Page 2 of The Finest Print

1

April 1848

London

…When you dock in Liverpool, arrange for locomotive transport to London via the North Western Railway to Euston Station. (If your funds allow, I recommend a first-class carriage—anything less is markedly uncomfortable!) Send your itinerary to my offices at this address, and I will meet you beneath the Doric Arch, timed to your arrival in London.

—Excerpt, letter from Mr. Hubert Gabler to Ethan Fletcher, dated February, 1848

“Careful now, Mr. Fletcher, you’ll want to watch for mud.”

Ethan lifted his boot from a sluice of sludge, then raised one dark eyebrow at Mr. Gabler, his avuncular new lawyer. No, his solicitor . Apparently, the specific nature of Gabler’s work demarcated him a solicitor in England, as he first announced via letter, then again when he greeted Ethan at Euston station. Ethan didn’t give a damn what Gabler was called, only that he was waiting as promised. As it were, it had taken a quarter hour to disembark from the locomotive, secure his luggage, and determine where the hell to find the Doric Arch. He might very well have left again if the portly solicitor hadn’t been bouncing anxiously beneath it.

“Come, Mr. Gabler, we both know this isn’t mud.” Ethan gave an experimental sniff and instantly regretted it when the choking stench hit his nostrils.

The two men jostled through the crowd and exited the railway station, leaving behind the seething locomotive. The chaotic bustle of the platform spilled into the street, where porters grappled with trunks, trading curses as they sidestepped disoriented passengers and harried pedestrians.

“Welcome to London.” Gabler’s nose wrinkled above his bushy mustache. “Fear not. Conditions will somewhat improve by the time we arrive on Fleet Street.”

Ethan frowned, trying to absorb the gobsmacking tableau of this new city while maintaining a semblance of nonchalance. Some of this maddening urban crush was familiar to him; Boston, after all, was bursting at its seams. But he’d cut his teeth in Boston. It’s where he had his last kiss from his mother, his first kiss from a girl. He knew to avoid the Charles Street side of the Common. He knew he best be at Quincy by quarter to dawn if he wanted to secure breakfast at his favorite pushcart.

He didn’t know what to make of the behemoth unfamiliarity of London. The world had turned to fog, and there was no telling what was shrouded beneath the thick gray cloak.

At least it was a stationary gray cloak.

For sixteen days, Ethan Fletcher had been moving, but rarely by means of his own two feet. He’d been forced into idleness— relying on other men to transport him first across the Atlantic, then across England—all while he sat, restlessly anticipating whatever the hell awaited him. He wasn’t used to sitting still; nor was he used to the immediate, oppressive filth of London. Looking at the thickly smeared cobblestones beneath his feet, he was almost sorry he’d finally run out of conveyances.

Boston to Halifax, Halifax to Liverpool, Liverpool to London. Two weeks of hellishly confined space, beginning on the lurching Hibernia , where his cabin was about as spacious as a coffin. It had been impossible to comfortably stretch the full length of his broad frame across the so-called bed; after some unfortunate bruising during a particularly rough storm, Ethan had finally hauled his pallet to the floor. But the steamship was pure luxury compared to the second-class carriage on the locomotive from Liverpool, which had a roof but open sides. Ethan shared a bench with a mother and her three small children, the younger two of whom he’d covered with his overcoat when afternoon rain blew through the compartment.

By the time he disembarked at the Euston railway station to meet the mysterious Mr. Gabler, Ethan was so grateful to be on solid ground, he almost didn’t notice that ground was covered in…well. Some of it might have been mud.

“This will do,” Ethan said to a pair of porters. The lads heaved his trunk to the dirty street and waited expectantly. Ethan dug for his wallet, fumbling with the unfamiliar coins. He exchanged his money in Liverpool, but the harried cashier had done a piss-poor job explaining the currency.

“Here.” Gabler plucked a coin from the jumble in Ethan’s palm. He wanted to ask what, exactly, he’d just paid but opted to stay ignorant for now. This damnable voyage had substantially cut into his savings, and so far, all he’d got for his sum was a sour stomach, a wet coat, and shit on his boots.

“I’ve secured transport.” Gabler ushered him along the teeming street. “Just here.”

Ethan eyed the congested line of carriages and hansom cabs. “It’s too far to walk?”

Gabler shook his head. “Much too far, especially with luggage. The station is outside the city center, Mr. Fletcher.”

Right . Ethan sighed and hefted his trunk.

“Very well, Gabler. After you.” He rolled his shoulders, the muscles in his forearms straining to accommodate the cumbersome bulk of the trunk. “I have to say, I’m curious to see the promised improvement of Fleet Street. Unless we’re signing papers in your office?”

Gabler’s jovial expression noticeably dimmed. “I think we should perhaps start with your lodgings, get you settled. I took the liberty of sending a woman to clean the residence above the shop. A bath and a beer will improve your spirits, don’t you think?”

Ethan shortened his long stride to allow the solicitor to keep pace. “Gabler, I’ve traversed half the damn globe to secure a wholly unexpected but decidedly welcome inheritance. I know I look like a bedraggled brute, but I assure you, now I’m here, my spirits are just fine.”

