Here’s more of the scene:
The Peak District wasn’t far, some thirty miles north, and accessible by the rail system that brought in their goods. But once there, travel to this farm could be difficult. Mother had said the mountain folk were rough, the hillsides impassable in the winter months, and the wild animals—
“With the new train, Wellspring Collective is within easy reach of Gapton.” Mr. Fetcher eyed her. “The town still isn’t much compared to the bustle of a Midlands borough”—he swept his free hand toward the flush of morning business along The Strand—“but it’s grown into a significant trade center. No longer the backwoods.”
He punctuated this with a toss of the cloth bag. Of course, that’s why the pay was so high. They had to make the rural location appealing to attract someone. Though Mother had left before Annmar was born, surely she would have said yes for this well-paying work.
Eight gold half sovereigns would cover her train ticket north and living expenses, as well as a return ticket if this weren’t proper employment. The distance resolved her immediate problem of Mr. Shearing’s unwanted demands. However, Mrs. Rennet wouldn’t take her back if she knew Annmar had been doing other illustration work. Maybe she could ask for a break in service for family reasons?
“When would Mistress Gere like me to begin? I would need to find lodging in the area.”
“Room and board are included in your employment,” Mr. Fetcher said. “Wellspring’s employees all live on site. Mistress Gere hopes you can begin immediately.”
Room and board. Twenty shillings a week. It should be enough so that she could avoid Mr. Shearing’s offer in case she didn’t pass the trial and had to return to Derby with no position. But if she did pass it, the months of work that followed would give Annmar the money she needed to lease a shop herself, free and clear of Mr. Shearing and his…conditions.
Mr. Fetcher gestured with the pouch. “Will you accept?”
She stared at the bag, both giddy at the prospect of freedom and queasy at the deception she would attempt. But facing Mr. Shearing loomed with worse distaste.
“Yes,” she whispered, stepped closer and grasped the linen-covered coins. Mr. Fetcher released the bag, and Annmar sighed as the unexpected weight sank her hand. For a few seconds, the hidden half sovereigns slipped over each other between her fingers, clinking faintly like the call of carefree sparrows.
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