Page 31 of The Finest Print

30

Accounting Ledger of B. Sinclair

Week of 10 June 1848

Secrets of the Old Bailey Vol. 1, No. 10

Anticipated Publication 13 June

Earnings less expenditures projected ￡20

Remaining debt owed—￡20

N.b.—based on preliminary orders

“The post, Miss Sinclair.” Sam appeared in the door of Ethan’s small parlor, where Belle had been working the last few days. At her behest, Tobias and Newburn had moved the desk up here so she could have privacy. The shop had been aflutter with activity since the Metropolitan article was published three days ago.

Some of the clamor was welcome and exciting, but other visitors were far more disparaging. Everyone agreed it wasn’t productive for her to work downstairs. But quiet was only part of the reason she made the request.

She was increasingly heartsore, and it was easier to breathe up here, in Ethan’s space.

It was the tenth of June, only five days remaining. And despite the upper-crust booksellers who were, indeed, placing overpriced orders, Belle was starting to fear she didn’t have the wherewithal to pull this off without Ethan.

It had been a rather…exhausting week.

Her work on number eleven was slow-going, what with the frequent interruptions from the letter carrier. The post was now her constant source of dread—she was as likely to find an order from a newsagent or bookseller as she was to find a letter from an irate matron or a disapproving moralist. She was trying to harness her nerves, but it was daunting to never know if she would uncover exciting success or bruising admonishment.

Except for the note from Paulie, the newsboy, asking if he, too, could have his own character like Sam, and also if he might call on her now Mr. Fletcher was gone. She appreciated Paulie’s gumption, so she tacked his letter to the wall.

She could use all the gumption she could muster.

“Thank you, Sam.” Belle smiled tightly, accepting the small stack as the boy raced back down the narrow stairs.

She scanned the letters, quickly sorting the curds from the whey. Three newsagents—one on Piccadilly—wanted to carry next week; that was a boon. But her spirits were decidedly dampened by a letter from Mrs. Nicholas Pendergast, who colorfully described the many ways Belle was a nasty, ineligible perversion of propriety.

Wonderful .

She crumpled the letter in her fist, then opened it up again, of half a mind to take down the address and assure Mrs. Pendergast that while she might be improper, she was engaged to be married…at some unknown point in the future…to a man who was, at present, a partial ocean away.

She crumpled the letter again and tossed it in the growing pile.

Belle sank to the chair behind her desk, pressing her fingers over her eyes. She had known to expect this. This was part of the whole coming into herself bit, wasn’t it? The good and the bad, all together.

No more separate lives.

She just very much wished she wasn’t coming into herself by herself.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

She hastily stood and turned her back to the door, wiping at her cheek. The footfall was heavier than Sam’s, and Tobias had already found her crying twice this week.

“I’m fine,” she called, hating the thick cast to her voice. “You needn’t worry about me?—”

“I thought there was no pretension in this shop.”

She stilled.

When she was a girl, she’d been instructed in the principles of magnetic attraction. The way one pole could direct its opposite, helpless to do anything but cleave to its pair.

A dull ringing pierced her, moving slowly from one ear to the other. It tightened her neck, rotated her body. She had a blurred sense of a long, broad figure—dark coat, dark beard—then she put her eyes where they belonged.

Impossible .

“Oh God.” He dragged his hand over his mouth, staring at her. “That’s it. All I wanted.”

She was rooted to the spot, but it mattered not, for he was already upon her. Ethan wrapped her in his arms, lifting her up and against him. She inhaled sharply, ensnared by the heated plane of his body, the heated look on his face.

“Sweetheart.”

And then he was kissing her, a tender appeal, the barest brush of his lips on hers. The sensation of his firm, familiar mouth was all it took to burst her wonder, to scatter her surprise and confusion like stars. Instantly, she deepened the kiss, stroking open his mouth, both of them grappling and desperate with gratitude.

