Page 10 of The Finest Print

9

Accounting Ledger of E. Fletcher

Week of 22 April 1848

Secrets of the Old Bailey Vol. 1, No. 3

Earnings less expenditures—￡5

Remaining debt owed— ￡93 ￡92 10s (corrected by B. Sinclair)

Over the fortnight following the first print run, Belle watched Ethan mark the passing days with careful notations in his account book, his green eyes assessing the calendar, taking their incremental gains in stride.

She was glad someone had a reliable way of keeping track, for her own sense of time was woefully skewed. Belle was living her days twice—first through the rapid blur of the printshop, and then again during the slow crawl of night, when she lay helplessly awake, recalling each interaction with excruciating detail.

Her mornings were interminable—waking far too early, agonizing over what to wear, picking at breakfast while staring at the clock. Then she arrived at the shop, and the sheer force of existing alongside Ethan hurtled her through the day. He was everywhere —smelling of soap, whistling in the workroom, lifting her pen from her hand when he lost his. The days she went to the Old Bailey were easier to manage, but even so, his voice seemed to rumble from the margins of her pages, where she made notes of things she thought might make him laugh or scowl or rub his beard with grim consternation.

By evening, she would stumble home and force her head out of the clouds to the dinner table, half listening and hardly speaking until she could finally tumble into bed. If her family thought she was acting oddly, they didn’t say, and Belle was grateful she had so many peculiarities to lean upon, for she had never in her life felt so peculiar.

Roll. Clank. Thud.

Slide.

She tapped her pen on the desk, trying to stay on task; she still had no motive for the villainous viscount. It wasn’t easy, what with the goings-on in the workroom behind her. Tobias was inking, which meant the rhythmic rattle of the press came from Ethan. She could miserably envision the flex of his arms as he maneuvered the crank and lever. Every muffled thud of the platen evoked the beautiful ridge of muscle in his forearm, coiling and uncoiling beneath a dark dusting of hair…

Roll. Clank. Thud.

Slide.

“Miss Sinclair?”

“Oh. Hello, Sam.” Belle smiled distractedly as Sam brought a tray of type into the office. “Are you coming to keep me company?”

“If you don’t mind,” the boy said, his deep brown eyes shining. “It’s quieter in here.”

“It is,” she agreed, glancing at the workroom. “But not always better for concentration.”

Just then, the sound of the press came to a halt. It was midday, and soon the Porters would go home for lunch. She could hear Ethan and Tobias in cheerful conversation as they came to the front office. The two men together could produce just over two hundred impressions an hour, a feat that was apparently cause for frequent celebration.

Ethan hadn’t taken his own meal yet. She wondered whether he’d eat here with her, or if he’d stop somewhere when he went out for his errands. There was a tavern he mentioned sometimes. She imagined him sitting at a scrubbed table, giving that slow smile to a barmaid, and felt a familiar melancholy press upon her like a deep-seated bruise.

Belle turned back to her draft. Ethan could do whatever he liked; it was none of her business. Her business was here, on these pages. She absently jotted a sentence, tensing as he passed behind her.

“Belle, why is my accounting different?” He held the ledger she’d adjusted that morning. “You changed the amount of debt cleared.”

“Yes.” She didn’t look up. She wouldn’t engage in provocations today. “Your creditor came by earlier and?—”

Ethan’s voice was sharp. “Howe was here? With you? Without me?”

She snuck a peek at him. There was a flinty set to his jaw that thrilled her more than it should.

Belle set down her pen. She would engage in a small provocation.

“Yes.” She rolled her neck; her shoulder was cramping. “Mr. Howe stopped in to chat about the serial. He said if Irascible Nell names a character after him, he’ll dock half a pound from your debt.”

“ The debt,” Ethan groused, looking disgruntled twice over. “I’ve told you already, it’s not my debt. I didn’t create it. It just…follows me around. Like a waif.”

He shrugged off his leather apron and tossed it in the general direction of the coat rack. As usual, his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Belle gripped her pen, as if it could save her from the alarming stretch of his shirt.

“I was here,” Tobias supplied. “Howe was just being friendly.”

“Right,” Belle said, gathering herself. “So in the spirit of friendliness, I need to devise something titillating for him—perhaps a railway magnate falsely accused of smuggling jewels?”

“That’s good,” Sam said approvingly. “What kind of jewels?”

“Rubies? I haven’t done rubies in a while.”

“Howe would be more likely to steal the jewels than be falsely accused,” Ethan muttered.

“Hmm.” Belle squinted at the page. “Actually, yes. That’s quite good…I could have him acquitted, but then , after a fire at the foundry, they find the rubies in his possession.”

