The Flight of Sarah Battle by Alix Nathan Page B

opposite scanning her face.
    She reddens, pleased, embarrassed, unsure what to do or say.
    â€˜And shall I suggest how much you should charge, Joseph?’ Digham asks.
    â€˜No, William. I’ll not sell it.’
    *
    He constructs a bed for her of sorts for she won’t hear of his giving up his; comes home with a mattress on his back that doesn’t look too bad. She offers to cook for him so he picks up a frying pan and saucepan from a street-seller. She tidies and cleans one end of the large room, not daring to touch the other half where he works.
    She gathers together the books she finds scattered on the floor, on the mantelpiece, under heaps of paper, and places them on shelves. Recites the titles to herself like a prayer of worship: Paradise Lost , Paradise Regained , Paine’s Rights of Man Part I (Part II lives beside his bed), Age of Reason , Volney’s Ruins of Empires , Martin’s Philosophical Grammar , Shakespeare’s plays, Cowper’s poems, Defoe, Goldsmith, Voltaire, Homer. In between she wedges pamphlets: Priestley’s ‘The Importance and Extent of Free Enquiry’, Thomas Day’s ‘The Dying Negro’.
    â€˜I don’t suppose I’ll read most of those books again,’ he tells her. ‘I have far too much to do. A paragraph of Paine is about all I can manage these days.’ She takes a couple for herself: Bewick’s General History of Quadrupeds , Johnson’s Lives of the Poets .
    They discuss Matthew’s ‘rescue’ with scant hope and she begins a letter to her brother. He works at two plates for Digham, breaking off frequently to sketch her as she reads, as she writes. At other times she wonders if he remembers that she’s there at all, so engrossed is he in drawing and etching at his bench. Then sees how he stares at the wall before him, not moving for minutes at a time, in a paralysis of concentration.
    She gives him all the money she has, for her keep. It’s not much and he accepts it.
    â€˜I shall take in fine sewing,’ she tells him. ‘In another week, when perhaps they have stopped looking for me. When that money runs out.’
    Joseph grunts. He is busy: with his right hand he clasps the wooden mushroom handle of the burin, pushing its lozenge point into metal, forcing out curls of copper that cover the floor around his bench. With his left hand he holds the corner of the copper plate which rests on its leather pad, turning it to accommodate the burin’s movements. The hands move in harmony with each other, creating harmony. To her he is a master.
    A few days pass. Lucy’s ways are quiet; she is the visitor, the intruder. Joseph is kindly, smiling; impatient, tetchy. Loud, boisterous; silent for hours.
    One morning he doesn’t rise.
    â€˜Are you ill?’ she asks, but he waves her away. She tries to read.
    â€˜Go away! Leave me be!’ he shouts at her later when she asks again.
    She hears him groaning into his pillow. Dares approach.
    â€˜Worthless. My work is worthless. I shall abandon it.’
    â€˜Joseph, your work is wonderful! William Digham says so, not just me.’
    He ignores her. ‘Yes, I’ll give it up. I’ll buy a cart, a horse, collect night soil. What’s the difference? It’s muck. What’s the point of these drawings? Prints! It’s no good, any of it. To the dung heap with it! I might just as well set up as a goldfinder!’ He moans, clutches his head with both hands.
    She wants to cry, to laugh. He is ridiculous. Or is he? Eventually he gets up, counts out countless drops from a ribbed glass bottle. His head crashes onto his desk and he seems to sleep. Awake, he leafs through his sketches, flings them on the floor, stands before the fire staring at his feet. He has not spoken for more than a day.
    â€˜I’m going out tonight, Lucy. You will not mind?’ He looks into her face so intently she turns away.
    â€˜How could I mind,