Page 30 of The Finest Print

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Agent’s Record, CUNARD STEAMSHIP COMPANY

Inward Second Cabin

Ticket No. 31040

Prepaid

For Passage on the Steamship Empire

To Sail from Liverpool, 7 June 1848

Name of Passenger

Ethan T. Fletcher, aged 29 years

“Well?” Ethan collared his impatience as he appraised the massive steamship squatting in its berth in Liverpool’s bustling harbor. “Is the Empire sailing today?”

The weathered dockhand folded his arms. “Aye. Looks like she’ll finally go. I wouldn’t wander too far—embarkation will be a crush after all this wait.”

Ethan’s jaw ticked. He didn’t need to be reminded of the wait. He’d arrived at his hostelry in Liverpool four days ago, and he should be two days into an Atlantic crossing.

Instead, there had been a delay in readying the Empire and her crew. Which meant it was now June 9th, and Ethan was nearly wrung dry from a slow twist of idle agony.

Around him, the dock teemed with passengers anxious for news. Luggage was stacked everywhere, foreshadowing the manner in which travelers would soon be stacked in their cabins for two hellish weeks.

Belle should set a story on a steamship. The thought came sudden enough to make him smile, before he resettled in an unwieldy melancholy.

He was going to be so damn far away from her.

Last night, he’d lain awake on his hard pallet in the hostelry, staring at the ceiling until the cracks became her curves. It made him sick with want and regret. This , right here, was the nearest he would be to her for months—and months, at the soonest .

His only pale, certain comfort was that Belle was fine. She had her family, she had her writing. She would be living a life much too small for her, but he would fix that as soon as he could.

He just needed to get the hell out of here to get started.

“I’ll be at the coffeehouse,” Ethan muttered to the dockhand. “Doesn’t seem as though embarkation is nigh.”

“Give it an hour,” the man advised.

Hefting his trunk—he wasn’t about to commit the entirety of his possessions to the bedlam of the dock—Ethan muscled through the crowd and crossed the bustling street.

He entered the coffeehouse, paying the requisite shilling for entry, coffee, and a paper. Incredible, really, how accustomed he’d become to the way of things here. He found an empty seat on a bench near the window and raised his finger to the harried proprietor.

A moment later, a steaming cup appeared, nearly sloshing over the slew of publications on the table in front of him.

“Might you have anything more recent?” Ethan asked. As far as he could tell, these papers were all at least a week old. If he was going to be stuck here for another afternoon, he at least hoped for some legitimate news.

The proprietor plucked through the pile. “This here is just from London,” he offered, thwacking a copy of the Illustrated Metropolitan News in front of Ethan.

Ethan started to tell the man the Metropolitan was the shovel that buried him, but he couldn’t tell him that.

He couldn’t tell him anything.

Because Ethan was rendered utterly voiceless by the headline in front of him.

PRETTY BLOOD?

Judge’s Daughter Wields Gruesome Pen

A crescendo of terrible confusion mounted as his gaze shifted from the title to the etching of a woman sitting at a desk. She had long loose hair and wide eyes and looked exactly like the love of his life.

“What in fuck ?”

He was on his feet fast enough to upend his coffee. Hastily, he snatched the paper from the scorching spill, then instantly regretted it.

He wanted to burn this paper to ash.

But no .

He had to read it.

He couldn’t read it.

A deep, painful pulse started somewhere behind his eyes. Who had done this? If that goddamn inspector had named her, Ethan would kill him. As his fists clenched around the paper, he feared it wasn’t hyperbole.

Christ— Belle .

What must she be thinking right now? Her family…they still didn’t know. Nobody knew. They had made sure of it. Ethan was sitting in the middle of godforsaken Liverpool to make sure of it. He’d left her to make sure of it.

And now, because he was gone, she was alone in the aftermath.

“Sir?” The proprietor was looking at him in alarm. “Do you need…”

Ethan realized he was on his feet, that he’d made a mess of his coffee, that he was twisting the paper as if to strangle it.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

He scraped his hand over his face, forcing himself to read the article, to bear witness to whatever the hell had happened.

Many of our Loyal Readers are all too familiar with the increasingly popular story papers that litter our streets. But while some claim penny bloods warrant eradication befitting any vermin plaguing our City, other voices opine a different view. To that end, we ourselves have spoken to one so-called poison-publisher, namely, the Author of the popular new crime serial, SECRETS OF THE OLD BAILEY, who, in a shocking turn, is none other than the daughter of a renowned Judge who sits at the very same titular Court…

Ethan rapidly skimmed the article, sick with fury at the nasty insinuations— prurient horrors…pestilent trash…low-minded gallows literature— until his eyes locked on the closing.

