Burning Bright by Tracy Chevalier

Prints books an’ such on it. Pamphlets, pictures, that sort o’ thing. Dunno as he makes a living from ’em, though. I seen a few of ’em when I went looking to sell him some copper for his plates when he first moved here from across the river a year or two ago.” Dick Butterfield shook his head. “Strange things, they were. Lots o’ fire an’ naked people with big eyes, shouting.”
    â€œYou mean like Hell, Pa?” Maggie suggested.
    â€œMaybe. Not my taste, anyway. I like a cheerful picture, myself. Can’t see that many would buy ’em from him. He must get more from engraving for others.”
    â€œDid he buy the copper?”
    â€œNah. I knew the minute I talked to him that he’s not one to buy like that, for a fancy. He’s his own man, is Mr. Blake. He’ll go off an’ choose his copper an’ paper himself, real careful.” Dick Butterfield said this without rancor; indeed, he respected those who would clearly not be taken in by his ruses.
    â€œWe saw him with his bonnet rouge on last week, didn’t we, Jem?” Maggie said. “He looked right funny in it.”
    â€œHe’s a braver man than many,” Dick Butterfield declared. “Not many in London show such open support for the Frenchies, however they may talk in the pub. PM don’t take kindly to it, nor the King neither.”
    â€œWho’s PM?” Jem asked.
    Charlie Butterfield snorted.
    â€œPrime Minister, lad. Mr. Pitt,” Dick Butterfield added a little sharply, in case the Dorset boy didn’t know even that.
    Jem ducked his head and gazed into his beer once more. Maggie watched him struggling across the table, and wished now that she had not brought him to meet her father. He did not understand what Dick Butterfield wanted from people, the sort of quick, smart talk required of those allowed to sit with him on the stool he kept hooked around his foot under the table. Dick Butterfield wanted to be informed and entertained at the same time. He was always looking for another way to make money—he made his living out of small, dodgy schemes dreamt up from pub talk—and he wanted to have fun doing it. Life was hard, after all, and what made it easier than a little laughter, as well as a little business putting money in his pocket?
    Dick Butterfield could see when people were sinking. He didn’t hold it against Jem—the boy’s confused innocence made him feel rather tender toward him, and irritated at his own jaded children. He pushed Maggie abruptly from his knee so that she fell to the floor, where she stared up at him with hurt eyes. “Lord, child, you’re getting heavy,” Dick said, jiggling his knee up and down. “You’ve sent my leg to sleep. You’ll be needin’ your own stool now you’re getting to lady size.”
    â€œWon’t nobody give her one, though, and I’m not talking ’bout just the stool,” Charlie sneered. “Chicken-breasted little cow.”
    â€œLeave off her,” Jem said.
    All three Butterfields stared at him, Dick and Charlie leaning with their elbows on the table, Maggie still on the floor between them. Then Charlie lunged across the table at Jem, and Dick Butterfi eld put his arm out to stop him. “Give Maggie your stool and get another one,” he said.
    Charlie glared at Jem but stood up, letting the stool fall backward, and stalked off. Jem didn’t dare turn around to watch him but kept his eyes on the table. He took a gulp of beer. He’d defended Maggie as a reflex, the way he would his own sister.
    Maggie got up and righted Charlie’s stool, then sat on it, her face grim. “Thanks,” she muttered to Jem, though she didn’t sound very grateful.
    â€œSo, Jem, your father’s a bodger, is he?” Dick Butterfield said, opening the business part of the conversation since it seemed unlikely that Jem would entertain them