“Mr. Howe won’t like being a villain,” Sam pointed out.

“I suppose not.” Belle wrinkled her nose. “Fine, we’ll invent a different smuggler.”

“Would you ever write me in, Miss Sinclair?” Sam asked.

“Of course. Would you like to be a villain, victim, or hero?”

Sam thought it over. “A victim.”

“ Really ?” Belle leaned forward, intrigued. “Sam, how grim of you!”

“It’s unexpected.” Sam grinned. “Abigail might feel sorry for me.”

Belle swiveled to fully face him. “Abigail? Sam, do you have a sweetheart?”

“Not yet,” Sam said with remarkable confidence.

“Oh, I’m sure we can fix that.” Belle smiled conspiratorially, as if she knew the first thing about catching a sweetheart.

Sam snapped his fingers. “Maybe I should send her tulips, like the ones you brought in from Mr.—”

“Do either of you have work to do?” Ethan crossed his arms over the expanse of his chest. “I might remind you, this is a place of business.”

“What, precisely, do you think we’re doing?” Belle dipped her pen, already plotting Sam’s downfall. “Sam is cleaning the type sorts. I’m writing. You’re hindering us. This is business as usual around here.”

“Must you verbalize every thought in your head? I can’t concentrate on these accounts with you two prattling about burning foundries and Sam’s misguided attempts to?—”

“Do you suppose it’s easy to write penny fiction?” Belle pointed her pen at him. “It took me half a day to figure out how deep a grave a laundress could dig, and you know it.”

“It’s not as though you’re composing a complicated treatise that warrants constant consultation,” Ethan said around the start of a smile.

“Wonderful.” She tilted her head. “I’m glad you find it simple, because I’m in need of a motive for a murderous viscount. Any idea what could compel a man to act so wickedly?”

She’d meant it as a good-natured jest, but the moment the question left her lips, she regretted it. Ethan was staring at her in a way that made her whole chest burn.

“Are you ready, son?” Tobias lifted his coat from the stand.

“Cheers.” Sam didn’t need to be asked twice. “I’ll finish with this tray when I return, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Have a nice lunch,” Belle said vaguely. “Give Mrs. Porter my best…”

The Porters left, leaving Belle and Ethan with the ghost of wicked motives between them. They looked at each other for a long time, and an unmastered thrill turned over in her belly. It was happening again.

It happened every time they were alone.

“You really don’t mind writing Sam into the story?” Ethan finally asked. “Because if he’s a bother?—”

“Don’t be a grouch, Ethan. He’s no trouble.”

Sam Porter was the absolute least of her troubles.

“You’re very patient with him.” Ethan moved to Sam’s table. “It’s good of you.”

“Sam is a dear,” Belle said fondly. “Here’s hoping Abigail soon realizes it.”

At the mention of would-be sweethearts, Belle decided it best to study her draft and not the handsome line of Ethan’s profile. Even still, she felt the pull of his contemplative gaze.

“Is your mother waiting?” He began to methodically arrange the pieces of type Sam left scattered about.

“No. Not today.”

Some days, Belle left at midday, too, because while she didn’t require a chaperone, she was starting to feel she might need one.

“Have you told her what you’re doing here all day? Or are we still masking the identity of Irascible Nell?”

“Actually, I arrived at a solution.” Belle flashed him a wheedling smile. “I told my family I’m working on a literacy initiative.”

“You told them what?” Ethan raised one eyebrow.

“That I’m participating in a charity to increase literacy of young men from the laboring class.” She bit her lip. “If you think of it, it isn’t that far from the truth.”

He leveled her a look. “Depends how you measure distance.”

“Sam told me his friend Paulie saves up every week to read it,” she countered. “And you heard Tobias—the boys in their neighborhood love penny bloods, it gets them excited to read and learn ? — ”

“You wrote about a laundress faking her own death.”

“Well, now those boys know quite a bit about the limitations of an autopsy.”

Ethan laughed, a wonderful, rich baritone. “Belle Sinclair, you are a marvelous puzzle.”

A spark of confidence flared within her. Ethan never said things he didn’t mean.

“You know, now that we’re on the topic…” she started slowly. “I have an idea.”

He was still smiling. “I’m sure you have.”

“What if we were to lean just a touch more into the courtroom scenes? I could include more trial details and what have you. I certainly know enough, and I sense people find it intriguing.”

Ethan considered. “It’s an idea…so long as it stays fiction, no matter how real the inspiration,” he warned. “We can’t afford to print news.”

