Page 57 of A Marriage is Arranged

That morning the Earl had paid a visit to The Times publishing house.

“My name is Shrewsbury,” he said, on being introduced into the offices of John Walter, the editor. “You are going to give me the blocks used to print the illustrations of the caricatures you recently published, together with the original sketches, which are, in fact, property stolen from my home. I could sue you for publishing material to which you had no right. But because I recognize the commercial loss to you, I am prepared to pay you five hundred pounds.”

The publisher made a sound of dissent, but the Earl held up his hand.

“The tax on newspapers is fourpence and you sell yours for sixpence,” he continued. “You therefore receive twopence per paper. I am offering you the value of sixty thousand newspapers. I am reliably informed your circulation is five thousand a day. That is twelve days of circulation. You will correct me if I am mistaken. We all know the term a nine-day wonder . These caricatures are no more than that. You will come out ahead.”

“But my dear Lord Shrewsbury!” replied the editor, “Much as it pains me to say it, they are not for sale. We are entertaining offers to make them into a book.”

“It will pain you a great deal more if you don’t immediately hand them over. ”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall find the woodblocks which are no doubt on the premises and break them over your head.” The Earl spoke quite calmly.

Looking at his powerful physique, the editor did not doubt he could do it. But he was a courageous man.

“You would not dare!”

“Do you place your faith in that? You are mistaken. Consider my position: I am a man seeking to protect the honor of his wife. I am the victim of a theft from which you have profited. I have made you a good faith monetary offer. What court would blame me if in the heat of passion I subject you to injury?”

Mr. Walter could see he was beaten. He knew the Shrewsbury name. He knew his lordship had the ear of the most powerful people in the land. His father had run afoul of the aristocracy often enough, and had ended up twice in Newgate. The son had no desire to follow suit, nor, it must be said, to have his head broken. Besides, he had not known the caricatures were stolen.

“Very well,” he conceded. “Give me the money and I’ll have my people bring up the woodblocks.”

“You will forgive my natural skepticism, but I prefer to see them where they lie. Who is to say if, in the confusion of the moment, one or other of them might be forgotten?”

Grumbling, the editor led his lordship to a downstairs chamber where a number of men were sitting around a large table, busily engraving on quite small pieces of wood. Gareth’s curiosity overcame him.

“Surely these blocks aren’t big enough for images the size of those you publish?”

“No,” agreed the editor. “We put several together. We have to use boxwood, you see, because it holds up to the presses better than any other wood. But it has to be cut across the grain, and the pieces don’t come very big. We have to have several artists working on one illustration. They each do a section. We lock it together after. Anyway, your blocks and the originals are over there.”

He gestured to a pile standing on a side table. The Earl counted them. He knew how many images had been published. They were all there. In a folder next to them sat Louise’s drawings. He picked them up.

A few minutes later the business was accomplished. The woodblocks were in his lordship’s carriage and the five hundred pounds were in the editor’s pocket.

The Earl extended his hand, “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to break your head. I like you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” replied John Walter, but he took the proffered hand.

His lordship laughed and left him.

The editor then went immediately to the reporters’ pool and spoke to the man who had bought the caricatures from Freddy.

“You want to be more careful where you get stuff from, my lad,” he said. “Those caricatures were stolen. We could’ve been in a lot of trouble. I’ve sorted it out, but if it happens again, it’ll be your job.”

The next time Freddy put in an appearance, the reporter told him to push off. “Nearly cost me my job, you did,” he said. “I’m not taking another tip from you, and neither will anyone else if I know anything about it.”

So Freddy never did make the money he dreamed of. He continued to deliver newspapers and charm the kitchen maids until he was finally forced to marry one. She wasn’t as scrupulous about the ring on her finger as Rose had been, and enjoyed the pleasures of marriage before the event, with the inevitable consequences. He quickly forgot Rose, but then, to do her credit, she just as quickly forgot him.

When the Earl got home he jumped out of the carriage and prepared to go inside.

“What shall we do with them wooden things, my lord?” asked the groom who had leaped down to pull out the unnecessary steps.

“Burn ’em. All of them. Nothing but ashes, you hear?”

The groom nodded and did as he had been told. He made a bonfire and was amazed how long it lasted. The lads in the stables baked themselves a few potatoes in the ashes.

“That were some good wood,” they agreed.