Page 179 of The Armor of Light
He said: ‘What’s the magazine?’
‘The Ladies’ Diary: or, Woman’s Almanack.’
He was surprised. ‘They have maths puzzles in a women’s magazine?’
She looked up at last. ‘Why not?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought women could do maths.’
‘Of course we can! You know I’ve always liked numbers.’
‘I thought you were exceptional.’
‘A lot of women pretend they don’t understand numbers because they’ve been told that boys don’t like clever girls.’
That was a novel idea to Hornbeam. ‘You’re surely not saying that underneath they’re as clever as men?’
‘Oh, no, Father, definitely not.’
She was being sardonic. Not many people had the nerve to disagree with Hornbeam, let alone mock him, but Deborah was one of the few. There was no danger of her pretending to be stupid. She was bright and he enjoyed arguing with her.
Her husband was not beside her. Will Riddick had gone wrong.He had lost his source of wealth when he had been moved from his position as head of purchasing for the Shiring Militia. He still had his rents from Badford and his army pay, but that was nowhere near enough to maintain his way of life – especially the gambling – and he was broke. Hornbeam had loaned him a hundred pounds, for Deborah’s sake, but Riddick had not paid it back; in fact, three months later he had asked for more. Hornbeam had refused. Now Riddick had left his Kingsbridge house and gone back to Badford village. Deborah had refused to go with him, and Riddick seemed not to care. They had no children, so the separation was uncomplicated.
It was not what Hornbeam would have wished, but he liked having Deborah living with him.
The clock chimed half past nine, and Hornbeam stood up. ‘I must go and deal with the poor of Kingsbridge,’ he said with distaste, and he left the room.
In the hall his grandson, Joe, was playing with a wooden sword, fighting an imaginary enemy. Hornbeam looked fondly at the boy and said: ‘That’s a big sword for a six-year-old.’
‘I’m nearly seven,’ said Joe.
‘Oh, that makes it completely different.’
‘Yes,’ said Joe, oblivious of sarcasm. ‘When I grow up I’m going to kill Bonaparte.’
Hornbeam hoped the war would be over before Joe was old enough to join the army, but he said: ‘I’m glad to hear it. We’ll be well rid of Bonaparte. But what will you do after that?’
Joe looked at his grandfather with innocent blue eyes and said: ‘I shall make a lot of money, like you.’
‘That strikes me as a very good plan.’ And you will never know the hardship I suffered as a boy, Hornbeam thought. That is my great consolation in life.
Joe resumed fencing, saying: ‘Get back, you French cowards.’
The French were anything but cowards, Hornbeam reflected. Fortwelve years they had resisted all English attempts to crush their revolution. But that was too subtle a thought to share with a patriotic six-year-old, even one as bright as Joe. Hornbeam put on his coat and went out.
He had recently been made overseer of the poor in Kingsbridge. It was a job few people wanted, involving a lot of work for little reward, but Hornbeam liked to have the reins of power in his hands. Poor relief was distributed by the parish churches, but the system was monitored by the overseer. It was important to make sure the ratepayers’ money was not going to idlers and wastrels. Hornbeam visited each parish once a year and sat in the vestry with the vicar, listening to sob stories from men and women who could not feed themselves and their families without help from those who were not so improvident.
Today he went to St John’s, south of the river, formerly a semi-rural parish, now the crowded neighbourhood of houses built by Hornbeam and his son, Howard, for the hands working in the riverside mills.
The vicar of St John’s, Titus Poole, was a thin, intense young man with a soulful look. Hornbeam was wearing a wig to enhance his dignity and authority, but Poole was not. He was probably one of those people who thought wigs were unnecessary and cost too much and looked silly. Hornbeam despised him. The worst kind of soft-hearted clergyman, he was so keen to help people that he never thought of teaching them to help themselves.
In the first few minutes they granted relief to several undeserving cases: a man with bloodshot eyes and a red nose who clearly had enough money to get drunk; a woman who was fat despite the poverty she claimed; and a girl with three children who was a known prostitute and had appeared before Hornbeam at petty sessions more than once. Hornbeam would have clashed with Poole over every case, except that there were rules, and it was the duty of both men to follow them. That enabled them to reach agreement – until Jenn Pidgeon arrived.
She began speaking as she walked in. ‘I need help to feed my boy.I’m penniless and it’s not even my fault. A four-pound loaf is more than a shilling now and what else can people eat?’ She was angry and articulate and showed no fear.
Poole intervened. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, Mrs Pidgeon. Alderman Hornbeam and I will ask you questions. All you have to do is answer truthfully. You say you have a son?’
‘Yes, Tommy, fourteen years old, and he looks for work every day, but he’s small and not very strong. Sometimes people pay him to run errands or sweep up.’