Gabler blinked. “Did you…ah…not receive my letter? I know it took an age to locate your whereabouts, but?—”

“Of course I got your letter.” Ethan shifted the trunk. “How else would I know where to meet you today?”

“Not that letter.”

If Ethan wasn’t very much mistaken, his new solicitor visibly gulped.

“My second letter.”

Ethan stopped in the middle of the street. No fewer than four drivers shouted at him, but he paid them no mind. What he’d just told Gabler was no exaggeration—he’d come to London to seek his future, and he was putting his grimy boots nowhere except the threshold of his new printshop.

“What second letter, Gabler?”

Gabler shook his head and pointed to a vacant cab. “A bath, a beer, then business, Mr. Fletcher. I think we’ll both be better for it.”

And just like that, the smell of his boots was the least of Ethan Fletcher’s problems.

The first letter—the only letter Ethan gave credence to—arrived February 18, 1848, a day typical in every regard except for the fact it altered the entire course of his life. In the weeks following, the letter had been his constant companion; by now, it was so well-creased, it was nearly torn in two. The correspondence had arrived at the Washington Street office of the newspaper, addressed in heavy, elegant script to Mister Ethan T. Fletcher, ℅ Printing-Office, Boston Sentinel, and a bevy of colored-ink handstamps charted the letter’s course across land and sea until an agitated clerk dropped it on Ethan’s desk.

He'd nearly missed it. He’d been in a foul mood, intent on drowning his frustration in a liquid supper at the Commonwealth. His parvenu editor had assigned him to attend yet another salon on the south slope—why anyone needed weekly updates of the Beacon Hill elite, Ethan couldn’t begin to guess.

But then the clerk delivered the letter, and Ethan had been reading it ever since.

Good thing too. Regardless of what Gabler now said from behind the safety of his mahogany desk, Ethan knew damn well exactly what that letter stated.

“You wrote to me six weeks ago and told me in English plain enough for us both to understand that”—here, Ethan jabbed the letter as he recited Gabler’s message verbatim—“ Robert Gaines, the recently departed brother of Marina Fletcher, has left to you, Ethan Thomas Fletcher, the son of Marina Fletcher and sole living relative of the aforementioned Robert Gaines, the entirety of his estate, consisting of a dwelling-house, shop, and materials of a printing office, located at No. 62 Fleet Street, London. ”

He stared at the solicitor, his gaze hard. If Gabler thought a bath, a beer, and the gentility of a London office would protect him from a throttling, he didn’t know the first thing about Ethan. He’d bloodied his knuckles for far less than a brutal Atlantic crossing and the promise of unprecedented financial freedom.

“Did you not write those words, Mr. Gabler?”

“I did.” Gabler shifted, nervously placing his hands on the desk. “To be sure, I most certainly wrote that…but you see, Mr. Fletcher, I sent a second letter informing you there has been an unforeseen issue with your uncle’s estate—let me see, I expected it to reach you a fortnight ago?—”

“A fortnight ago I was boarding a steamship to meet you at a goddamn Doric Arch, per the instruction in this letter.”

Gabler’s mustache twitched.

In fear, Ethan hoped. He closed his eyes and drew three slow breaths. “Gabler. Are you telling me I quit my employment, ended my lease, spent hard-earned money on passage…and I didn’t inherit my uncle’s business?”

“You did. You did inherit it.” Gabler leaned forward earnestly. “Nothing in question there. Your name is in the will. You own 62 Fleet and all materials therein. Gaines Print Works is yours.”

“Then what the devil?—”

“What we didn’t know—as your uncle’s solicitor, I’m quite disappointed to say I truly had no idea of this arrangement, the whole affair shocked me, absolutely shocked me, Mr. Fletch?—”

“Gabler.”

The solicitor shook his head. “Your uncle was a good man but a terrible business man. Apparently in recent years, he’d become woefully slipshod with his accounting. He was losing clients—the Law Society had canceled their contract—and it seems he had a cards problem, to boot. He was in debt, Mr. Fletcher. Horribly in debt.”

“Personal debt?” Ethan worked his jaw. “Or business debt? Because bankruptcy?—”

“Bankruptcy is a criminal offense here and carries a prison sentence.” Gabler looked so glum, Ethan almost felt bad for the man for having to deliver this news. “Which is likely why your uncle turned to a money lender.”

“A money lender.” Ethan was now repeating words and phrases at random.

“A creditor, if you will. Mr. Charles Howe. Howe is…well, he has a reputation. He’ll lend to anyone, but his terms are punishing. He lent Mr. Gaines a great sum of money. And your uncle put up 62 Fleet as collateral.”

“My uncle is dead,” Ethan said flatly. “ I didn’t accumulate any debt. I didn’t even know the man.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Gabler sighed. “If Gaines had gone through a bank, perhaps we’d have some room to navigate this, but he signed a promissory that’s clear as crystal. If Howe is not repaid in full by the fifteenth of June, he owns your business.”