“Of course,” she said. “I always fabricate my court notes when I copy them over. If you’re amenable, I think it could be an interesting angle. It would set us apart.”

“Try and err and try again,” he mused. “I don’t see why not. You’re right—folks seem to like the courtroom bits. At least as much as the… inspired ends your villains keep meeting.”

She smiled, encouraged. “Do you think so? It’s not too strange?”

“Oh, to be sure, it’s strange.” He looked at her in that stark way he had, as though he was seeing exactly what was in front of him. “But it’s all right. You tell it well.”

His compliment had her swaying a half step closer to his table. He was still deftly arranging the small cast-metal pieces of type.

“What are you doing over there?”

“Composing.” He moved two more letters into place. “Old habit.”

She peered at the indecipherable phrase. “You really can read the sentence backward?”

“You get used to it.” He picked through the scattered sorts. “It has to be a mirror image.”

She tried to reorder the small letters in her mind’s eye. “I would never be suited to this,” she admitted. The very thought threatened one of her headaches.

“I can show you, if you want to learn.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the desk, where her unfinished draft waited. “That’s all right. I have my own work to complete…”

“You should know,” he said firmly. “Seeing as this is your short-term line of business.”

Curiosity won out. “I suppose I can try.”

“Let’s start with something easy,” he said, moving aside so she could join him. “Your name.”

She drew up to the table, and Ethan positioned himself behind her. Her heartbeat seized in an uneven stutter at the wall of heat against her back.

Good God . Surely, he wasn’t about to?—

Her thoughts evaporated, for he was already stretching around her, the thick ropes of his forearm circling her waist as he reached for the tray. Through her half-lowered lashes, she studied the strong flex of his wrist, the crescents of ink embedded in his short, neat fingernails. The scent of his soap was buried in his rolled shirtsleeves, and she had to stop herself from turning around to press her face in the soft cotton of his shoulder.

Ethan methodically sifted through the tray, seemingly unaffected by their proximity and her rapidly approaching swoon.

“Here we are.” He held up a letter. “ B .”

The single syllable drifted above her ear, and a slow shudder started at her scalp. The tingle spread, causing the skin on her arms to prickle.

“ B .” She rolled the sort in her palm—a small, solid little weight, still warm from his touch.

“Turn it over…”

His hand came around hers, and her eyes nearly closed.

If either of them gave an inch—if she stepped back, if he leaned down—she would be pressed to his chest, his beard dark against her hair. She couldn’t even think of it, of how good it would feel.

She fumbled the letter, and he gripped her more firmly, the calluses on his palm stamping her knuckles. With patient assurance, he worked her fingers pliant. Together, they reversed the B , setting it at the right end of the table.

“ e ,” he prompted, his voice very low.

She swallowed hard, reaching for the letter. Once again, Ethan moved her hand, his forefinger and thumb coaxing her own to flip the e and place it to the left of the B . His fingers were large and blunt yet so nimble, much more so than hers, now rendered useless in the capable cradle of his grasp.

Two l s followed in a squat little row, and she was grateful to see they were making Belle and not Belinda . She wasn’t certain she could survive two more letters.

His breath moved across her neck, heat building at the small of her back. Her free hand tightened on the edge of the table.

“There,” he whispered, his voice husky as they slotted the last e in line.

Her pulse slammed unevenly in her throat as she studied her name.

Belle— upside down, inside out.

She exhaled slowly, willing herself to settle.

“Was it difficult to learn?” she murmured, looking over her shoulder at him. “You said you started very young.”

Slowly, Ethan stepped back, moving to stand beside her. The air instantly cooled, and she was grateful for the distance and the accompanying clarity.

“Yes, I was young. Too young.” He looked at the small letters of her name. “My mother sent me to apprentice when I was hardly more than a boy. I left home sooner than I should have. And yet, not soon enough.”

An image of a small, dark-haired boy surfaced, drawn from the anecdotes they’d traded over the last weeks.

“Did you miss her?”

“Constantly.” He moved his gaze to her face. “She died after I left home.”

“Ethan…” A heartrending chasm opened within her. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he said in that straightforward way of his. “My mother was very unhappy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that too.”

He shrugged and resumed arranging type. “I come from a legacy of leavings. My mother left her family for a poor, philandering sailor, who emptied her coffers and broke her spirit. My father left her, and shortly after, she left me. And this may sound crass, but each leaving, I think, made things a bit better for whoever remained.”

She studied him, struck by his candor. “Do you really think that’s true?”

