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month was too close to home and parental influence. He needed new premises, in London. It was this that had brought him to visit David. David had been sceptical: London wasn’t Hampshire.
    ‘They’ll scalp you as soon as they look at you, fresh up from the country, old man. Though I suppose I might find you something around here: it’s cheaper than the City.’
    Deep in thought, Matthew had walked past an estate agent’s board before its message registered. Backtracking a few paces, he scanned the wording:
    BEREAVEMENT COMPELS SALE OF A PRINTING BUSINESS AND STOCK. AN AUCTION TO BE HELD AT THE PREMISES OF PORTER’S PRINTERS, HACKNEY ROAD, SHOREDITCH AT 10.30 AM ON 24TH MAY, 1894
    Matthew’s mind was calculating. There’d be plenty to draw on in the East End: the poverty, the lowly status of women, their constant fight for survival. The thought brought a surge of excitement.
    The twenty-fourth was the next day. Ten-thirty – just time enough to check his bank account. Funds had been a bit slim of late, but if he sent a telegram to his father as to what he had in mind, with a promise to drop the journal’s political bias, he might see that his son was serious about publishing. Some of its flavour could be retained a little more subtly, and his father, he trusted, would be none the wiser.
    Coming to a decision, he signalled a cab, a four-wheeled growler, so called because most of the drivers were considered to be miserable growlers themselves, rarely given to smiling. This one, however, was nothing but smiles as he lifted the reins, glad of a fare.
    ‘Where to, guv’nor?’
    Matthew gave David’s address in Queensbridge Road. David wouldn’t object to his spending another night under his roof. An enthusiast for dubious ventures, he wasn’t at all Matthew’s idea of a solicitor. A few years of examining conveyancing contracts would probably buff off the restive edges and excitable corners and mould him into a more acceptable pillar of the legal profession. But for now he might give some advice on acquiring new premises – without charge, Matthew dared to hope.
    In the shadowy hallway, where she would be less noticeable, Harriet sat with her eldest sister, both of them in deepest mourning. It was such a relief to be up from her six-week lying-in period, with her mother pottering around bemoaning the inconvenience of her unreasonable refusal to stay with her, Mrs Hardy forever popping in and chattering nonstop, and the baby’s unrelenting demands. Between them she had been stifled. She felt stifled now by her widow’s weeds. Like the Queen, Harriet thought, who had hidden herself under hers for years, and who still dressed in black. Defiantly, she lifted her veil back over her tiny black hat.
    ‘I thought there’d be more people here than this.’
    ‘It’s still early.’ Clara’s effort to comfort didn’t help.
    The shop door opened to admit the only prospective bidder in ten minutes, together with a noisy rumble of outside traffic and a glimpse of the weather, which wasn’t heartening, the pavement looking as glossy as sugar icing from a heavy downpour. The rain had now abated a bit, and people were emerging from doorways and scurrying by – men with their necks down into collars, cloth caps pulled low; ladies with umbrellas fending off the lingering drizzle, skirts held clear of the wet. Inside the shop, gas jets lit against the dismal morning cast a stark white glow over the faces of the few men gathered there.
    Clara pressed Harriet’s hand. ‘Look, someone else coming in.’
    ‘That makes eleven.’ Nothing was going to lift her despondency. ‘Most of them have only come in out of the rain. More than likely it’s kept away anyone who would have come to buy.’
    Clara leaned nearer. She wrinkled her small nose encouragingly. ‘It’ll pick up in a minute.’
    Harriet wasn’t so sure. The screen between the printing area and the counter had been removed to accommodate the crowd she had so