Chapter Twelve
There was a loud thump, and Eleanor, lost in thought, jerked to attention.
“You are preoccupied this evening, Miss Wright.” Lady Wharton’s cane was firmly in hand rather than resting against the chaise longue as it had been a moment ago. Or two moments. Three?
“Apologies, my lady,” Eleanor replied, running her finger along the edge of the silk ribbon one last time before folding her hands in her lap and clenching her fingers, as though they could fix her focus in place instead of letting it float toward the Captain and the fact that he looked forward to her letters as much as she looked forward to his.
At least, his feet did, apparently, which hopefully meant his mind did likewise.
He certainly took up space in hers. Lots of space. More and more every day.
“Hehemm.”
Dash it. Her focus had slipped already. “I’m sorry. What was that last thing?”
“I asked what you were fiddling with that was more interesting than Goethe.” Lady Wharton tapped the book that sat beside her.
It had become a tradition; every evening they spent three quarters of an hour analyzing a text before they both sighed and acknowledged that they really should attend the event that was planned.
“Many would envy my place in this world, Miss Wright,” Lady Wharton—Agatha—would say with a humph. “But stewarding future generations of women is taxing.”
“Have you considered a career in X, Y, or Z?” Eleanor would reply. She would receive a stern look in response and then they would gather their things and depart.
“It is not that Goethe is uninteresting. I am simply distracted. Please continue.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “Is it the epistolatory form that causes your mind to wander? Because I thought you were more open to experimental form.”
Letters were the cause of her distraction, but not the self-indulgent, somewhat manipulative love notes that made up The Sorrows of Young Werther.
“I have no objection to letters as a conduit for romance, though the story cannot be classified as such. He never sent the letters to her—which was the only sensible decision he made throughout—and it ended in tragedy when he realized he could never have her.”
Agatha sniffed. “Yes, well, young people rarely make sensible decisions when it comes to the heart.”
Lady Wharton might well be correct. “Did you know that Goethe regretted writing The Sorrows?” Eleanor replied to avoid examining her own foolishness.
There was no good reason for the Captain to impact the job she was there to do.
“The book inspired a rash of suicides in young men who thought dying wearing blue coats and yellow pants was the ultimate romantic gesture.”
New creases formed between Agatha’s eyebrows. “Do you think the artist was culpable for those acts? To what extent must an author account for a reader’s actions?”
“I suppose it depends on the author’s intent. Was Goethe romanticizing death, in which case the blame may partly lie with him, or was The Sorrows a warning?”
“What is your assessment?”
“I think it was a warning to young women, at least, even if that wasn’t the author’s intention. ‘If I cannot have you, I cannot go on living’ is a ridiculous sentiment, akin to blackmail. One should stay away from such fervor.”
“What an admirably pragmatic approach to love and marriage. One must be sensible in these things, don’t you think?”
She did think, but lately her actions did not match her reason.
Instead of walking to work, most mornings she dallied until she was forced to take a cab, just in case the Captain sent a letter.
She took her favorite orange blossom perfume with her and dabbed a little on her neck before she hurried home on the highly unlikely chance that the Captain had discovered her identity and was waiting in the lobby.
“You’re blushing, Eleanor.”
Her cheeks warmed further. “I am not.”
“You are, and I want to know why.” There was an edge to Agatha’s tone that was sharper than Eleanor was used to. “Your mind is uncharacteristically jumbled and you continue to toy with what looks like a very expensive ribbon. Who is courting you?”
Eleanor blinked. It was phrased as a question but sounded very much like an accusation. “I’m not exactly sure if it is a courtship.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Goodness, girl. Men aren’t difficult to comprehend. Does he dance too close? Is he overly groomed? Does he puff out his chest? If he’s strutting like a pigeon, he’s courting you.”
Heavens, Eleanor. Pay attention. How can you not see what goes on around you?
And now Agatha spoke as if Eleanor knew nothing when she knew lots, in fact. She just didn’t know this thing, but not because she was stupid or oblivious. “I have no idea how his chest sits when he walks. We’ve not met. I have only his words to go on.”
Agatha softened. “It is not the duke then.”
“The duke?”
The dowager threw up her hands. “Yes, His Grace, the Duke of Strafford, who has not gone publicly by the name Peter since he was in knee britches. You have still not explained your connection to him and last night’s events were quite suspicious.”
The duke was not her beau. He was the furthest thing from it. “We are competitors. The very thought of him sours my mood. He can ruin even the best of days.”
That afternoon, the Captain’s letter had just been delivered to the post office when she’d gone to drop off hers.
They had been in the same space just minutes apart.
Her heart had leapt and, grateful for the perfume she wore, she’d hurried outside hoping for a glimpse of him.
She did not believe in fate, yet she felt as though she’d recognize him—that her body would know.
And her body had tingled, but it had been with rage. Instead of the Captain she had seen the blasted duke climbing into a crested carriage. She’d ducked her head and scooted back inside to avoid his notice.
“He is your competitor?” Lady Wharton’s eyebrows shot up. “In what capacity?”
“He is selling a machine that sets type.” Even now, the words were hard to say at a regular volume.
She had thought it impossible for Lady Wharton to express more surprise, but now her eyebrows defied biology in the way they practically touched her hairline.
“I thought type was only set by hand. The entire point of choosing Cumberland Press was because it could get my book out the fastest. Miss Wright, you were supposed to be the best?”
“I am.”
Lady Wharton drew back, lips pursed, head cocked, scowling as though the situation was a personal affront to her. “But a machine could do it faster, could it not?”
Eleanor could not bear it. She could not sit there and listen to another person suggest that the Linotype was anything other than a fiendish contraption.
She flexed her fingers like she could wrap them around the duke’s neck.
“His infernal machine will be the death of books as we love them.” Eleanor stood and pointed at the shelves that covered every wall.
“The last remaining element of humanity will be gone. Publishers will chase quantity over quality and the market will be flooded with cheaply made books. Their sanctity will be eroded.”
Lady Wharton took in a swift, sharp breath. “Unacceptable.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“Books are to be held in high esteem.”
“Precisely.”
“What value will they have if just anyone can afford them?”
Eleanor blinked. “I… Uh…” That was not the point she was trying to make at all.
Lady Wharton thumped her cane thrice. When she huffed, Eleanor was surprised not to see steam rise. This was the dragon the newspapers spoke of. “What are we planning to do about it, Miss Wright?”
“I plan to destroy him so fully that he cannot even look at a book again without feeling the failure in his bones. We compete tomorrow. He will lose, and he’ll never set foot in a printing house again.”
“Tomorrow, you say.”
“Indeed.”
“Then go home, Miss Wright. You must rest, and I have some rewriting to do. There has been some character development.”
How satisfying it was to know that that the duke’s villainy was about to be immortalized in literature. Eleanor would succeed tomorrow, and then gleefully set Agatha’s novel herself.