Page 15 of The Finest Print
14
Sunday, 30 April 1848
Mr. Fletcher,
Please be advised that due to obligations with my family, I will write from home this week and should not be expected at No. 62. Rest assured that in my absence, I will revise my pages on the Ursula DeVry story, per your specifications, and send them to you in a timely manner.
As you correctly intimated, our work is vital. I do not wish to cause a delay.
Sincerely,
Belinda Sinclair
Sunday, 30 April 1848
Miss Sinclair,
Thank you for apprising me of your plans, but precedent indicates revisions go most smoothly when we consult on them. Therefore, I will expect you at the shop this week.
I hope your family is well.
—E.F.
Monday, 1 May 1848
Mr. Fletcher,
No consultation necessary.
Enclosed find my proposed revisions.
You will see Ursula DeVry’s fate is now uncertain.
—B.S.
Monday, 1 May 1848
Miss Sinclair,
Your proposal is fine, but I don’t feel we had sufficient opportunity to consider the implications of a dramatic shift in narrative arc.
I added notes.
—E. F.
Tuesday, 2 May 1848
Mr. Fletcher,
Yes, I saw your notes.
I feel confident the arc is sufficiently concluded. Furthermore, during our conversation outside St. Bride’s, you instructed me to prolong the suffering.
I always do as I’m told.
—B.S.
Tuesday, 2 May 1848
Miss Sinclair,
That sound you heard rattling through your father’s house was my emphatic scoff; I imagine it was audible all the way from Fleet.
I maintain Clementina has drawn an unsatisfactory conclusion, given the established motive and evidence.
—E.F.
Tuesday, 2 May 1848
Mr. Fletcher,
I’m surprised you are unsatisfied, given the draft arrived at the conclusion you directed.
Perhaps you are in the habit of muddling motives and evidence?
—B.S.
Tuesday, 2 May 1848
Miss Sinclair?—
I will once again suggest we might benefit from comparing notes, because in my mind, the evidence was pretty damn clear.
When might you return with your pages?
I’m working faster than usual.
It seems I’ve found myself with excess energy, and my press has taken the brunt of it.
Patience is not my virtue.
—E. F.
Wednesday, 3 May 1848
Mr. Fletcher,
Patience might not be your virtue, but nor is wisdom.
If you would like my pages, I suggest you focus more on your work and less on interrupting mine.
You see, every time the messenger boy comes, I need to set down my pen, leave my bedroom, and go downstairs to see to whatever you have decided you need from me.
You can expect my final pages for next week’s issue by tomorrow afternoon.
(Enclosed please find licorice for Sam; see he gets it, if you wouldn’t mind.)
—B.S.
Wednesday, 3 May 1848
Belle—
If you think I’m going to fall behind schedule because you’re avoiding me in your upstairs bedroom, I advise you rethink your plans.
And if you want me to stop interrupting you via messenger, there is a solution to that as well.
—E. F.
Wednesday, 3 May 1848
Miss S?—
I received the licorice you sent. Thank you for thinking of me.
Are you coming back this week? Mr. Fletcher has been—in the words of my mother—ruing the day. (Not that I know what that entails, just that he’s acting the way I imagine it would look.)
Sam Porter
Wednesday, 3 May 1848
Sam,
I’m so glad you enjoyed the sweets. I’m caught up with some things and hope to come in when I am able. I also kindly ask that you remind Mr. Fletcher he will not be behind schedule, so there is no need to concern himself with what I’m doing in my bedroom.
Miss Sinclair
Wednesday, 3 May 1848
Belle—
I suppose you think I don’t see you exchanging notes with Sam Porter and ignoring me. I assume it’s because you’re finishing your draft, not because you’re enjoying the thought of me handing over my few coins to the damn messenger boy.
You know I’m pressed.
Thursday, 4 May 1848
Dear Tobias,
As promised, here are my final pages for next week. Please inform Mr. Fletcher he does not need to have me approve the galley—whatever he thinks will be fine.
Sincerely,
B. Sinclair
Thursday, 4 May 1848
Miss Sinclair?—
Thank you for sending your pages.
Mr. Fletcher would like me to extend his gratitude and also ask if you will deign to grace us with your presence soon? (In truth, I’m paraphrasing quite a bit. He can be much more creative with his adjectives than either of us suspected, but I will not be committing any of them to writing.)
Sincerely,
T. Porter
By Friday afternoon, Ethan was tense enough to snap. He felt like a caged animal as he went out on his errands, stalking a well-worn path—to the bank to withdraw his hard-earned money, to Howe’s office to hand it over, then back to the shop to glare at his ledger.
Reviewing the dubious state of his affairs was akin to rubbing salt in the wound of his mediocrity. Still, he’d prefer to stew over his accounts than over Belle’s empty chair.
