Page 34 of The Finest Print

July 1855

London

FROM FOURTEEN DAYS AFTER THE PASSING OF THIS ACT it shall not be compulsory…to print any Newspaper on Paper stamped for denoting the Duties imposed by Law on Newspapers, and no Person shall be subject or liable to any Penalty or Forfeiture for printing, publishing, selling, or having in his Possession any unstamped Newspaper.

—Excerpt from the Newspapers Act, 15 June 1855

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.” Paulie, erstwhile newsboy, called to Belle from his bookstall across the Strand. “Dare I say, the summer agrees with you.”

Ethan glanced at his wife. Her pinned hair gleamed in the late afternoon light, and her cheeks held the sunny blush that always reminded him of their first bright months together. Paulie was right, but he could stand to be a little less confident about it.

Ethan tilted back his hat. “The summer is about to disagree with you , Paulie, if you keep waving down my wife.”

Belle laughed merrily and reached up to readjust his hat. “I would expect you to be in a better mood today, darling.”

Paulie ignored Ethan’s glower and raised a jar of colorfully striped sweets. “I have pulled sugar sticks, if the little ones like.”

Thomas tugged at Belle’s hand. “Mama, may we?”

“No we may not,” she said briskly. “We’re expected at the shop, and we can’t be late.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder, giving his sister a pointed look. Ethan felt a small hand slide into his.

“Da?”

He made the mistake of looking down. Marina’s elfin face stared up at him with the same doe-eyes as her mother.

“May I please have a sweet?”

Ethan frowned between his children. The twins were nearly five years old, which meant they knew precisely who was their strongest soldier and what was their parents’ weakest defense.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Ethan,” Belle warned. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

“It will only take a moment. Besides, why shouldn’t they get a sweet? It’s been pandemonium this week, what with me working all hours.”

He moved into the street, stopping a cab and ushering his family safely across. The children raced to Paulie, purveyor of unwelcome flirtations and unnecessary sweets.

As Belle passed Ethan, her hand slipped into his coat pocket, deftly grasping his wallet. Her little finger grazed his waistcoat.“Is everyone getting a treat today?”

“Try that again and find out,” he breathed.

She smiled wickedly and trailed Marina and Thomas to the bookstall.

“One piece each.” She placed her hands on their curly heads.

As the children selected candies, Belle and Paulie drifted into conversation, and Ethan took the opportunity to survey the bookstall’s offerings. The latest installment from Dickens was prominently featured, a recurrence that irritated Ethan to no end. He checked over his shoulder—Paulie was taking a coin from the twins—then quickly swapped out Little Dorrit .

“Really?” Belle shook her head as she sidled up to him. “Must you do that every time?”

They looked at the novel he’d placed on display.

Clementina Bloom and the Steamboat Sabotage

A Novel of Crime, Mystery, and Intrigue

Written by B. Sinclair Fletcher

“It’s not even new,” she protested. “ Steamboat released last summer.”

“Well, Paulie is sold out of The Arson Affair , so I made do.”

“Sold out?” She frowned. “I suppose we’ll have to take it up with my publisher.”

“Indeed.” Ethan laughed. “It’s times like these, I’m grateful that’s no longer me.”

But Belle had her attention on their children. “I said one , Thomas Gavin Fletcher. One means one. Put that back. There will be cake at the party.” She turned to Paulie. “Will you be joining us at the shop?”

“I’ll come after I close up,” Paulie said cheerfully. “I never miss a chance to drink to Fletcher.”

“You never miss a chance for me to pay for your drinks,” Ethan said wryly. “I’m glad you’re coming. It will be good to have the old crowd there.”

“Congratulations, sir. I mean it sincerely. You and Porter—you really did it, eh?”

“I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow.” Ethan ran his hand over his beard. “And I would say Parliament actually did it, when they repealed that damn tax. Porter and I were just ready to step in.”

“Oh, come now.” Belle beamed at him. “You needn’t be so modest.”

“I’m realistic.” He pointed out. “It’s a useful thing to be when starting a brand-new business venture.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head. “I wouldn’t know.”

He called to the twins. Marina and Thomas waved politely, and their little foursome set off again. They passed through Temple Bar, and the Strand gave way to Fleet, where the old shop waited for them.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Belle mused as their children ran ahead. “I doubt they’ll even remember it being a printshop. Only a newspaper office.”

