Chapter 22
Small and shabbily dressed, with graying dark hair, untidy side-whiskers, and rounded shoulders, the man said his name was Ian Trent.
One of many struggling shoemakers clustered between Fetter Lane and Shoe Lane, he agreed to talk to Hero in exchange for her buying a pair of his ready-made baby shoes.
“And will ye be writing the truth of what I tell ye?” he said, eyeing her warily as he wrapped up her purchase in brown paper.
“Or will ye be prettying it up so’s all the fine ladies in their grand, comfortable houses over there in Mayfair don’t need to feel bad when they read about what life has become for the likes of us? ”
Hero paused with her notebook halfway out of her reticule.
“I am careful to avoid recording political opinions that might get those I interview—or the newspaper—in trouble with the authorities. But I can promise you I have no intention of coddling ignorance or shying away from the painful realities of our day.”
His face lit up with reluctant admiration. “Right, then,” he said with a quick nod. “What were ye wantin’ to know?”
Hero opened her notebook. “How is business today compared to what it was three or four years ago?”
He laughed out loud. “How’s business? I’ll tell ye how business is.
I used to earn three to four pounds a week.
You wouldn’t credit it to look at me now, would ye?
But war is good for shoemakers. Soldiers on the march need a constant supply of boots, don’t they?
Problem is, all wars eventually end. And then what?
It all comes crashing down, that’s what.
Between the weather and Liverpool’s stinkin’ Corn Laws, the price of bread keeps going up while wages keep going down.
So who’s gonna buy my shoes? Ye tell me that.
Two years ago I had a proper shop. Now I can barely make a go of it here.
” He jerked his head toward the rough shed behind him, then looked away, his jaw set hard.
“I understand some shoemakers are trying to get into other occupations.”
“Aye. Either that, or they leave town. If I were younger and single, I’d pack up my kit and go on the tramp myself. I know half a dozen or more who’ve done it. But from what I’m hearing, it’s no easier making a go of it in places like Yorkshire or Cornwall.”
“You’re married?”
“I am. My Jenny does embroidery for a dressmaker over on Piccadilly. She didn’t used to need to do that. But we’ve four little ones still at home.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Well, there’s five left alive, but my eldest, Liz, is in service.
We had two older boys, once, but they took the King’s shilling.
Jack died at San Sebastian, while Graham, he disappeared in some place called Louisiana.
Nobody knows what happened to him. My Jenny, she keeps hoping he’ll come home someday, but me, I reckon he’s dead, too. ”
“I’m sorry,” said Hero.
The shoemaker blinked and looked away. “Time was, I considered myself a patriot. Thought everything England did was just and right—told myself my boys died fighting against tyranny and the ungodly.” He gave a ragged laugh.
“It’s funny how, looking back, I realize I never gave a thought to so many things—things like how a government is structured, and who has a say in it.
It was just something that…was. But hardship and fear change a man, ye know?
Change him and make him think. And when ye think about it, ye realize how much just ain’t right in our world.
It’s not right that there’re millions of people out there who’re working hard but still starving—starving and freezing to death, while at the same time there’s a few thousand men who do next to nothing besides tell the rest of us what to do, and they’ve more money than anybody could ever need.
How is that right? Ye tell me: How is it right? ”
Hero closed her notebook. “Did you go to the public meeting up at Spa Fields a few weeks ago?”
“I didn’t, no. But I’m plannin’ on being at the next one. If we join together and make ourselves heard, eventually Liverpool and Sidmouth and the rest of that lot have gotta listen. Don’t ye think?”
He looked at her with such hopeful expectancy that it made her heart ache, to realize how much he still believed in the system that was failing him and others like him so badly. “Surely,” she said, because there was always a chance, maybe, that what he wanted to believe was true.
It was later, when Hero was going over her notes from her interviews beside her drawing room fire, that Jarvis came to see her.
“Good morning, Papa,” she said, smiling as she rose to kiss his cheek. “This is a pleasant surprise. And how are Victoria and my little baby brother?”
“Both are well, thank you.”
“Always good to hear. Shall I order us some tea?”
“Thank you, but no; I can’t stay long,” he said, going to stand with his back to the fire. “I’ve come to ask what your interest is in Kate Price.”
Hero sank back into her chair, her head tilting to one side as she looked up at him. “Having her watched, are you? Or at least, I assume your men are watching her and not following me?”
“Of course she’s being watched. The woman is an incorrigible Radical. If she had her way, we’d see guillotines set up at Charing Cross.”
“Actually, I suspect she’d be content simply to see a wee bit more than three out of a hundred men having the right to vote.”
“Perish the thought,” said Jarvis.
Hero smiled.
He was silent for a moment, his features inscrutable as he studied her. “And the leather staymaker, Caleb Jackson? What have you to do with him?”
Hero no longer felt like smiling. “My, my, aren’t your minions busy? Watching him as well, are we? As it happens, I interviewed him for an article I’m writing. Why?”
“The man is a troublemaker.”
“Well, he’s certainly articulate.” She studied his grim, closed face. “What exactly are you planning?”
“The only thing I’m planning is to preserve this monarchy.”
“To preserve it as it always has been?”
“To preserve it as it must be.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”