Lady Wharton might well be correct. “Did you know that Goethe regretted writingThe Sorrows?” Eleanor replied to avoid examining her own foolishness. There was no good reason for the Captain to impact the job she was there to do. “The book inspired a rash of suicides in young men who thought dying wearing blue coats and yellow pants was the ultimate romantic gesture.”
New creases formed between Agatha’s eyebrows. “Do you think the artist was culpable for those acts? To what extent must an author account for a reader’s actions?”
“I suppose it depends on the author’s intent. Was Goethe romanticizing death, in which case the blame may partly lie with him, or wasThe Sorrowsa warning?”
“What is your assessment?”
“I think it was a warning to young women, at least, even if that wasn’t the author’s intention. ‘If I cannot have you, I cannot go on living’ is a ridiculous sentiment, akin to blackmail. One should stay away from such fervor.”
“What an admirably pragmatic approach to love and marriage. One must be sensible in these things, don’t you think?”
Shedidthink, but lately her actions did not match her reason. Instead of walking to work, most mornings she dallied until she was forced to take a cab, just in case the Captain sent a letter. She took her favorite orange blossom perfume with her and dabbed a little on her neck before she hurried home on the highly unlikely chance that the Captain had discovered her identity and was waiting in the lobby.
“You’re blushing, Eleanor.”
Her cheeks warmed further. “I am not.”
“You are, and I want to know why.” There was an edge to Agatha’s tone that was sharper than Eleanor was used to. “Your mind is uncharacteristically jumbled and you continue to toy with what looks like a very expensive ribbon. Who is courting you?”
Eleanor blinked. It was phrased as a question but sounded very much like an accusation. “I’m not exactly sure if it is a courtship.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Goodness,girl. Men aren’t difficult to comprehend. Does he dance too close? Is he overly groomed? Does he puff out his chest? If he’s strutting like a pigeon, he’s courting you.”
Heavens, Eleanor. Pay attention. How can you not see what goes on around you?
And now Agatha spoke as if Eleanor knew nothing when she knew lots, in fact. She just didn’t know this thing, but not because she was stupid or oblivious. “I have no idea how his chest sits when he walks. We’ve not met. I have only his words to go on.”
Agatha softened. “It is not the duke then.”
“Theduke?”
The dowager threw up her hands. “Yes, His Grace, the Duke of Strafford, who has not gone publicly by the name Peter since he was in knee britches. You have still not explained your connection to him and last night’s events were quite suspicious.”
The duke was not her beau. He was the furthest thing from it. “We arecompetitors. The very thought of him sours my mood. He can ruin even the best of days.”
That afternoon, the Captain’s letter had just been delivered to the post office when she’d gone to drop off hers. They had been in the same space just minutes apart. Her heart had leapt and, grateful for the perfume she wore, she’d hurried outside hoping for a glimpse of him. She did not believe in fate, yet she felt as though she’d recognize him—that her body would know.
And her bodyhadtingled, but it had been with rage. Instead of the Captain she had seen the blasted duke climbing into a crested carriage. She’d ducked her head and scooted back inside to avoid his notice.
“He is your competitor?” Lady Wharton’s eyebrows shot up. “In what capacity?”
“He is selling a machine that sets type.” Even now, the words were hard to say at a regular volume.
She had thought it impossible for Lady Wharton to express more surprise, but now her eyebrows defied biology in the way they practically touched her hairline. “I thought type was only set by hand. The entire point of choosing Cumberland Press was because it could get my book out the fastest. Miss Wright, you were supposed to be the best?”
“I am.”
Lady Wharton drew back, lips pursed, head cocked, scowling as though the situation was a personal affront toher. “But a machine could do it faster, could it not?”
Eleanor could not bear it. She could not sit there and listen to another person suggest that the Linotype was anything other than a fiendish contraption. She flexed her fingers like she could wrap them around the duke’s neck. “His infernal machine will be the death of books as we love them.” Eleanor stood and pointed at the shelves that covered every wall. “The last remaining element of humanity will be gone. Publishers will chase quantity over quality and the market will be flooded with cheaply made books. Their sanctity will be eroded.”
Lady Wharton took in a swift, sharp breath. “Unacceptable.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“Books are to be held in high esteem.”
“Precisely.”