“June fifteenth…of this year?”

At Gabler’s nod, Ethan’s stomach churned. It was the first week of April. Mid-June was in just over ten weeks .

“How much did Gaines owe?”

Gabler paused. “Ah…with interest, the remaining sum of the debt is just over one hundred pounds sterling.”

Ethan’s fists clenched as an odd sort of numbness spread through his chest. It was the sensation of something catastrophic happening outside his control.

“The exchange rate for the pound sterling is…what?” He rubbed his temples, trying to recall the rapid-fire discussion in Liverpool. “Just under five dollars, is that right?”

Gabler reluctantly slid a paper across his desk. “Thereabouts. I asked my banker to calculate the sum in your currency. The amount you owe to clear the debt is approximately four hundred eighty American dollars.”

Ethan stared.

“Do you perhaps have that sum, Mr. Fletcher? If you do, this would all be?—”

“No,” Ethan interrupted hoarsely. “No. I do not.” He thought of his accounts, wobbling after his travel to London. “I don’t have even a fraction of that right now.”

He rose to his feet, needing to move. “Damn.” He paced the length of Gabler’s office like a restless bear. “How in hell is it possible to inherit less than nothing? Do you understand the risk I took to come here? I left everything , because I was about to own a print works—a solvent , functioning business. I thought I might finally establish my own newspaper. No more scraping by, no more taking whatever my superiors will give me, no more proving myself at every turn?—”

Ethan broke off, his face heating in embarrassment. Gabler didn’t need to hear his woeful tale of a poor boy who grew up to be a slightly less poor man.

He gritted his jaw, forcibly shifting into action. “What are my choices, Gabler? Buy, sell, forfeit?”

“Well, on that front, the matter is quite simple.” Gabler steepled his fingers. “You can pay the debt by the fifteenth of June, or you can, at present, relinquish the business to Howe. My second letter intimated you might prefer to remain in America to keep clear of the whole mess, given the constraints.” He winced. “Of course it’s too late for that.”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. If Gabler’s second communication had reached him, would he have stayed in Boston, stagnant at the Sentinel ? He couldn’t say. And it hardly mattered. Gabler was right. He was here now, and his future dangled in front of him.

But to seize it, he needed to scrounge up a sum equivalent to two years of his previous salary.

It jarred to the point of physical pain.

“What’s stopping me from selling the shop?” Ethan paced toward the window. “Is there a reason I can’t offload the property and pocket the proceeds?”

“Unfortunately, you can’t sell 62 Fleet while ownership is tangled up with this creditor,” Gabler sighed. “You’ll sign your name to the deed, but the deed is what Gaines promised Howe. If you sell, he could lay claim to the proceeds. You’d end up losing the shop with very little revenue to show for it…”

Ethan stared out the window as Gabler rambled on. Across the street, a small family made their way through the crowd—mother, father, distractible little boy. He watched their uneven progress, ponderously running his hand over the dark beard shadowing his jaw.

“Your uncle was fortunate he wasn’t sent to debtor’s prison, given the state of the accounts. Truly , Mr. Fletcher, it was only a matter of time…”

The boy suddenly lurched far too close to the congested street, and the mother responded faster than Ethan’s startled pulse. Her arm snapped forward to catch her son by the wrist, holding him safe against her. At the sight of their joined hands, Ethan’s fingers curled around the windowsill in exquisitely sharp recollection—the rough plane of his own mother’s knuckles, perpetually abraded by the salt she scrubbed across the boardinghouse floor.

The last time he felt those familiar calluses was the curdling July morning when she left him at Russell’s printshop. She kissed Ethan’s forehead hard, her face pinched with desperate regret as she explained he was now to work as a printer’s devil, he was to expect nothing but a meal and a mattress, he was to learn a trade and not come home. Her brittle-thin retreat was forever linked to his first whiff of the ink vats, a noxious nightmare from which he gradually understood she wasn’t coming back. From that day on, the only hands he could rely on were his own.

“Mr. Fletcher?”

Ethan slowly turned to Gabler.

The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. “If I understand correctly, you cannot afford to lose the business, nor can you afford to purchase it. What, then, do you aim to do?”

Ethan squared his shoulders. What did he aim to do? The same damn thing he’d always done. Against all odds, he pulled through, didn’t he? He’d leveraged the brutal years of his apprenticeship into steadily advancing work—compositor, pressman, foreman. He’d filled every position at the paper, tirelessly doing all that was required of him before asking to do more. The week after his twenty-seventh birthday, he’d been made special reporter—an impossible coup considering where he started—and for the last two years, he’d been striving to parlay that opportunity into something more, something of his own.

And here, finally —his chance.

“Think of it this way, Gabler.” He thrummed with renewed determination. “I can’t pay the creditor yet . Nor do I have to. I have ten weeks.”

“One hundred pounds in ten weeks?” Gabler looked uneasy. “Is it possible for a printshop to turn that kind of profit?”

Ethan smiled grimly. “I suppose we’re going to find out.”