“I don’t mind what memories stick,” Ethan said. “So long as they’re good.”

He watched them—all coltish limbs and messy curls—and felt the profound satisfaction of knowing his children slept in their beds without a worry in their heads. He could buy them sweets on the street, he could use his old Columbian to print little stories they made up at the breakfast table. He could rest assured they would never see their mother’s hands marred by anything but the ink stains she put there herself.

In the end, his prospects hadn’t been as important as his purpose—to be a good man to the good people who loved him.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Belle asked softly. “Your first issue. It’s all right if it feels peculiar. It’s a big step, Ethan.”

“I’m ready. It’s been a long time coming. Though it will be strange to split my time between here and the new premises,” Ethan admitted as they drew nearer to No. 62.

“Tobias will oversee the print works,” Belle reminded him. “He’s been itching for those new rotary presses.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ethan said. “Even still, I don’t want to be holed up in an office all day.”

“If you want to run the new presses, you can just admit it,” Belle teased. “If I have to hear one more time about how many papers you can push a week?—”

“Here they are, the guests of honor.” The door to No. 62 swung open, and the twins raced to greet Sam Porter, who hefted a small child in each big arm.

Ethan chuckled. Atfour and twenty, Sam had grown into his height and remained as cheerful as ever. Likely in no small part due to the recent nuptials to his longtime love, Abigail.

“Now that you two are here, you can tell your parents to go celebrate on their own,” Sam winked.

“It’s Da’s party,” Thomas explained. “For the paper. He has to be here, and we have to wear our coats.”

“Oh, of course, my mistake. We can’t toast to the Weekly Register without the publisher. Or our coats.”

Sam set the children down, and they ran inside.

“Sam, it’s kind of you to have us,” Belle called as they approached. “You don’t mind all of us stomping around the place?”

“Sixty-two Fleet still belongs to you, Mrs. Fletcher.” Sam grinned. “But Abigail and I appreciate you letting us rent the upstairs.”

“It’s a good place to start out.” She smiled. “You two take all the time you need.”

Ethan tucked Belle’s arm in his and reached up to straighten the shingle. They entered a shop full of faces old and new. Belle’s family was there—Helena was already sneaking the twins more sweets—but seeing as they were staying with their grandparents tonight, Ethan decided to let it be the Sinclairs’ problem. Tobias and his wife were caught up in a knot of folks from the early days. And all mixed together were Ethan’s new employees and Belle’s new publishers and their neighbors and friends.

Layers of life, all in his shop.

Sam was pouring a champagne toast, and the workroom gradually grew silent, everyone looking to Ethan. He had a speech to make, but his throat felt unexpectedly tight.

His family, his friends, his business.

His wife .

What could he possibly say?

He’d once thought life happened in sudden, cataclysmic shifts. The wrong correspondence from a solicitor, a journal passing hands in a garden. A delayed steamship. A returning train. Finite moments, setting life in motion.

Now he understood the shifts could be very small. Sometimes, life felt more akin to the way he typeset a page. Incremental progress, gradual gain. No isolated word or phrase made a difference—but together, yes , together, eventually, the creation became more possible than not.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said, raising his glass. “Thank you for having been here.”

He looked around to find Belle. “You all may not know this, but the second time I met my wife was the day we agreed to a madcap scheme that somehow led us to this moment…and every other moment along the way.” He smiled at her, her face so bright, she might as well have been the only person in the room. “We had nothing between us, other than a press and a journal, but I still maintain it was the richest day of my life.”

He paused, cocking his eyebrow.

“Until, hopefully, tomorrow.”

There was a loud chorus of whoops and cheers, but before anyone could raise their glass, Belle cleared her throat.

She reached for his hand, steadying herself as she swiftly mounted a nearby chair. He looked at her, seized by the memory of the long-ago night when they first celebrated in this shop—her radiant face, her messy plait, her slender fingers raising a chipped mug.

“To my husband,” she announced, lifting her champagne. “You are the finest man in London, Ethan Fletcher. Much to your eternal chagrin.”

He laughed and kissed her wrist as another excitable chorus sounded. Belle leaned down, touching his cheek, her eyes soft and golden and always, always on his.

“I mean it, darling. Wishing you good luck—and good news.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He grinned and tugged her down, bringing her mouth close to his. “But I sense we’ll be just fine.”

Belle’s hand tightened in his.

And Ethan held fast.