Lillian tilted her head, openly assessing him in a way that few did. “Mabel is quite happy atThe Times,” she said in response to his unasked question. “And Eleanor… I’m not sure she would want to attend, so I didn’t mention it to her.” She furrowed her brow. “I am surprised that you haven’t told her yourself, Your Grace. I thought the whole point of this exercise was for Zoo Man to redeem himself.”
“Zoo Man?How… novel.” Had any member of high society heard him be referred to as such, they would have fainted. It didn’t bother him, though. Quite the opposite, in fact. Eleanor’s memory of their first encounter was clearly as noteworthy to her as his own was to him.
Lillian grimaced. “I suppose we should call you Your Grace, though it seems stuffy.”
Satisfaction permeated every inch of him. He found himself bouncing on his toes. “No. Zoo Man is perfect.” These womendidn’t care what his title was. Their moniker was a greater compliment than their deference could have been.
He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I didn’t tell Eleanor about the training because she does not, currently, want to shoot me. I figured the less I mention the Linotype, the better. Besides, I’m not sure she’d be interested.”
Lillian screwed up her nose and looked over to where others were choosing machines. Peter had hired several experts to provide training to anyone who wanted it. They would teach in and out of work hours, so that everyone would have the opportunity to grow.
She sighed, shaking her head. “No, Eleanor would not be interested in learning how to use the Linotype, or the typewriter or the telegraph. I fear it would break her spirit to sit in a room with others and let them see that she is a novice. But she must do something. She’ll go mad without a purpose. Mad and broke.”
Eleanor’s spirit was exactly what he hoped to repair. Destroying that had been his greatest transgression. He sighed. “I hope you do know I’d never let her come to harm. She doesn’t want a thing from me and so I do not offer it, but if push comes to shove, I will step in. She will be neither homeless nor hungry.”
“I believe you.” Lillian put a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. None of his acquaintances would dare such a familiarity. He hadn’t known it was something he’d been lacking until the touch softened him.
He cleared his throat. “Are you here for the Linotype, Miss Cole?” he asked, changing the conversation so that she could not see how her kindness had affected him. “I thought you were already employed.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets, swaying back andforth as though her excitement was too animated to contain. “I have work, and I’m thankful for that. But I heard that you were teaching people how to operate all sorts of devices.”
“We are. We want everyone we’ve put out of work to have options.” There were already indications that the typesetting industry would recover. The Society of Compositors had met with Andrew and all the major publishers. The initial cost of the machines had led to staff cuts, but long-term predictions were of an expanding industry with an increase in jobs as demand for books and newspapers spread beyond the aristocracy and upper working class.
“I want to learn the typewriter,” Lillian said. “I could work as a secretary for the police force. Constables could visit the crime scenes, and I could write up the reports. Assuming they’re willing to hire a woman.”
Peter coughed and looked away to hide his surprise. He should have known Eleanor’s friends would be as singular as she was. “Do you think they’ll say no?” he asked once he’d composed himself.
She screwed up her nose once more. “I think they’ll say that it’s too grisly to be a woman’s work. But I can handle grisly.”
“I daresay you can.” Peter liked Lillian, and if losing out to the Linotype led to her living her dream—however grisly—then that would be another part of his atonement. “Go, try your hand at it. There is a machine free. Tomorrow, I’ll speak with the commissioner. He will meet with you at the very least.”
She was confused. Clearly happy, but confused nonetheless. “Why would you do that? Is this because Eleanor is my dearest friend?”
A peace settled over him. “That is just a bonus, Miss Cole. I’m trying to fix the things I broke, whether Eleanor knows of it or not.”
One would think that Charly would be too old to help her carry trunks of books from the pavement, down the stairs, and to the dimly lit bookstore he owned. But despite his stooped shoulders and the white hair that grew to touch them, he was remarkably strong.
It felt like no effort at all for him and Eleanor to transfer a lifetime’s worth of reading to the worn and battered counter that had existed in that shop for longer than she’d been alive. Tens of thousands of books, possibly hundreds of thousands, had slid across the polished countertop that had smelled like linseed oil at least once a year.
Thorn’s Fine Books was joy, and this morning it was also sadness, and maybe that was a circle of life. There were so many brilliant stories in those trunks. There was so much fascinating information. In a couple of days, once Charly had had a chance to properly catalog the books and sort them into the strange madness of his shelving system, another young girl would have the opportunity to find the same joy.
Eleanor would one day have that opportunity again. Not immediately. Not soon. But she had another fifty-odd years of life ahead of her. Her story-collecting days were not over. Not by a long shot.
Charly reviewed the neat list of books she’d written—title, author, edition, quality—then filled out a check and handed it to her.
It was an unexpectedly large sum. If she had to guess, it was at least what she’d paid for the books over the years, maybe more. “This can’t be right,” she said. “Do you not need to inspect them all first?”
Charly reached over the counter to pat her hand. “Those books will be in the same condition in which I sold them to you. I don’t doubt that. Also, many of them are near-impossible to source now.”
A lump formed in her throat. Every penny gave her a little breathing room. The more she could breathe, the easier it was to consider Peter’s question:What next?
There was ajingle jangleas the door opened. They both looked up the stairs to where light streamed into the bookstore, creating a golden frame for a man’s figure. The man held a hand to his eyes as they adjusted to the dark.
Her eyes had already adjusted, and something in her chest flipped over. “Your Grace, are you following me?”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and drew closer. His clove and cedarwood cologne melded with the earthy scent of the bookstore, and she realized why he’d felt familiar the day they’d met.
“It is merely a splendid coincidence,” Peter said. “I am looking for a book, and a friend recommended this place. They said there was at least a mile of shelving.”