Empty. All week.
And all because he’d overstepped and still fallen short.
Not that he had any idea what he’d say to her if she were here. When he thought it over, late at night, too deep in his whisky with his hand flat on his stomach, he landed somewhere between an apology and an appeal. Don’t give me more unless you want me to take it, sweetheart.
“Twenty pounds in five weeks, Fletcher,” Tobias said, drawing Ethan’s restless focus. The pressman’s tactic this week had been complete refusal to acknowledge Ethan’s piss-poor temper. “Every increased run sees a higher return. Think we can clear five thousand Saturday?”
Ethan stared at the numbers. They were selling well—the longer story arcs and enhanced courtroom intrigue were working in their favor—but he wasn’t convinced they could move five thousand copies this week. Unfortunately, if they didn’t reach those kinds of numbers in the next fortnight, he was unlikely to make it. He’d be halfway through his repayment terms and nearly out of his store of paper. He had a real fear of the looming cost to purchase more.
“Maybe four and a half,” Ethan muttered. “Not five, not yet.”
“What happened to other penny bloods do it every week ?” Sam asked as he carried a crate of assembled serials to the front office.
“Other penny bloods aren’t written via messenger boy,” Ethan groused, pacing over to his Columbian.
Sam would not be deterred. “Miss Sinclair’s projections say?—”
“It doesn’t matter what her projections say,” Ethan snapped. He hefted a leather inking ball and smeared ink on the prepared frame. “Projections don’t matter. Reality matters. We can’t clear five. We’re going to be behind.”
Sam shook his head. “You could stand to be a bit more optimistic, Mr. Fletcher.”
“He’s just out of sorts, Sam,” Tobias said.
“He’s not,” Sam countered with a grin. “I cleaned the sorts this morning.”
Ethan ignored them and slapped paper into the frisket before sending the type form juddering down the carriageway. He yanked the lever hard— too hard —knowing by sound and feel the impression was poor. He growled in frustration at his lack of restraint. The plate should gently kiss the frame, sealing ink to paper with a soft, sticky sigh. He reversed the crank, stared at the ruined page, and crumpled it up.
Another kiss he’d misjudged.
All week, he tried not to take Belle’s absence personally as he glowered at the letters delivered by a fat-pocketed messenger boy. Her notes were written in an elegant script on heavy stationery; he imagined her writing them at a desk in her bedroom, which in his mind was directly above the study where he’d pinned her to the door as he sucked on her neck.
Then he summarily tossed her letters aside, because of course it was fucking personal. They were, inarguably, the worst partners in the world. The only thing they had to do was work together, and clearly, they couldn’t .
Not with her wanting things she shouldn’t want.
Not with him wanting to give them to her.
At that moment, the door creaked, followed by the faint jangle of the newly reinstated bell. Ethan paused as the outside came in, the warm afternoon breeze curling into the shop, making its slow way to the workroom.
A soft voice greeted Sam, a slim shadow crossed the floor.
Instantly, his heartbeat slowed, then surged, then stopped somewhere in between.
That was all it took—the faintest suggestion of her, the barest murmur of her voice—and all he could see was the intolerable longing in her face as she reached for him. All he could hear was the gorgeous fracture in her sigh as she pressed his name into his throat.
It was insane—absolutely senseless—how badly he wanted to hold her. All of his blood ran hot, and he was temporarily immobilized, unable to believe how attuned to her he’d become, unable to believe how much he missed her.
Tobias cleared his throat. “Fletcher?”
Ethan snapped his head around. “Did you say something?”
“Only that I’m going out to the alley to see to deliveries.” Tobias shook his head. “I’ll likely be at the Bull after that, if you need to come round.”
Tobias went to the office, where he greeted Belle and collected Sam. Ethan’s fist wrapped around the lever of the Columbian as he heard them exchange pleasantries, then the door softly thudded as the Porters departed.
He wavered, wondering if he should speak first, what he should say, if she was standing in the office, caught in the same tense confusion.
But the only sound to come was the scrape of the chair as she settled behind the desk. He heard her open her basket, arrange her things, and then—his vexation mounted—the faint scratch of her pen.
She was writing.
She was writing . Just as always. As if this was a normal day. As if she hadn’t been gone for a week. As if he hadn’t kissed her like she belonged to him.
She wasn’t even going to acknowledge him.
Good .
An ungenerous relief ripped through him. Her nonchalance made things a hell of a lot easier. He couldn’t be soft with her, but he could be irritated. He would do it gladly .
“How fortunate you could finally join us,” he called as he strode through the workroom with aggravated intent.
“Hello, Ethan,” she said cautiously.
So it was Ethan again. In spite of how good his name sounded in her mouth, he held fast to his fight.
