Page 29 of The Finest Print

28

On the first day of Spring, Barnacle, the one-eared spaniel, decided being a one-eared spaniel was rather limiting, in the grand scheme of all the things one could be.

And so he set off to have a great Adventure.

—Excerpt from “The Pirate Dog,” written by Belle Sinclair, aged ten,

transcribed by her Father to ensure correct spelling and whatnot.

There was a very good chance Belle Sinclair was ruining her life, but she would be damned if she were doing so in vain.

The morning’s rain had eased, and glittering puddles studded the Strand. Belle’s boots were wet, her hands cold, but purpose warmed her.

Purpose and nerves.

“Papa…” The nearer they drew to their destination, the more prickly she became. “Are you certain? Are you certain you harbor no reservation of your own?”

“Belle.” Her father’s voice was quiet in the bustle of the street. “You’ve asked me thrice already. Are you certain you don’t want me to harbor reservations?”

She grasped his arm more tightly. She might, in fact, wish he had a reservation. It would be nice if somebody did, if something could slow time, for the afternoon had whipped by with alacrity. Suddenly, her abstract notion in the printshop was about to become a glaring, permanent reality.

When she returned home and upended a basketful of penny bloods on her mother’s sofa table, feeling every bit a black cat dropping a dead mouse in the middle of tea, it had taken her family nearly half an hour to understand what Belle was telling them. What she’d started with Ethan. What it had become.

What she planned to do next.

Mama had paled when Belle shared the numbers. Thousands . Tens of thousands of readers over the last nine weeks. It was remarkable to say it aloud, to consider all of it had stemmed from handing Ethan her journal in a garden where neither of them was meant to be.

After the initial shock settled, her mother took the news in stride. “It’s unexpected, but we’ll manage. The dust will settle. It always does. Nobody ends up free of dust, anyway.” The brisk assessment had been a welcome reminder that Mama didn’t come from society, and she didn’t care about it more than she had to. “But I don’t understand why you felt the need to hide from us, darling.”

“Because naming myself will reignite gossip.” Belle twisted her fingers. “This isn’t a proper novel. It’s not really proper at all . It took me far too long to know if the serial was an endeavor worthy of garnering another black spot.”

“And now?” Mama studied her.

“It will be a black spot. But I’m proud of it anyway.” Belle looked around the parlor. “I know it’s just a penny blood, and if you wish for me to keep silent, I will understand, but I cannot live half a life anymore. If I can’t be myself here, I want to follow Ethan. He did this to protect me. I know he’s gone, but?—”

“We don’t want you to live half a life either.” Mama gripped her hand. “We’ve never wanted that for you. If we had, we would have expected you to see through your betrothal to Duncan. This is a lot to take in, darling, but it’s also you. It’s you , Belle. And who you are is never something to keep silent about.”

Papa had remained quiet, listening with inscrutable composure, but Belle was most worried about Lena. Her sister was gaping at issue number one—it was difficult to say if she was more horrified by the magistrate’s severed finger or the fact that Belle wanted to take credit for it.

“Lena?” Belle asked cautiously. “What do you think of this? Of me giving my name to the papers?”

“Me?” Lena glanced up. “Why would it matter what I think?”

“You’re out in society,” Belle murmured. “I loathe the thought of jeopardizing your chances of making a match. People might say…”

She couldn’t say aloud the things people would say. Have you heard about Sinclair’s daughter?

“Belle.” Lena took her other hand. “For years, I’ve watched you diminish yourself. The last few months, you’ve been different. You’re happy . What does it matter to me if you do something unconventional? And why on earth would I marry a man to whom it matters?”

“You’ll have to explain?—”

“That my sister is an author of gothic fiction.”

“You would say that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Lena looked indignant on her behalf. “It’s true.” She paused. “Moreover, you’re all but engaged, aren’t you? Writing aside, you’re doing the thing most people expect of you. I don’t see it will reflect so much on me in the end. Especially if you’re on the arm of a strapping American.”

Belle laughed, wiping her eyes. Oh God, she could only hope. This would all be more bearable if she were able to hide her face in Ethan’s real shoulder, not his metaphorical one.

