Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Eleanor wasn’t at the ball. She hadn’t been there when he entered, and she hadn’t arrived while he’d made small talk, always keeping one thread of his consciousness on the entrance. Still, he couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling past his dance partner and scanning the room, just in case.
“I must thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Cecilia said, following Peter’s smooth lead and the music’s one, two, three rhythm. “I am overwhelmed with gratitude.”
He dragged his attention back to her. Her picture-perfect smile seemed dangerously brittle.
“What have I done to deserve such effusive thanks?” he asked.
It seemed out of character. Where other chits had fallen over themselves when he’d asked them to dance, Lady Cecilia had given him her card along with a frown that suggested he’d taken far too long.
“I was not expecting gossip papers for another three days. Imagine my surprise when a new sheet was delivered this morning, along with a promise to deliver it daily. I am quite elated.”
Peter pressed his lips together. The rapid distribution of gossip had not factored into the Linotype’s introduction. “I am glad it brought you joy, Lady Cecilia.”
He held an arm aloft and she swooped with unmatched grace, casting her gaze about on return to ensure her elegance had been seen. “Society is quite abuzz with your success,” she said when she faced him once more. “Is it true that you’ve made tens of thousands of pounds in just a few short weeks?”
It had hardly been a few short weeks. It had been years of searching for the right investment, months of negotiation, another two years of planning and production.
Publishers had been quick to adopt the Linotype, but the journey had not been short.
It had been arduous. It had been weighed down by the need to make it work before his ledgers were washed with red.
And it had succeeded beyond what he’d ever thought possible. The last of the existing stock was now accounted for, and orders for new machines were coming in daily. His coffers were flush and set to be for a very long time. He should feel light. He should feel happy. He should feel something.
“I have been very fortunate.”
“As is your future duchess.”
She wasn’t subtle. Lady Cecilia was the daughter of a duke, her dowry was substantial, and she was objectively beautiful. Her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother had all given birth to many hearty boys. She was, perhaps, as highly prized on the marriage mart as he was, and she knew it.
The only thing she lacked was kindness, but then, that was no longer on his list of required attributes.
He couldn’t bring himself to like her, but that didn’t matter.
His only concern was upholding his responsibilities and carrying on the family name.
Pleasurable feelings were luxuries for other men, and for the novels he’d given up reading.
Regret. Guilt. He was free to keep those.
“What charities do you support, Lady Cecilia?” he asked, attempting to refocus on tonight’s chore.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Those that require fundraising events. No one of importance declines an invitation to support an orphanage. It would look heartless.”
Her motives were self-serving, but they would serve him too. Esteem enabled influence, and thus he could affect more change. Eleanor would not have brought that to a marriage.
“Do you visit your father’s estates often?” he asked.
She shrugged. “When I must. My mother passed but her obligations didn’t.”
“Are you satisfied with that aspect of your life?” He could not stand a lifetime of grumbling.
Delicate creases formed as she narrowed her eyes. “I will do what I’m expected to do. Whether I enjoy it is not a factor. We all have a role we must be seen to play. It is the compromise we make in return for the pleasures we have.”
It wasn’t a compromise for him, and it wasn’t in exchange for pleasure.
It was his life’s work. Though it weighed heavily, he wouldn’t replace it for the world.
That was something Eleanor would have understood.
“I need a wife who will care for the people on my estate.” Kindness might be optional, but a commitment to treat his people with respect was not.
There was a flicker of color at the edge of his vision, and his gaze slipped for a heartbeat. The woman entering wore rose-colored silk edged with deep green lace. It wasn’t Eleanor, though, and his exhale was laced with disappointment.
Cecilia pursed her lips. “I would execute my duties without complaint.” The sharp edge of her tone sharpened his focus. “In return, I would expect my husband not to embarrass me with improper liaisons.”
He bristled at her suggestion, and put another inch between them. “I have no intention of conducting an affair.” Eleanor had put an end to any hope of a romantic relationship.
Cecilia arched an eyebrow. “Inappropriate liaisons are not always romantic, Your Grace. Inappropriate friendships with those outside our circle can create just as much embarrassment.”
It was her turn to scan the room, and she did so with great exaggeration, pausing pointedly where Lady Wharton would usually sit. Cecilia had marked his distraction and wanted him to know it.
Anger at her presumption warred with anger at himself. Blessedly, the music ended. “I have no such friendships. Thank you for the dance.”
He backed away the moment she let him go.
It was oppressively hot in the ballroom, and a half-dozen women hovered at the edge of the dance floor, watching him.
Waiting. None of them were her. He needed air, so he pushed through the crowd, brushing past his sister.
“Lady Cecilia was at the bottom of our list, brother,” Winnie muttered.
“She is the most qualified so far,” he replied. If no better candidate appeared, she would be it.
Drowning in shame, Eleanor entered Sophie’s office with an apology already prepared.
The day had been rife with stumbles and mistakes.
She’d set a third of the text she would have in the before times, when Mabel was still with her.
She’d gotten short with Lillian—another person she must apologize to—and she’d ignored her colleagues, who had learned of the Linotype through news articles about the protests.
News articles that Eleanor had not set.
Sophie was slumped with her head in her hands. It was uncharacteristic.
Trepidation wound through Eleanor. “Sophie? Are you well?”
Her employer looked up with a wan smile. “It has been a long day, is all.”
