to the same level as she was.
And it would be worth it. The pain of keeping all of this going. Madame Martineau ran her hand along the silenced machinery and picked up one of the many periodicals she favoured. The periodical fluttered in the tallow light, the sedition so deep inside the pages, so enticing she could taste it. She held the periodical to her
She could see the islands up ahead and the looming warehouses. The boatman held the lamp aloft and helped her up the frost-grazed steps. Nightmen looked up from their work as she glided past and tried to catch her attention and call after her.
‘Heh, my pretty? Don’t leave me, my heart is breaking.’ They laughed.
‘Lord, what a beauty. Come back, angel. We loves you, we do.’
She smiled back, black ice glinting in the moonlight, but she knew there were bridges up ahead. Pushing her svelte frame against the chill, she swished on. And there along a lane by the river, an entrance brick plain, and above, a stag bellowing in pain.
She looked at the creature briefly, then turned away, reminding herself that she would speak to the Duke tomorrow. Make a visit to where the rich people lived. She despised all of them and would soon topple their empire, but not yet. She knew she had to wait. Sedition was a piece-by-piece endeavour. Revolution a misnomer in this country, not helped by the view of fools like Ashby, that with hard work and deference something good might happen. But Madame Martineau was not of this opinion. Her vision for the future was bigger and bolder, but ambition, she had learnt, like the clothes she stitched, often came with a snag. And her snag was money. Money to keep all of this going. Hadn’t she learnt that from the king himself? The Duke of Monreith, her most loyal customer.
She turned on her heels, knowing that a deal was a deal, whoever the player. She would honour their original agreement. And Monreith would pay her. Every damn guinea for this one. She felt cold, and began to shiver and pulled her stole around her, but then changed her mind, and using nimble fingers, loosened it a little. Yes, he would pay her, she thought. Or he’d hang with her, as well.
Her printing rooms were just along a bit from the Machars Trading Company. She lit a candle and the room flickered into life, illuminating her weapon store, which was not stuffed to the gill with cudgels, pickaxes, and swords but with an artillery of papers, illustrations, and all manner of seditious material. And in the centre of the room, a printing press, which wasn’t the latest or the fastest but would do the job well enough. The Chartists with their demonstrations and calls for justice had failed. But words circulated. Periodicals were debated. Ideas stimulated. Even here in England, Madam Martineau was certain, there was still a chance.
And how ironic that her secret printing press was just a spit away from Monreith’s sprawling empire, and how he didn’t know that this was how she spent the money he paid her. Not on bottles of rum or shots of opium, or the curse of gin which so many women in her predicament favoured, but words. Superheated words which promised to ignite everything, because all around her was the grinding poverty of labour. Long ago, Madame Martineau had vowed, that come what may, she would play her part. And that these nightmen and watchmen, these sailors and rope makers, would be grateful for her. They would rise to the occasion, lit by her words. They would bring the Duke of Monreith, and all like him – the dogs and their bitches – down to the same level as she was.
And it would be worth it. The pain of keeping all of this going. Madame Martineau ran her hand along the silenced machinery and picked up one of the many periodicals she favoured. The periodical fluttered in the tallow light, the sedition so deep inside the pages, so enticing she could taste it. She held the periodical to her
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