He kissed her until her lips burned, until her lungs burned, and even then, at the edge of a swoon, she could scarcely pull away. He groaned, his hands in her hair. She was clinging to him, she couldn’t let go. He was here .

But no —no. He couldn’t be.

He couldn’t possibly be.

“What…what is happening?” She wrenched away, half-blind with shock and tears. “Ethan, I don’t understand. You’re meant to be aboard a steamship. You’re not meant to be here.”

His lips skated over her cheek, his beard a soft, reassuring brush against her skin.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He was breathing hard. “You’re meant to be out of the goddamn newspapers.”

“The news—” She shook her head in confusion. “You can’t mean the article?”

“I cannot believe you, Belle.”

“No, you couldn’t have seen it.” She felt fuzzy from joy and bewilderment. “It wasn’t published until the day you were to sail.”

“The ship didn’t depart as scheduled. I’ve been detained in Liverpool, barely able to resist dragging myself back here. Until yesterday, when I saw the article.”

Dread crawled up her neck.

“Oh no, Ethan. Don’t tell me that’s why you came back.”

“Your name, your illustration, the statement you gave?—”

“It was my choice,” she said rapidly, grabbing his shoulders. She needed him to understand, even though it was too late. He was here; he missed his boat. “I realized what you’d done, and I realized I could undo it.”

“Belle, what were you thinking?”

“Ethan, no. I didn’t mean to press your hand,” she protested fearfully. “I thought you were gone. But I heard what happened with that reporter, what he offered, what you turned down. I had to do something .”

“We had a plan?—”

“I didn’t like the plan.” She shook her head. “I wanted you to have something to come back for. I didn’t want to give up on the penny blood. It’s what we made together. I want to keep making it.”

“Belle—”

“I wasn’t going to let some tawdry publication keep me out of my own damn story, Ethan.” She crossed her arms. “They can’t threaten my reputation anymore. It’s all in the open. It’s done.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re patently mad, you realize that?”

“I think I must be.” Belle felt about ten steps behind him. She put her hands to her cheeks, riddled with confusion. “I can’t make sense of this. What about New York? What about your offer?”

“I’m not taking it.”

“ No . All your aims?—”

“I’ll rework them. I’ll come at them from another angle. Right now, I’m taking the win.”

Her heart seized in panic. He misunderstood her.

“The article didn’t sway business that much,” she whispered. “There’s still nothing here. We don’t own the shop yet. We haven’t won.”

“I’m not talking about the shop.” His voice turned scratchy; his eyes grew bright. “The shop isn’t all that matters. It’s not even most of what matters. It’s sure as hell not what I came back for.”

He cradled her face.

“For all my life, I’ve been grasping. You are the only thing that has ever held on.” His thumb moved gently over her lower lip. “That’s not the kind of love you wait for. It’s the kind of love you live in.”

She clasped his arms, her chest heating with wonder.

“Belle, I was so focused on preparing for our worst days, I forgot some days aren’t bad. Some days are merely ordinary.” His smile tilted in a gradual curve. “And some days are really damn good.”

“Yes,” she breathed, taut with hope. “Some days really are.”

“I mean it.” He kissed her again, deep and slow. “I want to live in the ordinary days. I want to marry you now. Or as soon as now can be.”

“What happened to waiting for your circumstances?” She found his hands, curling her palms over his. “I can wait, Ethan?—”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said. “For many reasons I assure you are deeply romantic, and one that’s by necessity. My circumstances haven’t changed, but yours have. You’ve put your whole weight behind me this week, and you can’t tell me you’re not taking a beating for it.”

He shook his head, glancing at the pile of crumpled-up letters.

“I expect you need a husband, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully, thinking of her most recent correspondence. “You know, a husband would actually be quite useful.”

He softened, but Belle grew serious.

“Truly, Ethan. I need your help. Things have improved since you were last here, but we’re still behind. I don’t know what else to do.”

His expression sharpened.

“You’re right.” He strode to the desk and hefted the account book. “We have to harness this disaster once and for all. Tell me where we stand.”

