Georgiana managed a tremulous smile, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I do long to see Aunt Alice. She always knows what to say when one is wretched. But—do you suppose Richard will know me, William, or will he be too ill?”
“I cannot promise, but I think your gentle voice may do more for him than the best physician. He has spoken your name even in delirium.”
The carriage slowed as they turned into the street outside Matlock House. Darcy helped his sister alight, noting how pale and thin she had grown during his absence.
Lady Matlock, her eyes dark-rimmed with fatigue, met them in the hall. “Georgiana, my dear, you are a balm to us all. Come to the fire. Darcy, the doctor has just left—there is no change, but he remains hopeful.”
* * *
Chapter 5
Berkeley Square, September 1812
Never in her life had Elizabeth known such fatigue as accompanied her days while engaged in the varied obligations of Lady Jersey’s calendar and her own responsibilities at Child & Co. bank. Each morning—save for Sundays, which even Lady Jersey acknowledged as a necessary respite—Elizabeth rose at an early hour, quietly attending to such domestic duties as might lighten Aunt Madelaine’s burdens, before dressing for the day in whatever attire the occasion demanded. On those mornings when her presence was required at Child & Co. in Fleet Street, she wore her sensible woollen day dress; if she was to accompany Lady Jersey on calls or visits, a sprigged muslin morning dress sufficed. A hackney carriage, reserved exclusively for her use, and a footman, ever attentive, were provided at Lady Jersey’s expense.
One might have thought it a singular triumph: the second daughter of an unremarkable country squire moving amongst the highest circles of commerce and society. Yet the privilege bore with it a certain exhaustion: late nights spent at assemblies and soirées left her questioning whether she was a mere observer, a silent companion, or, less comfortably, a spy—her presence serving Lady Jersey’s interests at those gatherings her ladyship could not attend. Rarely did Elizabeth dance; never did she presume to advance her own interests by means of her association. In time, she became known to a variety of personages—merchants, the lower gentry, estate owners, andrecently elevated knights, their ladies delighting in their titles and introductions.
Yet Elizabeth’s sympathies were most engaged when the bank, with every effort at kindness, was obliged to refuse a loan or, as often, request repayment. The terms were always just, and allowances made for the deserving; Lady Jersey explained that those most valued by the bank were often those it had aided in times of hardship. The partners gradually grew accustomed to Elizabeth’s presence—she was seldom introduced, but sat quietly at Lady Jersey’s side, or, as her confidence increased, observed discussions with the senior partners—Mr. John Dent, whose aversion to dogs was notorious, and Mr. Harry Smith—or with the junior partners and senior clerks.
“Mrs. Elizabeth, might I trouble you to accompany me to a meeting with a certain Mr. Charles Whittingham?” Mr. Dent entered the boardroom, finding Elizabeth engaged in transcribing notes from an earlier appointment.
“Certainly, sir,” Elizabeth replied. “Mr. Whittingham? The name is unfamiliar to me.”
“He is a printer by trade, producing volumes for Heptinstall, the bookseller just down the street. He seeks to expand his business by acquiring a new press designed by Lord Stanhope. I confess, I know little of such machines, and Lady Jersey assures me you are an avid reader. Perhaps you could attend, listen to his account, and offer your opinion as to whether there is any prospect in this enterprise—and, more to the point, his business.”
As was often the custom, Elizabeth was not formally introduced, but sat quietly, taking notes as Mr. Whittingham described his work, which chiefly involved the printing of compact editions of established authors and poets, as analternative to the more costly volumes generally offered by booksellers.
“If you will look at this diagram, you will observe that the Stanhope press is constructed with a cast-iron frame, which lends greater durability and allows a full sheet to be printed in a single pull—up to two hundred and fifty sheets per hour,” Mr. Whittingham explained, placing an illustration upon the table. Elizabeth examined it closely, noting the clever arrangement of levers for increasing the pressure upon the inked type.
“And the quality of the work, Mr. Whittingham?” Mr. Dent enquired, consulting a slip of paper that Elizabeth had discreetly passed to him. “Speed avails little if it compromises the printed page.”
The meeting concluded soon after, and Mr. Whittingham was asked to wait in the vestibule.