Now, as they made their way along the Strand, she turned to her father and searched his face. “Of course I don’t want you to harbor reservations, but you hardly said anything this afternoon, except that you would take me to this meeting.”

Papa sidestepped a puddle. “If you have no reservations, then neither do I.”

She smiled sadly. It was the reverse of what he’d told her the night before she broke her engagement. If you have reservations, then so do I.

“Because I know my own mind?” She looked down. “Are you certain you wish to keep allowing that?”

“Belle. Allowing you to know your own mind is the entire point of raising you.”

He slowed his steps. “Here is something I’ve never told you before.”

“Oh?” She glanced at him quickly.

Papa was quiet for a moment; she could see him picking through his words.

“Your mother said today we’ve managed before—she wasn’t only referring to you. We’ve been a black spot ourselves, you know.” He lifted the corner of his mouth. “The day I proposed marriage to your mother was the very same night I told a Serjeant-at-Law in the Court of Common Pleas he could eat rot.”

Belle nearly tripped, temporarily distracted from her woes by this bewildering account. “You did not .”

“I did. I was quite the up-and-comer back then, under consideration for a promotion. But instead of doing as I was meant to, I prosecuted my fellow’s philandering son against a woman he’d hurt. And, if I may say, I skewered him.” Papa shrugged. “It set me back for some time…and then, eventually, it didn’t.”

She looked up, meeting his dark blue eyes.

“I won’t rise to a position higher than the one I’m in,” Papa said candidly. “I’ll never be made Common Serjeant or Recorder of London, the way some judges are, nor do I aspire to that. I’m excellent at my work, but I don’t pander, and I never have. Do you know why?”

Belle shook her head.

“Because I built my legal practice around helping women who were oftentimes used as the pawns of men. I vowed the day I held each of my daughters, I would give you what choices I could. And…” He paused significantly. “I would not allow your choices to hurt me. Your mother and I already made our way. We built what we wanted. We did it the hardest way possible. Who’s to say you and Ethan Fletcher can’t do the same?”

“Papa.” Her eyes swam with tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I suggest you find something to say rather quickly.” Papa smiled tightly. “Because we’ve arrived.”

She glanced at the painted sign above the brick edifice.

The Illustrated Metropolitan News

“Do you know how you’re going to handle this?” Papa’s voice turned businesslike. “This is, perhaps, your sole chance to control the story.”

“I know I used that literacy initiative as a silly excuse.” Belle chewed her lip. “But I’ve been thinking about it. Penny bloods are readily available to the masses, and people can’t learn to read if they don’t have anything to practice with. You heard Ethan when he came to dinner. Most Londoners can’t afford a newspaper, but they can afford the serial. People need something to read. They deserve something to read.”

“But it’s not the news.” Papa narrowed his eyes. “They are rather sensational, Belle.”

“I know these stories are garish and melodramatic—they’re supposed to be—but that doesn’t mean they’re worthless or harmful.” Her voice rose earnestly. “They offer hardworking people distraction, and in a way, it keeps them informed. Every issue of Secrets includes a trial. There’s courtroom politics, prison reform, advances in forensics…”

She smiled shyly.

“It’s damn good fun, Papa. And I’m damn good at it.”

“Well.” Papa contemplated her words. “That’s a decent angle. I would, however, counsel against using expletives when you’re trying to prove your points.”

He touched her cheek and nodded, and Belle understood it was time to do the blasted thing.

Her fleeting humor retreated. “I’m afraid,” she said abruptly.

“That’s all right,” Papa murmured. “Just don’t let them see it.”

“It matters how I walk in there?” Her brow creased. “I suppose you’re always having to tell me that.”

“I know.” Papa squeezed her hand. “But it’s because I believe you can walk so many places.”

And then he opened the door for her, and before she lost her nerve, she strode inside, mustering a polite smile for the desk clerk.

“My name is Belinda Sinclair,” she announced softly. “I would like to speak with Mr. White.”

“Regarding?”

“His story on penny bloods. I’m here as a representative from Secrets of the Old Bailey .”

“In what capacity?” The man dipped his pen.

Belle imagined Ethan’s face in the garden. She held it there, in front of her, willing him to once more turn her brave.

“I’m the author.”