Every aspect of the printing process had been stripped of human touch over the past hundred years, except for the setting of type. That was a task that couldn’t be replaced by a machine. Type was an art form. Some men might slap any font into a book or across a page, but for Eleanor, the decision came from a finely honed sense of tone, emotion, audience, content, readability, and budget. Always, she asked herself, “What experience must the reader have?” If she didn’t have a font that was perfect for the project, she would locate one, then her fingers would dance across her type boxes to the innate rhythm of the text, flying faster than she could consciously think.
She was an artist. While newspaper columns required less artistry than books, she rather liked the ridiculous amount of cash she earned from them. Even after hiring Mabel and Lillian as assistants, she still had more than enough money to meet her needs. It gave her time to focus on the projects she was passionate about that paid slightly less well, like theDictionary of Political EconomyorThe Autobiography of a Flea.
The foreman nodded as the three of them crossed the threshold of the printing house into the small, neat foyer that smelled of ink and paper despite being pristine, without a single smudge on the white marble floor.
Eleanor gave a satisfied littlehumph, as she always did when presented with something beautiful. The way the light from the streetlamps refracted through the small, diagonal panes of glass that made up the mullion windows created a pattern of light across the floor that was reflected in the pattern of tiles across the roof.Thatwas what Eleanor loved about the architecture of this building—only when the sun had set and the building had closed to outsiders did that element of design reveal itself. It was beauty reserved for those who worked the press, who put in long hours of toil and sweat. Only for them did the building show itself to its fullest.
Otto, theTimes’ porter, held open the door. “Good night, Miss Wright, Miss Thompson, Miss Cole. A cab awaits your convenience.”
“Good night, Otto,” the three trilled in unison.
The trip across town to the boardinghouse Lillian and Mabel lived in flew by as they engaged in the great debate of the day—was Lady Cordelia Highwater a fool, a villain, or a victim? The author of the piece they’d typeset had clearly cast her in the role of man-hating shrew, intent on humiliating men for the crime of having the right to vote.
Lillian was leaning more toward “Cordelia the fool” because who in her right mind would turn down marriage to a duke when it meant a lifetime of security? Assuming said duke didn’t have a history of killing his wives, that was. In that case, a lifetime might be secure but short.
Eleanor and Mabel had more generous thoughts on the situation. Mabel had constructed her own fantasy that Lady Cordelia had fled in order to be with her true love. Eleanor was fairly certain Lady Cordelia was not running toward anything and was instead refusing to be her father’s pawn. Good on her.
What will the Captain think of this when he reads of it tomorrow?Would he share her disdain for the aristocracy’s behavior? Would he take the side of the man abandoned at the altar or the woman who fled? She was impatient to know. She was impatient to check with her building’s concierge, to hear those three words that never failed to set her heart fluttering lately: “You’ve got mail.”
Words were her entire life. By her calculation, she had read almost eighty million of them, yet never had a phrase sparked such effervescence. Never had she reread a piece of paper so often that the edges were worn and the ink smudged. Nor had she ever been motivated to run up the four flights of stairs to her flat so that she could ensconce herself in the corner of her armchair, slip a finger beneath the wax seal, and breathlessly read whatever the Captain had to say to her that day.
Oblivious to the turn of Eleanor’s thoughts, Lillian raised a metaphorical glass as the cab bounced down the rutted road. “Here’s to Lady Cordelia Highwater. We hope that wherever you’re laying your head tonight, you’re free.”
Captain of the Nautilus. I should have guessed it. It was right there in your annotations. Should I be concerned? Nemo was morally questionable at best. Must you be kept away from the aristocracy?
—Booklover
Yes, I should be kept from all lords and ladies, but not for the reasons you might imagine. There are many aspects of Nemo that resonate with me. I find myself preoccupied with the very frictions he embodies: progress vs. morality, freedom vs. isolation. If you can look past the vengeance and murder, he’s a tragic figure.
Also, I saw what might be my only opportunity to captain a majestic marvel of invention, and I seized it. Truthfully, that was the primary driving force behind my choice. Thoughts on his character are justifications that, while true, were very recently devised.
—Captain (Obviously The Nonviolent sort)
I shall question your choice no further. Let ours be a dimension where we can express our hearts freely.
—Booklover
Chapter Two
“‘Jacqueline, I fear that if you do not come to London soon, you’ll miss your opportunity to be married this season. This year’s crop of debutantes is ambitious and more than a little bit pushy. It’s impossible to get a mere minute’s conversation with a gentleman before he’s whisked away by some ingenue, and their tactics are working. With fewer men on the marriage mart this year, the competition is fierce. Speaking of which, how is your brother? Is it true he’s come to London to find a wife?’”
Peter shook his head as he set aside the letter. “Your friends aren’t subtle.”
Jac sniffed in their defense. “As far as London knows, you were betrothed last season. Given it didn’t work out, it’s not unreasonable for society to speculate about your plans.” Jac’s head was turned in his direction, but she couldn’t see him grimace through the thick bandages that were wrapped across her eyes.
“My intentions are none of anyone’s business.” His tone was curt but necessary. Maintaining firm boundaries with his sisters was like maintaining a sea wall in a constant tempest—without expert engineering, it would collapse under the constant battering. It often did.
“You are a young and handsome duke. You are every unmarried woman and her mama’s business.”
This was why he hated London. He was a puppet made of meat on display, except the women of London weren’t satisfied watching his every move. They wanted to devour him.
As a rule, he left his estates only when the House of Lords was in session, so he could execute that facet of his responsibilities. He avoided balls whenever he could and attended only small dinner parties with like-minded peers where he could be sure that no young girls would be thrust in his direction. Still, despite all his efforts, he’d been forced to endure more ingratiating conversations with want-to-be duchesses than he could tolerate.
But there was no avoiding balls this year. It was Winnie’s first season. Lord help him. Not joining the whirl would reflect badly on her, and Lord only knew what mischief she would get up to in his absence. Their older sister, Meg, was carrying her first child, and while it was too early for people to notice, she’d been tired and ill for weeks. She was in no state to play chaperone. So he would put on the dress coat his valet had ordered and endure it, just as he had to endure Jac’s correspondence.
She needed constant care following the surgery to correct her vision. Her lady’s maid had been given the month off to visit family, he wouldn’t burden Meg with the task in her condition, and Winnie could not be trusted to care for her blind sister without pulling some kind of prank. Which left him, her guardian since he was thirteen and she was just a toddler.
“You should tell your friends that you’re in London,” he said, picking up the next letter in the pile.
