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

Mr. Conway. She had stacked the colored chapbooks and hidden them under another stack of paper on a shelf of supplies in the corner so that he would not see them. Some of the chapbooks pressed late in the night were inferior to those done more carefully earlier in the day. She began to anticipate an angry reaction, perhaps even a refusal to pay for the product.
    When finally that knock came, Polly felt a jolt as if her body might leap out of her skin. She gathered herself together, took several deep breaths and moved slowly to answer the call. Upon opening the door, she found a woman with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face.
    “I am Mr. Conway’s wife,” she said. “I’ve come for the chapbooks he ordered.”
    So relieved that she didn’t face another angry man, Polly leaned heavily against the door frame and held her hands to her chest.
    “Are you feeling ill?” Mrs. Conway asked.
    “No,” Polly said, “I didn’t sleep well.” She stepped aside and gestured for the woman to enter. “I am Mrs. Nichols. Polly.”
    “Please call me Katie.”
    Polly gestured toward a bundle of chapbooks tied with yellow string.
    “Since executions are no longer for the public,” Katie said, “I argued against such a large order, but my husband said we needn’t change what worked in the past. I’ve tried to think of a way to attract more attention with the chapbooks.”
    “My husband is often too proud to listen to my ideas.”
    Katie smiled knowingly, and Polly knew they had something in common.
    Inspired to think that her mistake might become a good thing after all, she said, “Have you thought of color in the woodcut illustration?”
    “We can’t pay the price,” Katie said, shaking her head.
    Polly’s hopes dimmed.
    Still, the colored copies were a loss. If Katie could benefit from them, Polly might as well give them to her for free.
    Perhaps if they sell well, Polly thought, she and her husband will be so happy with the results they’ll ask for the color next time and willingly pay for it.
    Polly went to the shelf where she’d hidden the colored chapbooks and removed the stack of paper she’d put on top and set it aside. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I tried my hand at adding to the picture.” She pulled out a copy and offered the chapbook to Katie. “I completed your order without the color, but should you like, you may take the colorful ones at no charge.” She gestured toward the shelf. “I did close to one hundred of them.”
    Katie looked at the copy handed to her.
    Polly noted that the heavy stack of paper she’d placed on top of the stack of colored chapbooks had largely pressed flat the puckers in the illustration.
    As Katie’s eyes became large, Polly realized too late that if the woman had created the artwork, she might be protective. Despite Katie’s friendly manner, Polly thought of Bill’s anger, and feared an accusation of impertinence from the woman.
    But then Katie smiled brightly. “You made nearly a hundred like this?”
    “Yes,” Polly said, much relieved. “Should they sell well, perhaps you’ll consider color in the future.”
    “We ought to sell these for tuppence. We can but try.” Katie’s expression was delighted and hopeful.
    She paid for the order. Polly tied the colored copies to the larger bundle of chapbooks and sent Katie on her way.
     
    * * *
     
    When Bill returned that evening, he smiled to hear that Polly had earned her fee for the printing.
    “What has become of the copies you colored?” he asked, looking toward the shelf where she’d stored them.
    Polly decided he would not like that she’d given them away at no charge. “I sent them away with the dustman today,” she lied, glad that Tuesdays were the day the raggedy dustmen made their rounds on Trafalgar Street.
    Bill bristled, yet spoke quietly. “You might have used the blank side of the last pages for proofs.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying not to revisit his