A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper by Alan M. Clark Page A

on her third day of working on the chapbooks, but the unsettling recollections continued. In an effort to feel better, she opened a small set of watercolor paints and brushes her father had given her for Christmas ten years earlier, fetched a cup of water, and hand-colored one copy of the woodcut illustration, a picture of one man shooting another in the face. Polly thought she’d done a good job, although, once dried, the front page puckered slightly.
    She continued dreading the moment when the author would come to pick up his order. To keep from thinking about that, she began adding color to more copies of the picture.
    Her husband got home late. Polly, the children, and her father had already eaten by the time Bill arrived. Papa and the boys were in his room. She had colored half the run of chapbooks, and they sat staggered on a shelf by the open window to dry.
    “What have you done?” Bill shouted when he saw the colored chapbooks. “You’ve spoiled the lot of them.”
    She cowered away from his angry eyes.
    He grabbed Polly’s arms and spun her around roughly. “He’ll not pay for that!”
    Polly scrambled backwards. He punched her in the face and she fell, striking her head against the lever of the press. He moved forward and kicked her. She blocked his foot with her thigh. “No,” she cried, reaching up with her hands to ward off more blows as he struck out at her face again.
    Bill grabbed her left wrist and twisted. As she screamed with the pain, she heard little John, Percy, or both, begin to cry.
    Papa hurried from his room. “You can’t treat her like that as long as I’m here,” he said.
    Bill swung on Papa, but the elder man dodged the blow and raised his own fists. Polly’s husband knew of her father’s reputation among the costers as a good pugilist. He seemed to see the danger he’d brought upon himself, and lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. Papa backed off. Bill sat back on the bed and hung his head. Polly slowly got up from the floor, grateful for Papa’s help.
    “Mr. Conway won’t pay for the chapbooks, Polly,” Bill said quietly. “But you shall,” he added ominously.
    Polly realized what a horrible mistake she’d made. Of course, the customer had not asked for color and might therefore refuse the order. What had she been thinking? To fill an order properly, one gave a customer the required goods and service; no more, no less.
    “We’ll just see about that when he comes for them tomorrow,” Papa said, his eyes still warning Bill off.
    Polly soothed her sore cheek with gentle fingers. “Tomorrow, at noon.”
    “I thought the color a charming touch,” Papa said.
    Bill scoffed. “You don’t know the printing business. Now, get out of our room.”
    Papa passed through the door into his room. Polly heard him calming the children.
    “You shall spend every moment between now and noon tomorrow if necessary printing and binding enough of the chapbooks to make up for those ruined.”
    “May I serve your supper?” Polly asked, averting her eyes.
    “Yes,” he said. “Then to work, straight away.”
    Polly prepared him a plate and returned to the grind of printing more of the chapbooks, toiling late into the night.
    Both John and Percy slept with Papa. Bill slept, but got up around midnight and began helping her with the sewing and cutting of the books. “You’d better hope the customer is satisfied,” he grumbled.
    They worked in silence for another three hours, finishing the task.
     
    * * *
     
    Polly awoke as Bill got up at eight o’clock in the morning. Papa had already left with his barrow and the two boys still slept.
    “I shall be late if I don’t hurry,” Bill said. He dressed, grabbed a crust of bread, and left.
    Polly got up, ate, roused her boys from sleep and fed them. She tried to put her room back in order after the tumult of violence and labor from the previous night. She feared the inevitable moment when a knock on her door signaled the arrival of