“Of course! It’s more romantic this way!” His eyes flew wide as yetanotheridea popped into his head. “Actually, I’ll print them!”
“You?!”
Arthur whirled around to face her, steadying himself by clutching the banister.
“I know how to work the Jobber. Jesse showed me. I know how to compose a forme, too, though I’ll have to take care to mind myp’s andq’s. I wouldn’t want a repeat of the feather folly.”
Charlotte arched an eyebrow and Arthur chuckled.
“Just a name I came up with in my head to refer to the little blunder that Jesse made when I was helping him prepare a forme for a newspaper.”
“Right . . .”
“Anyway, I’ll print the invitations myself. Oh, there’s nowaythat Jesse won’t be impressed.”
Arthur resumed climbing the staircase while Charlotte continued to trail behind him.
“How will you make sure he receives the invitation? More importantly, how will you make sure that hereadsit?” she asked.
“Believe it or not, I have the most ridiculous idea to help with that.”
Charlotte let out a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a chuckle. “Yes, I believe it.”
Arthur clapped his hands together once more and laughed.
***
At seven o’clock the following morning, Arthur was waiting outside Chicago Iron and Steel in Bridgeport, praying that Mr. Giuseppe Caputo had been scheduled to work that day. If not, then Arthur would come back tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, either, then he would return the following morning, and so on and so forth. Giuseppe was the only person Arthur could think of who might stand a chance of convincing Jesse to read the invitation for the party.
The previous evening, Arthur had traveled to Putnam Press himself at half past nine (well, Patrick had taken him, for which he had been rewarded with a very fine tea set) and had then spent the next seven hours printing the invitations by the light of the shop’s oil lamps. Afterward, Arthur had been so pleased with his own work that he hadn’t managed to sleep a wink for the remainder of the night. Instead, he’d spent hours pacing back and forth in his bedroom and choosing the most imperfect invitation to give to Jesse (with the rationale that upon seeing the unevenness of its ink, Jesse might be more likely to surmise that Arthur had been the one to print it). Now Arthur was loitering outside of the steel mill, invitation in hand, his body on the brink of breaking, so that he could persuade Giuseppe to present Jesse with the invitation later that very night.
Fifteen minutes passed. Arthur’s muscles were trembling, both from being overly tired and from standing outside in the cold. He really ought to have asked Patrick to take him so that he could have spent the time waiting inside the carriage, rather than here on the sidewalk. But Arthur had wanted to let the man sleep late since he’d been such a help with the invitation printing. Five more minutes went by before Arthur finally decided to return home.
He turned to leave, only to then bump into none other than Mr. Giuseppe Caputo.
“Jesus, watch where you’re—” Giuseppe started to say before realizing who Arthur was and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Oh. It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Arthur confirmed sheepishly.
“Why are you here, Mr. Arthur Hughes?” Giuseppe said in a mocking tone as he headed toward the building. “Purchasing another mill to collapse?”
Arthur stiffened, a wave of irritation slamming into him. He ignored it so that he could follow Giuseppe inside the mill. When Arthur stepped through the door, he barely suppressed a shiver as the mill’s warm air wrapped around him. Giuseppe worked fast to remove his coat and then hung it up on the wall. When Giuseppe turned to take his time card from the Bundy clock, Arthur blocked him.
“Get your facts right, Mr. Caputo. That mill was on the edge of ruin when I bought it,” he said.
Giuseppe bristled. “So what? Don’t tell me you lacked the funds to keep it open for a while longer while we improved our production.”
Arthur clenched his teeth and fought back the urge to spit a bitter retort. Instead, he took a breath and let himself sit with Giuseppe’s words. He took them in, and with them, he took in the sight before him as well, finally letting himself truly see the manhe was speaking to. His eyes fell to Giuseppe’s shirt, the fibers of which were worn, some patches on it stained a sooty black, and then he noticed Giuseppe’s suspenders, their color clearly faded from a proper brown to a muted beige. One of the suspenders was twisted, likely from being slipped on in haste—perhaps not because the man was careless, but instead because he had slept late, requiring every last second of rest to recuperate from his strenuous job here at the mill.
And then Arthur looked at his own clothes, spotless and impeccably kept, only because he rarely ever exerted himself. His own current state of exhaustion was likely nothing compared to what Giuseppe had been contending with every day over the course of his young life. No wonder Giuseppe hated him.
“You’re right, Mr. Caputo,” Arthur said. “I could have tried harder.Should havetried harder. But, instead, I moved on to trying to support other industries, like printing. Which, of course, then led me to purchasing Putnam Press, where I eventually met your friend Jesse.” He took a step forward. “I know that I haven’t earned your respect. Or your sympathy—”
“No, you haven’t,” Giuseppe said simply.
“But, even knowing that I haven’t earned either of those things, I still made myself come here to ask for your help. Help I’m not entitled to, but help that I sorely need. And I’m praying that, by some miracle, you can find it in your heart to look past my flaws, of which there are many, and to look past my previous mismanagement of the other mill, as well. Because there’s no one else in the whole world who could help me right now, Mr. Caputo. Goodness, every penny I have wouldn’t be enough to fix what I’ve broken. Consequently, your help is worth more than my entire estate. And I’m prepared to pay whatever price you see fit in exchange for your cooperation.”
Giuseppe pursed his lips, thinking. After a few seconds, he said, “What do you need?”