“It is a narrow thing, Mrs. Elizabeth,” said Mr. Dent. “Should his ideas succeed, he might become very prosperous, which would, as you know, be to our advantage, for expansion would require support from the bank. Mr. Whittingham appears respectable, but we have been deceived before by ingenious men who use clever devices to part us from our money.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Dent,” Elizabeth said, her tone conspiratorial, “if you permit, I might visit Mr. Whittingham’s establishment to see the press and examine the books he has produced. His apartments are above his shop, and I daresay his wife will offer some refreshment. I have observed that the condition of a man’s home—and the manner of his wife—often reveal more than his public bearing, for one cannot easily disguise poor tea, worn linens, or neglected children.”
“I had supposed, Mrs. Elizabeth,” Mr. Dent replied wryly, “that Lady Jersey’s wish for a private secretary was a mere affectation. Yet both she and you continue to surprise me—alady may enquire in places where a gentleman cannot. I suggest you first visit Mr. Heptinstall’s shop and examine the editions Mr. Whittingham has printed—no great hardship, I trust—then proceed to Robert Walker in Vine Street, Piccadilly, who manufactures the presses in question.”
Elizabeth spent the following morning in Fleet Street, her steps quickened by curiosity as she approached Heptinstall’s tidy shopfront. Within, the air was tinged with the scent of fresh paper and binding glue, and Elizabeth found herself momentarily distracted by the neatly arranged spines of Fielding, Goldsmith, and Pope, in addition to law texts, including Blackstone’s famous Commentaries. She requested to see the most recent volumes produced by Mr. Whittingham’s hand, and the clerk, a young man with ink-stained fingers and a ready smile, obliged her with several small, handsome editions.
Turning each page with care, Elizabeth noted the clarity of the type and the even inking. The impression was crisp, the margins generous, and the paper—though modest—was pleasing to the touch. She enquired whether these volumes sold well; the clerk assured her that the affordability and compact size were much admired by young scholars and clerks, who might otherwise forgo the pleasure of books altogether.
Satisfied, Elizabeth left the shop and directed the footman to Vine Street, where Robert Walker’s manufactory stood amid the clatter of carts and the competing cries of street hawkers. Mr. Walker, a robust man with a beard nearly as formidable as his handshake, received her with genial surprise. Upon learning her purpose, he beckoned her into the workshop, where the Stanhope press stood in pride of place—a gleaming, iron colossus amidst the clutter of tools and half-finished contrivances.
Elizabeth observed as a sheet was placed upon the tympan, ink was briskly rolled over the type, and the great lever was pulled. The resulting page was as sharp and clean as any she had seen at Heptinstall’s. Mr. Walker explained the principles of the machine with enthusiasm, noting its economy of effort and the reduced strain on the workmen, which, he added, “might do away with the gout and the ruined wrists that plague those in the old trade.”
She thanked him, making careful note of his remarks and the general orderliness of the workshop, before returning to Fleet Street to report her findings. As she entered the boardroom, Lady Jersey looked up from a stack of correspondence, her eyes bright with anticipation.
“Well, Mrs. Elizabeth?” she prompted.
Elizabeth smiled. “I believe Mr. Whittingham’s enterprise is conducted with both prudence and ingenuity. The press itself is a marvel, and the books—though modest—are well made and destined to find a ready market among those who might otherwise have no books at all. If it is the character of the man you seek to judge, I would visit his home as planned. But as to his business, I should say he is most promising.”
“Well and good. Please pass your notes to Mr. Dent, for it is hardly my place to interfere.” Lady Jersey regarded her with a sly arch of her brow. “Your duties are not yet concluded, Mrs. Elizabeth. Would you accompany me on a call? I propose to visit Lady Matlock. Her door has only just been reopened to callers; her son, a colonel in the regulars, suffered grave wounds on the Peninsula but has, I am pleased to report, regained his health. She now receives visitors, and as I have already sent my card, we are expected at four. I think your jade silk will serve admirably.”
Elizabeth regarded her in some confusion. Lady Matlock, a countess, was a personage of similar consequence to Lady Jerseyherself. “Forgive my curiosity, ma’am, but is there a particular reason you wish for my company?”
“Ah, ever perceptive, my dear. There is indeed. Colonel Fitzwilliam—Lady Matlock’s second son—though recovered in body from a wound suffered in the Peninsula, has not yet rejoined society. I expect he will be attending his mother in the drawing room when we call. I have matters of some delicacy to discuss with Lady Matlock—matters not easily broached with an intelligent colonel nearby. You, Elizabeth, possess all that is lively and agreeable. If I may be blunt, your part is to engage the colonel—occupy him with your wit and conversation.”
