“And I won’t.” He could feel Jac’s scowl even if he couldn’t see it.
Back in his study, he made good on his statement, filing the unopened letter in his desk drawer, where he kept her last letter, also unopened, and all the letters before that.
He did not know what Eleanor had to say. He did not care. Her letters would disparage him—the duke, or him—the Captain, her former friend. He’d heard enough of her opinions. He didn’t need to torture himself more.
Except it was all torture.
He pulled out some paper.
Eleanor,
Damn it. Quit haunting me. I cannot get away from you and it is driving me mad. I lie there at night and think of you. Your words play over and over in my head, and I’m furious,mostly because I wonder if you’re right rather than because you had the honesty to voice your thoughts so directly.
No one has ever dared speak to me in such a manner. I do not appreciate it, but also, I do. Damn you.
The nib of his pen bent and ink spilled across the page. Cursing, he reached for blotting paper. The stain smudged her letters as he shoved his in the drawer on top of them. Just as hers would go unopened, his would go unsent.
Seagulls squawked loudly as they fought over the fish heads tossed by fisherwomen onto the banks of the river. Eleanor sat on a nearby bench, her typecase next to her. Habit had caused her to get up and get dressed at dawn. Whole body jitters drove her feet out the door. Panic made her grab the typecase on her way out. Aimlessness had led her here, where a newspaper boy was selling today’s paper—on a day of the week that had not had a paper before. It was a sign that the duke had been right, which meant there was a chance that she had been wrong.
Unbearably full of feeling, she flipped open her typecase. There were several leaves of paper resting on top of the sorts, printed with neat text—tests to ensure the sorts hadn’t worn and didn’t need replacing.
She flipped one to the blank side and grabbed the pencil that was always tucked along the edge.
Dear Captain,
I am faced with hours that I need to fill. Days or weeks, potentially. Maybe months, though I fear to think of it.
I realize this time would be a dream for most people, but the allure of the zoo and the museum is missing. Not even my two favorite places can rouse joy. Leisure feels better after work, when it is earned.
I don’t deserve to see a platypus, and soon I will not be able to afford to. That is the consequence of such a resounding failure. God, my grandfather would be so disappointed in me. You would be too, I fear. But that is of no consequence, since we are no longer friends. This letter will live in my typecase with the rest of my past.
“The architect will visit Berwick next week to assess the site. It’s feasible that the school extension could be completed this year, now that we have the funds.”
Andrew was clearly waiting for an enthusiastic response, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to give one.
Andrew furrowed his brow and moved to the next item on his list. “Repairs to the church roof in Weston have commenced, and an order has been placed for the new twine binders that we were discussing two summers back. They should arrive at each estate before this season’s harvest.” He paused again.
Again, Peter could manage little more than a nod. “That’s good. It will give them the support they need now that the pool of workers has slimmed.”
Andrew turned back to his notes. “Your sisters are clamoring for curling irons. They are the last people in the world to have one, apparently. It’s the reason so many of the girls these days have that look… you know, the one with the tiny curls on their foreheads.”
He knew the look. He was surrounded by it every night. “Fine. See if the supplier will give the staff private training. I don’t want one of the girls to lose an ear because a maid doesn’t know what she’s doing. Is that all?” If it was, he could return to staring at the fire.
Andrew shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve instructed our manufacturers to increase the next shipment of Linotypes by a dozen.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Do you expect more sales than we predicted?” Every sale was good news.
“Branson Books was vandalized two nights ago. All three of their machines were destroyed.”
Notgood news. Everything that already felt heavy got more so. “Was it a former employee?”
Andrew shrugged. “I can’t imagine who else. Apparently, negotiations between the publishers and the compositors have broken down.”
“Are they still refusing to give severance packages?” He’d hoped that the London Society of Compositors had made some progress, and that the people who were supposed to support those affected had done so.
“It was not in the employees’ contracts, and the publishers’ liquid assets were drained in order to purchase the machines.”
Peter’s stomach turned. All he had to defend his actions was the reasoning he’d held from the beginning—he could not be responsible for everyone—but it felt weaker each time he used it. He could tell Andrew thought so too.
