“Mr. Gray successfully set two hundred words and made three errors.” There was a smattering of applause and the publishers exchanged impressed nods.
“Fat fingers,” Mr. Gray replied, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.
Eleanor turned her attention back to Mr. Bell, pressing her toes into the floor as her whole body prepared to run.
“Miss Wright set three hundred and seven words with no errors.”
All the breath rushed out of her. What a relief. For a moment there, she’d thought the Linotype had bested her. Instead, she had thrashed it soundly. The tension in her body dissipated and she drew a deep, full breath for the first time since she’d entered the blasted building. She was right. The Linotype could not do what she did. Everything was going to be fine.
The duke turned to her with his hand held out in an admirable gesture of good sportsmanship. “There you go, Miss Wright. You were a full fifty percent faster.”
She took his hand and shook it firmly. “It was an interesting idea, Your Grace. I can see its appeal. But it cannot do what a human does with the necessary quality. I hope you haven’t lost too much to this investment.”
Still holding her hand, he gave a smug grin. “Do not worry about me, Miss Wright. I think I’m going to be perfectly fine. The Linotype is not as good as you are, by far.” He turned toward the publishers and Eleanor’s friends, who were watching the exchange with interest. “Mr. Barnes, Miss Wright is fifty percent faster than the Linotype. Could you remind me how much faster she is than the average compositor?”
“She’s at least four hundred percent faster than most of the men working for me. And four hundred percent more expensive.”
Reality slowly dawned as the duke’s true purpose for this competition became clear. He had fully expected her to best him, and he wanted to show the publishers that she was the only one who could.
Hot tears stung as she realized how badly she’d been manipulated, and that she’d just put one nail in the coffin of her career all by herself.
Oh, Eleanor, how could you be so smart and yet not see this coming?
“You are miserable,” she snarled. “You are everything that’s wrong with this world, and I hope you go to hell.” Without waiting to see if Lillian and Mabel followed, she ran.
Dear Captain,
Have you ever had one of those days when you just feel incredibly stupid and frustrated and so goddamn foolish?
A trap was set for me today, and I walked straight into it. I was so stubborn and infuriated that I didn’t stop to think. I might as well have been Pentheus, fooled by Dionysus and torn limb from limb. Not that my nemesis is a god, as much as he may think it. As much as others convince him so.
This may sound silly and you may not want to continue writing to me when I tell it to you, but I have an immense amount of pride. It’s not unwarranted; I work hard, and I’m very good at what I do, but I’m not humble. Had I shown even a sliver of humility, today may not have happened.
I have this terrible feeling that everything is going to come crashing down on me. That all the freedoms I’ve built are going to disappear. I’ve always believed that success comes to those who work hard. Success comes to those who are diligent. Success comes to those who are excellent at what they do.
That belief has served me well until now, but I feel like it’s all about to vanish. It doesn’t matter how hard I work or how good I am, it might be meaningless. What the hell is the point if it’s all meaningless? What is the point of all that labor when others are successful, simply because of their position, or their gender, or their wealth?
What is the point of all that effort if it can be taken away from you through no fault of your own, and there’s nothing you can do about it? It feels as though my safety and freedom are both at stake, and that in six months’ time, the life I have now will be gone.
Anyway, that’s a very long-winded way of telling you that I have not cracked open the book that you sent me. I plan to read it tomorrow. I hope I haven’t scared you away with my frustrated tirade, but there is no one else I can talk to. Those who I usually lean on are afraid enough without my wavering.
—Booklover
Chapter Fourteen
“Breaking and entering is a terrible idea,” Mabel said as the three women exited from the hansom cab that had pulled up two blocks from the duke’s warehouse. The gas lamps were farther apart here than they were elsewhere. There were large swaths of darkness between the buildings. Only the street crossings and entrances were clearly lit, and they could cross those patches quickly. “We are going to get caught.”
“We won’t get caught,” Lillian replied. “I have a plan.”
Eleanor truly hoped that her friend had learned enough from those detective novels. Lillian certainlyseemedconfident.
“The doors will be locked,” Mabel said.
“I have lock-picking tools.”
“You do?”
Lillian cocked her head, as though questioning her own hearing. “Ofcourse. And I have been practicing. It’s a useful skill for a detective to have.”
