Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Perturbed, I pull at my velvet jacket, my nervous sweat quite real.
Chapter 13
But the next day, much to my surprise, although I would never admit it, we sell another sixteen thousand copies! I would have put it down to the reader expecting more of the Winters’ tragic story, but Eliza made it quite clear that the end had come. I read her final piece myself to be sure, and I smiled when she signed it off with the exciting announcement of the next day’s front page news.
I mean, and I’m not too reserved to admit it, my headline was really quite genius, and it obviously had the desired effect.
ENGLISH ROSE OR ENGLISH ROGUE?
THE HIGHWAYWOMAN RUNS AMOK IN LONDON
Yes, you read that right. A woman! I myself can confirm …
And the next day, as I ride through the royal parks on my way to the printworks, everywhere I look there are people reading The London Times, their faces buried in the pages, eager for every word they can get, every piece of information.
At the very least, two dozen men ask me as I trot through the crowds if I have any inkling as to the identity of the highwaywoman, but I merely smile, feeding their curiosity, for it will surely lead to better sales tomorrow, too. Another dozen snort their doubts, insisting I must be mistaken, and I confidently assure them I am not.
‘You must have been terrified,’ Lady Blythe says as I pass.
No, I was mesmerised. ‘I barely lived to tell the tale.’
‘She was violent?’
No, she was captivating. ‘She wielded a pistol with the greatest of confidence.’
‘You write with passion, Mr Melrose, and your words are quite catchy, even if I do say so myself.’ She smiles demurely.
‘Such a compliment from an establish, talented novelist, I’m sure,’ I say, nodding my respect.
‘Oh, be sure of that. I always knew Florence’s son was a handsome fellow, but such a talent too? My housemaid’s son sweeps the floors at your printworks, and he told her the machines are running at full pace, day and night! Your father must be very proud of you and Her Grace.’ She goes back to the article. ‘Perhaps you might offer me some inspiration for my next novel, Mr Melrose.’
I smile, kicking my horse to encourage it into a trot, seeing Fleming in the distance, and, pleasingly, he too has his face buried in the pages of The London Times. ‘Morning, Fleming.’
He looks up and slams the paper closed. ‘I was robbed by a woman?’ he hisses.
‘Indeed you were, Fleming, indeed you were.’
‘You will bring her to me.’
‘Oh, I will,’ I assure him quietly, sounding and appearing confident, but Fleming here has, annoyingly, taken me away from the accolades and thrill for a moment and reminded me that I have only enough words for perhaps another few editions, and I am far from close to discovering who she is. My heart pumps. Adrenaline, I’m sure. ‘I shall furnish you, along with everyone else, with the information as it unfolds.’
‘Good to hear. And what do you propose after she is captured and revealed, Melrose, and we strike a deal on my transportation means? What stories do you have up your sleeve then?’
‘Oh, her capture is just the beginning, Fleming.’ Then we get into the whys and wherefores, not to mention the trial. That is, if she can be caught. She is playing a very risky game, I must admit. Perhaps she is a thrill seeker. One of those arrogant criminals that takes pleasure from taking risks.
I hum. Her arrogance may be the end of her.
I met Papa and we rode together to the printworks on horseback, chatting about business and stories. It was pleasant, as was the fact he neglected to mention anything about marriage. I think I might be off the hook for the time being, so long as I can maintain this momentum. Prove I do not need to be wed to demonstrate commitment.
Grant shows us the new machine at work, and Papa agrees pay rises for all the staff. ‘Wait,’ he says, appearing to consider something quite carefully as he turns towards me. ‘What do you think, Frank?’ he asks. ‘Two shillings a week per worker?’
‘Perhaps a little tight, Papa. We have more than doubled the workload in recent weeks.’
‘You are right, of course. Five shillings it is. That’ll please your sister,’ he says as he removes his hat. ‘And what of this?’ He motions to a table that is stacked high with paper.
‘Those are the requests for advertising space in The London Times,’ Grant tells us as I start to sift through the piles. ‘Requests have multiplied tenfold.’
‘What do you say, Frank?’ Papa asks, coming over. ‘We cannot possibly accommodate such volumes.’
‘Readers wish to be informed and entertained,’ I say, starting to pace. ‘We can increase the pages to accommodate a mere fraction of these requests, but, should we take that route, we must employ more journalists to balance the advertisements with news. We are down two contributors, what with Porter dead and Eliza with child, and we cannot fill all the pages, Papa, so we should think to replace them without delay as a priority. To exceed that, not to mention the extra printing costs and weight for distribution, I fear would be counterproductive, at least for now.’ I do not need to add any more financial pressure on myself, not until I have more material to work with and have exceeded twenty thousand copies. But as soon as I have secured a deal with Fleming for distribution nationwide and can take advantage of readers further afield, it will take the pressure off and it will be full steam ahead. ‘Now, I think I would recommend ensuring the workers are suitably incentivised to meet our current demand, and then perhaps we re-evaluate in the near future.’ I nod to myself and turn to Papa, who looks adorably stunned.