“If the esteemed readers of the Illustrated Metropolitan News would like to discern for themselves the possible value of my writing, I urge them to procure a copy of the next issue of our serial, which will be available next week,” Miss Sinclair stated.

There you have it, Readers. Dare I say, the gauntlet has been thrown?

It took him another two passes to look past the blistering commentary and properly absorb the article’s counterpoints— affordable to all…drawn from authentic trials…an opportunity to take leisure and learn.

And from a great distance, Ethan realized Duncan hadn’t done this.

Belle wasn’t merely named.

She was quoted .

And she’d turned it into a goddamn advertisement.

What in the devil was she thinking? It was clear Belle and Tobias were publishing number ten. They were going ahead with it, trying to sustain what Ethan had been willing to set aside.

And she set fire to her own reputation to do it.

Holy… hell .

“Sir,” a white-haired gentleman tapped Ethan’s arm. “You were waiting for the Empire , were you not? They’ve begun embarking.”

Ethan whirled around, craning his neck to see out the window—a swell of commotion now surrounded the steamship.

Christ .

“I can’t…”

Ethan was decisive in all matters—always—but he couldn’t make his brain and boots move together.

“I can’t embark yet.”

“I wouldn’t tarry,” the proprietor urged. “They’ll start with the lower cabins.”

Ethan drew a breath, a dozen concerns walloping him from all sides like musket fire. In a fog, he lifted his trunk and pushed out of the coffeehouse, crossing straight in front of a shouting stream of carriages and cabs.

His ship was finally leaving. If he boarded as planned, he would be in New York by the end of the month. He could pull a good salary, he could bring Belle to him. Or he could save, return, and establish a business in London. Either option required patience, but the payoff would be a steady, secure life for both of them.

All he needed to do was get on the boat.

He paused at the berth.

Get on the boat, Fletcher .

He stared at the steamship, now alive with activity, then looked out over the river. The sight of the sun on water pulled him straight through time, back to his boyhood, visiting the seashore—the gray waves, the whaling ships, the empty widow’s walks.

Who would wait for a sailor? Now Ethan reconsidered those women, studying the horizon, holding their lamps aloft. He’d thought it the stuff of romantic legend. Yet here he was, living it.

He’d left a woman with her light on.

People jostled him, everyone rushing to and fro, Ethan standing still.

“Are you going?” A sailor was pushing a cart, waiting for him to move.

“Yes,” he said, snapping his gaze away from the water. “Yes. I’m going.”

His feet were finally moving, his thoughts racing to catch up. Her snubbing, her isolation. It would be all she’d already endured, tenfold. Not abstract, not theoretical. The article was published . It was already happening to her, which meant patience and steadiness were no longer viable options.

“Oy—the dock’s the other way!”

“I don’t need a ship,” Ethan gritted. “I need a train.”

He moved through the tide of passersby, muscling upstream to the line of cabs opposite the docks. He called to a driver and hauled his trunk into an empty seat, coiling with tension as he pulled away from the harbor. Every lurch of the cab moved him further from his plan.

To hell with it .

His plan didn’t matter; it was in service of building a life he and Belle had been building this entire damn time. She was holding fast to that life.

He refused to let her hold it alone.

For months, he’d viewed her as something precious—beautiful and brilliant and far beyond his reach. He was a goddamn fool. Belle wanted to be reached. Look at me, she’d pleaded.

He’d been so afraid of letting himself give in, he hadn’t seen how fearlessly she gave.

Belle might be the finest aspect of his life, but so was she his partner.

His helpmate. His friend. His one good thing.

And God help him, he wouldn’t leave her.

“Lime Street,” the driver called as the cab drew to a halt at the rail station. Ethan was already swinging to the ground. He hefted his trunk and shoved through the crowd.

“I need passage to London.” He nearly barked at the baleful clerk at the booking office window. “Your next train, your cheapest fare.”

He reached for his wallet and realized the newspaper was still rolled up beneath his arm. He tossed it to the clerk as he dug for coin.

He was already sifting through everything that needed done—shield Belle from repercussions, push production on number ten, capitalize on the Metropolitan article…so much work, so much impossible work?—

And six days to do it all.

“Your paper, sir.” The clerk wrinkled his nose at the etching of Belle, which enraged Ethan anew, because if nothing else, she looked beautiful in the stupid picture.

“I don’t need it,” Ethan muttered, taking his ticket. “You can give it away.”

He started to turn away, to find his platform.

Then he froze.

Give it away .

He whipped back to the window, staring at the discarded paper.

He was again possessed of a ludicrous notion—and the thought somehow cheered him.

He could do hard things. He’d done them before. And now he had good people to help him.

He might have only a matter of days, but so did he have thousands of pages of free advertising.

All of it sitting in his storeroom.