Guilt roiled in her belly. “I know I didn’t do a good job today. Losing Mabel has been a setback, but Lillian will get used to handling the composing sticks while she narrates. Or I’ll find someone to replace Mabel. I promise, in a couple of weeks, we will be back up to our usual productivity.”
Sophie sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.
Tendrils of hair had frizzed and knotted above her collar, and Eleanor had the sinking feeling that Sophie had been distressed all day.
“It’s not that, Eleanor. We lost the Nietzsche book, the Atwood book, and the Sanderson book. Houndstooth scooped them all.”
“All of them?” It was unprecedented. Sophie was often outbid by the bigger publishing houses, but not for every book by a single house all at once.
“Houndstooth offered very generous advances. Sixty pounds each.”
Eleanor sucked in a sharp breath, and was forced to steady herself on the chair in front of her. “That’s impossible. How could they afford such outrageous sums?” But even as she asked the question, she knew the answer.
“They have invested in the Linotype. They intend to publish a hundred and fifty titles this year alone.”
One hundred and fifty titles from one house.
The duke was right. The Linotype was heralding a new era of information.
If one publisher was tripling their list, others would follow suit, or they would compete by cutting prices, which they could do only if they employed fewer people… “That kind of market share—”
“Would ruin us,” Sophie finished, rubbing her face. “We will not be able to compete. Not with our current setup.”
A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat, and the chair now bore almost all of her weight.
“Not without switching to the Linotype ourselves, is what you mean.” When she’d imagined this moment—with Sophie, at her safest place—she’d imagined blood rushing through her veins and her entire body thrumming, ready to flee or fight.
Instead, her body wanted to curl in on itself and hide.
There was no fear or anger left to draw on. All she felt was exhaustion.
“Eleanor.”
“I could work longer hours.”
“You already work long hours. You work as much as I do.”
“I could halve my rates.” She couldn’t pay Lillian less than she did currently, but she no longer had Mabel’s salary to take care of. If she economized, she could scrape by on less money.
Sophie sighed. “It is not the money, Eleanor. It is the time. Your showdown with the Linotype was cruel business, but it revealed a lot. In six months, you won’t be able to keep up with a trained typist. Our success has always relied on speed. It is why you were worth every penny.”
Why she was worth every penny. She wrapped her arms around herself, retreating slowly. “No. It’s all right. I understand. You do what you need to do. You keep the lights on and the press working.”
Sophie’s throat bobbed as though she was trying to fight back tears. “I must. It’s my life’s work.”
Eleanor understood. She knew what it was to have built something through years of blood and sweat. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done to keep her work going. Nothing.
“Please offer Lillian a position of some kind. I cannot afford to keep her on without guaranteed work and she should not be thrust into unemployment because I am no longer what I was.”
Sophie reached a hand across the desk but Eleanor was too far away for her to catch. “If you’re willing, I will keep you too. You would be the best in no time.”
Take the offer, Eleanor. There was a mortgage to pay and no promise of work elsewhere, but the thought of walking back into that room and starting at the bottom was too much to bear. She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I can’t.”
It was the response Sophie clearly expected. Her shoulders sagged, and she slumped low in her chair. “What will you do?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I don’t know. Reach out to other publishers, I suppose. See if anyone will take on a dinosaur.” Her voice cracked, and she snapped her mouth shut before it could reveal too much.
Sophie closed her eyes for a long moment. “If I could make any other decision, I would.”
Desperate to keep her feelings constrained, Eleanor nodded instead of answering.
“Perhaps you’ll look back on this as a good thing.” Sophie gave a wan smile. “There is more to life than work. You could find a career that doesn’t consume you. You are the most educated woman of my acquaintance. You could choose a career that lets you have a family beyond your cat.”
A family. That thought was just another heartbreak. She had not needed a family because she’d had her work. Then the Captain had appeared and marriage had become a consideration. Now she had neither.
“When will the Linotypes be delivered?”
“By the end of the week. The duke reallocated the last few he had. They were meant to go to Goodman & Sons. I suppose he thought we could use the advantage.”
Eleanor wanted to believe that he’d done so as a final blow to her, but deep down she knew the truth.
He’d wanted to help a smaller business over a larger one.
She hated it, but it tracked with everything she didn’t want to acknowledge about him.
“I will continue working until then,” she said.
“I don’t want the schedule to fall behind, so I will stay as long as you need me. ”
Sophie shook her head. “It’s unnecessary. I will pay you for the rest of the week, regardless.”
She fisted her hands, reaching for the last remaining mettle she had. “It is necessary. I will do the job I was hired to do until I am no longer needed. That is what makes a person.”
Dear Captain,
I lost my job today. The career that I’ve spent a lifetime building has vanished, and I still don’t understand how.
That’s not entirely true. I am painfully aware of the people and forces that contributed to my downfall, but I still have trouble wrapping my head around the events of the past months.
I struggle to believe that any of it could be true because I have never, not once, even considered this possibility.
That was where I failed. I honestly believed that as long as I showed up, worked hard, and was the best at what I did, I would be fine.
My success would be assured, and I could go to sleep knowing my worth.
Now I have been shoved into a rosebush with nothing to protect me from the thorns, and neither my talent nor my work ethic matter. I have absolutely no control over my life, and that terrifies me even more than the thought of losing my home, and my library, and my freedom to explore.
I’ve only just realized that I am a piece and not the player. How does one move forward when they have no control of the board?
I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. You didn’t meet me that night, and you haven’t responded to my last letter. I don’t know if you even received it. I lost you, too, didn’t I?
For what it’s worth, that cut is just as deep.
—Booklover