“A full page is a day’s work.”
He cocked his head. “Interesting. I’d heard it took longer.”
“It usually does, but I’ve been setting type since I was eight years old.” And she would set it until she was eighty.
“So, you’re a master?” He grinned and she sensed no sarcasm.
“I suppose so. Yes.” It wasn’t arrogance to state the truth.
He paused, as though trying to settle a debate in his mind before his lips firmed as he made a decision. “Would you like to go for coffee? From memory, Blackwell’s Rooms is just down the road.”
If Mabel and Lillian were here, they’d prod her forward. For months, they’d been nudging her toward courtship, insisting there was more to life than work, books, and Eleanor’s cat. Here was a man who was exceptionally good-looking and well-off enough to wear quality leather boots and a small diamond neck pin that was too understated to be paste. And after hearing her say that she was better than her colleagues, he still wanted to take her out for coffee. He was everything Mabel fantasized about.
Despite the temptation, she couldn’t do it. She felt weirdly unlike herself in his presence. Having coffee with him might well set off a chain of dominoes, and who knew where those fallen bricks and plans would take her. Best to stick to the future she could control. Besides, she had the Captain, who was by all means a thoroughly safe flirtation given they didn’t even know each other’s true names. No. Best not to have anything to do with this man.
“Thank you, but my calendar is full. Enjoy what remains of the afternoon.” She snapped the latches shut and swung thetypecase off the bench, the weight of it her ballast, keeping her steady.
She could feel the heat of his stare as he watched her go. It scorched the bare skin at her neck, as though his gaze had set her ruffled lace collar on fire. She quickened her pace.Thank God I never have to see him again.
Dearest Booklover,
I have another confession for you, since you have already drawn out my penchant for science fiction and the names that I call my brother in my head. Last night I snuck into the kitchen and tore a leg off the chicken we are supposed to have for dinner tonight. While I was at it, I helped myself to a lemon pudding that was out on the bench.
No, forgive me. If this is to be a true confession, I stole the pudding from the pantry. It was rather exhilarating, if I’m to be honest. I haven’t felt that naughty since I was twelve and I shimmied down the tree outside my bedroom. I blame you and your terrible influence.
My only saving grace is that no one will suspect me because they have no notion of my dastardly nature. Besides, I hadn’t had a moment to myself and was starving. I paid for it, so it wasn’t truly theft, was it? At least, that’s what I imagined you whispering to me before I committed the crime.
Dear Captain,
Forgive my unsteady hand. I am in a cab, on my way to meet a most curious dinner partner, but I just remembered to tell you of a rumor. It appears the keeper at Highgate Cemetery is hosting ghost tours. Completely unauthorized, obviously, and I’ve no idea how to buy a ticket. But I’m fascinated. I plan to visit during the day as soon as I am able. Perhaps there will be a clue there.
Thank you for the copy ofThe Coming Race.I have not yet read it and I’m glad that my first time will be accompanied by your annotations. It will be almost like sitting across a table from you, reading it together. I like the thought.
Yours,
Booklover
P.S. It was not theft, and I am not a terrible influence. I rather think the opposite.
Chapter Four
“We can go as high as forty pounds in advance and then fifteen percent of the royalties thereafter.” Sophie tapped her foot on the floor of the cab, betraying a nervousness that Eleanor had not seen in her employer before.
“Forty? And fifteen? Royalties are usually twelve percent. Is Chester, or whatever their true name is, worth so much?” Granted, the detective novel about a jewel thief who stole only from the most aggravating aristocrats and would ransom the items for embarrassing secrets was hilarious, made more so by characters who bore a resemblance to figures who graced the social pages. Reading it had piqued her relentless curiosity. The manuscript had contained details about high society that felt too subtle to be fake. She was ravenous for a sequel, just to experience more of that world.
Sophie’s tapping quickened. “It has too much detail about the beau monde to be written by an outsider, which means society ladies will devour it looking for a clue to the author’s identity, and the rest of the population will read it just to see the lords get their comeuppance.”
“A bestseller, then.”
Sophie nodded. “And I need it. The building next door hasbecome available for lease and I’d like to expand the business. Book sales have increased across the board. Now is the time.”
Delighted, Eleanor grasped Sophie’s hand with a firm squeeze. “That is excellent news. My goodness. Congratulations.”
Sophie deserved every success as recompense for the opportunities she gave others. Of all of Eleanor’s employers, Sophie was the one who provided her staff with the best working conditions and fairest wage. More than a handful of women had gained independence because of her.
“Thank you.” Sophie took a shaky breath. “Leasing more space is a risk, but one has to take them. Signing Chester would be a safeguard. I would feel like I was leaping over the Thames rather than Niagara Falls.”
Eleanor’s mind perked. “Did you know, Matthew Webb died trying to cross the river below Niagara Falls? Imagine being the first to swim across the English Channel and then following that success with your death?”