“I do now.” He scratched his neck. “I didn’t then. My work gave me a way to stand on my own two feet, and for a boy knocked down one too many times, that’s a hell of a thing, Belle. If I’d stayed with my mother, I never would have learned my trade.”

“Do you have any other family?”

She wanted to imagine there was someone who cared for him, who helped turn him into the forthright and decent man she’d spent the last weeks with.

“I had an aunt,” Ethan said thoughtfully. “She lived near the sea. I visited her when I was a boy. When my father left for good, his relations seemed to fall away too.”

“I’ve never been to the sea,” Belle admitted. “And you’ve crossed one.”

“I think you would like it,” he murmured, unwinding a smile for her. “It’s a bit like you. Entirely unpredictable.”

She hummed with soft amusement, wanting to know more—wanting, specifically, to know if a woman waited for him. But she couldn’t inquire, for it wouldn’t be fair. If she asked too much about his past, he might ask about hers, and the prospect of allowing the specter of Duncan into this printshop was enough to turn her stomach.

Within these walls, she was just Belle—free from gossip, safe from scandal. For once, her reputation had not preceded her, and she wasn’t keen on encouraging it to catch up.

“So.” She shook aside her maudlin thoughts. “That’s how you became a printer’s apprentice.”

“Believe me, it was nothing like it is for our friend Sam,” Ethan said wryly. “I did all right for myself.”

He nearly looked uncertain, and she wished she could take his hand.

“Ethan. You did more than all right .”

“Hmm.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a gentle tease. “I didn’t peg you for flattery.”

“I mean it,” she said sincerely. “It can’t have been easy, but look—you have your own shop. You didn’t let circumstances dictate where you landed. I aspire to be like that.”

“Who says you aren’t?”

“Circumstances tend to be a bit stringent for a woman like me,” she pointed out. “Need I remind you, you just typeset a story written in the corridor of the courthouse?”

“Sweetheart, you’re talking to a man who struck out to seek his fortune, only to find he was a hundred pounds behind the starting line.”

She couldn’t help it, she started laughing. His lazy smile stretched, then he was laughing too.

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” She gestured to the small sorts he’d been arranging. “Just look, even with your help, I’m hopeless. I still can’t figure out what this says.”

“Let me get you a mirror.” He reached behind him and produced a small brass mirror. “I have to check myself sometimes.”

He angled the hand mirror for her, and finally the words shifted into place. She eagerly read aloud, then slowed, her heartbeat crashing as the partial quote registered.

“ There is no exquisite beauty …”

She stared at the letters in the mirror, then at the man behind it. “This quote…”

“I didn’t have time to complete it.” Ethan’s green gaze was soft. “Nor enough ts in this tray.”

“It’s from Ligeia .” She looked up at him. “Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t know you were familiar.”

“I’m not. You left it sitting out last week.”

“You read it? Did you enjoy it?”

“Ah…” He narrowed his eyes, appearing to think it over. “Not…particularly.”

She beamed, touched he’d even tried. “It’s a bit odd,” she acknowledged.

“Odd, confusing, terrifying.” Ethan grinned swiftly. “I do like that line.”

Her eyes pricked with unexpected emotion. She longed to move closer, to tilt her face to his. She longed for him to want it too, for him to see the steps she was trying to take, for him to step the rest of the way.

After one taut, confusing beat, Ethan cleared his throat.

“I need to step out for a bit.” His tone was once more businesslike. “I’m due to deliver my next payment to Howe.”

She looked down, very much hoping he wouldn’t see the wound in her expression. She kept doing this—stumbling into the start of something, only to find a wall waiting for her. She was growing weary from fantasy, exhausted from constant proximity that was nowhere near close enough. Ethan was toeing an invisible line she had no idea how to breach.

“Will you be gone long?” She watched him shrug into his coat.

“A while. I imagine you’ll benefit from peace and quiet. I’ve kept you from your draft long enough.” He glanced up at her. “Don’t forget, I need your final page by the end of the day.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her to her work, but she couldn’t look away from Ethan’s half-finished quote. Despite the abrupt reminder he quite obviously needed her for her pages above all else, Belle was unable to muster a prickly defense. Rather, her heart felt expansive and soft, as though it was taking over the rest of her.

She lifted the tray of type and carried it to the workroom, then found a composing stick at Ethan’s table. She mimicked the way she’d seen him hold it—nestled in her left palm, her thumb marking her place. Carefully, she slotted in his letters. Then with painstaking slowness, she finished the quote, checking herself with his little mirror.

There is no exquisite beauty…without some strangeness in the proportion .

She looked at it for a long, long time.

Then she left the stick on his worktable and returned to her desk.