She launched into a rapid recounting of what had happened this week—the article, the aftermath, the sales, the censures.

“This is a hell of a start.” He flipped through the purchase orders. “Your wild little stunt has been a boon for business—and I assume the Metropolitan compensated you for your remarks?”

“It’s been accounted for,” she said. “There, on the second page.”

Ethan made a notation. “Closer…closer still.”

“Not close enough?”

“Possibly.” He looked at her. “You know, the article changes things in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our association with Secrets is public now. It’s legitimate in a way it wasn’t before. If you’re keen to continue writing it, I’m determined to keep publishing it. As long as we like, until we’re ready for something new.”

“Yes,” she said swiftly, having already come to the same decision. “Yes. I want to keep going.”

“Not a newspaper, not a novel. But perhaps that’s all right.” He laughed softly. “Somehow or another, we’re pretty damn good at this, and while I think we’ll be good at other things, we can’t possibly plan for it now.”

“It’s not just about the debt anymore,” she said, realizing where he was going with this.

“It is about the debt, but it’s also about momentum.” He closed the account book. “If this isn’t temporary, we need longevity. I think your society gamble will pay off, in the short term at least. But I’d like to see if we can build our readership and really make a go of it.”

He was right. Gossip was moving papers right now, but God willing, she wouldn’t be the center of attention forever. They needed something more stable than overcharging bored matrons and the fair-weather friends who had spurned her.

“How?”

“When I was in the train station, I had a notion. Your idea for free advertising planted the seed.”

She blanched. “I can’t stomach another article.”

“God no. Not that.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m thinking about number nine.”

“What about it?”

“What if we give it away?”

“What? For free?” Belle wrinkled her nose. “Ethan…I don’t see how that would possibly help.”

His eyes gleamed with excitement. “We can’t sell it, Belle. But we can give it away . Think about it—just like the beginning, eyes lead to sales. We can take it to train stations, the dockyards, places with passersby.”

Her breath staggered. “Constabularies. Post offices. Oh, Ethan!”

“ The Old Bailey ,” they said in unison.

“Yes.” She laughed, her pulse skittering. “That’s brilliant .”

“If we can lure readers who wouldn’t normally pick this up, coupled with you wringing far too many pennies from the laden coffers of Mayfair?—”

“We might have enough sales from number ten,” Belle finished.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Belle, I really think we can. You’ve already closed the gap on what we lost on nine.”

“Shall we tell Tobias?”

“Yes. We’ll need hands to help distribute.” Ethan frowned. “I could pay the newsboys, Paulie and the like.”

She refrained from mentioning Paulie was already offering her his services.

Ethan went to make a note, then paused, glancing about as if taking stock of his residence for the first time.

“What’s the desk doing up here?”

“Oh.” She winced. “I found it preferable to work up here. The shop has been quite busy…and not everyone stopping by is polite.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but this time, she didn’t try to hide it.

It was too much—everything that had happened this week, for better or worse, had pushed her past the point of endurance.

“Belle?” His green eyes narrowed with concern.

“It’s been…a very hard few days,” she admitted, drawing a shaky breath. “You weren’t wrong. I’ve taken a bit of a beating.”

She gestured to the pile of nasty notes, and his face darkened in understanding.

“That’s ending now.” He grasped her biceps, turning her away from the crumpled letters. “Everything comes to me. I don’t want you to see another letter from a supercilious prig.”

“Don’t read them,” she warned. “Ethan, you really shouldn’t see what they say.”

“Let them talk. Let them say whatever the hell they please.” He tilted her chin. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you the good news.”

Relief washed through her, warm as a bath at the end of a long, cold day. They had so much to do, but it felt so good to stand in the circle of his arms. She pressed her face to his shoulder, and yes, from this vantage, it was easy not to hear anyone but him.

“Would you tell me now?”

His lips moved against her brow. “Always.” He kissed her palms, her wrists. “As often as you need.”

He brushed her mouth.

“And sometimes, when I need it too.”