He swung into the office. She was perched behind the desk, wearing a dusky purple dress, her tawny hair in a tidy coil at her nape. He inhaled sharply—that damn soft mint—and his fight threatened retreat.
She looked exactly right—too pretty for her own good, certainly too pretty for his. Ethan needed one of them to be good, and he was fairly certain it couldn’t be him for much longer.
“Was your messenger boy busy today? You had to deliver Sam’s licorice in person?”
“Absolutely not.” Her eyes glinted in warning. “If you’re itching for an argument, look elsewhere.”
She saw right through him, as always, and the thorns in his chest wound tighter.
“Are we not going to acknowledge the fact that you haven’t been here for five days?”
She slid him a neat stack of pages. “I can’t imagine it set you back. I sent you a revision, as well as the next issue’s pages, and here’s the outline for the week after. Just the same as I would have provided if I’d been here.”
“But you weren’t here,” he challenged. “You were instead running me ragged .”
He stepped closer. She looked pale, a faint fatigue clouding her countenance. It seemed he wasn’t the only one feeling ragged.
“You told me we had to work together,” she explained, maddeningly patient. “I agreed. I judged it might be more productive to our business endeavor if I kept my distance.”
Her eyes moved over the general state of him. “I see my decision was the right one.”
He flattened his palms on the desk, and it lurched a bit. The damn thing was still wobbly; he should have fixed it properly. It must be even more noticeable to her after a week writing at home, at a real desk, likely one her mother picked out especially for her, something that overlooked the garden and didn’t have a stack of rotting newspapers holding it up.
“Yet, you’re here now.”
She looked at his hands, then her gaze drew all the way up the length of his arms to the tight set of his jaw. In the afternoon light, her eyes were the color of whisky.
“I did wonder if it might be best for all parties if I continue to write at home and send in my pages, but I really do need to be here for revisions.” She looked away. “Which means we need to find a way to be professional.”
“I can be professional,” he growled.
“Yes. I can see that.” She nodded somberly. “You’re acting like the consummate business associate at the moment, what with all your stomping about and staring at the neckline of my bodice.”
His eyes snapped away from the delicate lace, how it hugged the shallow curve of her breasts. Every part of his body was suddenly on fire. And now his irritation had increased tenfold.
Because she was right.
“Go on. I’d love to hear more about your assessment of professional behavior,” he grated. “I suppose disappearing for a week is on the list?”
She exhaled sharply, wincing as she reached up to knead the side of her neck.
“What’s wrong?” He narrowed his eyes, suddenly cognizant of the stilted way she was holding herself.
“A headache,” she muttered, rolling her right shoulder. “It will pass. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
He wavered. “You shouldn’t be here if you don’t feel well.”
“Please.” She shot him an exasperated look. “You wasted half your remaining paper demanding I return.”
“I need to know I can rely on you,” he said flatly. “This serial is my livelihood?—”
“I know that.” She folded her arms. “Are you so obtuse you can’t see that by now? Ethan, of course I know what this means to you. I would think you know what it means to me too.”
He was acting like a boor, and he couldn’t stop it any more easily than he could stop a seething locomotive. Her placid expression had caved to something fierce and wounded, and he was glad of it. The wall between them had turned as unsteady as the desk, and he needed her to shore up her side.
“I was simply trying to remind you this is a business,” he gritted out. “This is my business. Not all of us have the luxury of dabbling.”
“Believe me, your message is clear.” Her eyes were very bright. “Fear not, you’ll have what you need from me. I won’t upset you by offering so much as one iota more.”
He knew damn well she wasn’t talking only about the work, and he felt sick with shame and longing.
“Don’t…” Christ , he hated this. He hated it.
“I’m here, like you wanted. I’ll write, like you wanted,” she said softly. “But right now, I prefer to do it alone.”
“Belle.” His voice scraped low.
“I’m trying to compromise, Ethan, and I very much need you to let me.” She finally looked away. “Perhaps you should go join Tobias.”
He stared at her, entrenched in a battle he couldn’t possibly win. He’d thrust their work between them, used it as an asinine defense, but the bald truth was there were no defenses to be had. Every letter in his workroom was cast-metal proof of their shared endeavors. Over the last weeks he’d strung thousands of her sentences, weaving her words until her voice was all he could hear.
Now there was a new story, hanging heavy in the silence.
If he could stretch her over the desk, unbutton her bodice, bare her smooth stomach to the sun-streaked windows, what words could he roll in ink and press between them? He could write a whole damn story on her skin, all the things he longed for, all the things he feared.
Mine.
Yours.
Ours.
But even ink wouldn’t make it true.
“Fine.” He heaved a sigh, raking his hand through his dark hair. “I’ll go. I’ll leave you to it.”
In a way, it was its own kind of blessing, to finally give her something she wanted.