TWENTY-SEVEN
Portia had recognized William’s writing on the front of the letter the second she spotted it in the housekeeper’s hands with the rest of the morning post.
“I can deliver all those for you, Mrs. Rumpole.”
“Well… if you do not mind, your grace…”
“It is still very much Portia to you and of course I do not mind.”
She relieved her of the pile and found a quiet corner to read his missive. In typical William style, it was brief and to the point.
We have a new home and a printing press and we intend to go to print again this Sunday!
I sincerely hope that you will find a way to join us!
William
She had no clue how such a miracle had occurred so quickly but was delighted that it had. However, there was no way that she could join them at the new address scrawled at the bottom of the letter, even for a few minutes.
None at all.
Not while she was the Duchess of Debden.
Except, as she wandered around the house to distribute all the letters, it soon became apparent that she was doomed to suffer another pointless morning of doing nothing. Leo had left early to “borrow” some files from the clerk of court to show her. His mother and sisters intended to spend one final morning shopping to be sure that they had everything that they needed for the trip to the palace and Portia would rather stick pins in her eyes than do any more of that. She had had seen enough modistes, cobblers, milliners, and glovers this past week to last her a lifetime and had so many fancy new clothes upstairs now that there wasn’t any space left in the wardrobe to put them in.
Was there really any harm in paying one last visit toEquitasto congratulate them on their good fortune? It would also give her a great deal of peace to know for certain that it would be able to continue without her. And she was headed to Mayfair tomorrow with no clue when she would be coming back, so this morning really was her only opportunity.
What to do?
Torn, she pleaded a headache to ponder it and guiltily hid in her room until the ladies left. Once the house was as silent as the grave, the urge to go to the newspaper overwhelmed her. Before she changed her mind again, she snuck out the back gate with Snifferson and Barkington attached to their leads so that she had a good excuse for venturing out alone if anyone happened to see her sneaking back in.
The new premises were still near the river, but this smaller and still ramshackle warehouse was tucked well out of sight behind a tannery. That meant that the air outside the building wasn’t the most fragrant, but that was a small price to pay for the additional privacy. The inside was as neat as pin when she arrived. Neater, in fact, than she had ever seenEquitas.
After Nolley’s senseless destruction, a mismatched collection of secondhand desks had been procured from somewhere that werebegging for somebody to cover them in the clutter that only came from publishing the truth. Each was paired with an assortment of donated chairs and stools, and there was even a nearly new bookcase. Empty, but in dire want of knowledgeable books. The old kettle that filled William’s copious cups of tea had been salvaged and was already steaming in anticipation of his next one on the tiny hearth. But the thing that really drew her eye was the much smaller, more modern, shiny black printing press that made the dearly departed Bessie look like a relic from the Dark Ages.
“It’s a Stanhope press,” said William caressing it lovingly. “Made by Robert Walker of Soho—one of the best makers in the country.” Which Portia could see thanks to the shiny brass plaque. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“She is. Does she have a name yet?”
“I’m toying with ‘Helen’ seeing as she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Or ‘Verity,’ in honor of the Roman goddess of truth Veritas.”
“My vote goes to ‘Verity’ as that is less insulting to your long-suffering saint of a wife.”
“A very good point Portia, thank you.”
“How did Verity come to pass?”
William shrugged, his besotted gaze never leaving his wonderful new machine. “I wrote to headquarters to tell them the bad news and this arrived at the old place on the back of a cart yesterday.”
“They stumped up for a brand spanking new printing press? Will wonders never cease?”
“Believe me, nobody was as surprised as I was, but I am relieved that they have finally invested in us as we’ve had to get by on next to nothing up till now.”
Portia glanced around the barren walls where all their reams of paper were supposed to live. “It’s a shame they couldn’t have stumped up for some paper to print on too. Don’t they realize how expensive that is?”
“I agree, but we’ve had more than one savior step up.” William grinned as the kettle whistled. “We were flooded with donations from local supporters after our catastrophe. Enough that we could at least afford enough paper and ink to see us through the next two editions.” Snifferson followed him as he headed toward the kettle, his inquisitive nose never leaving the floor. “And speaking of the next edition, I do hope you will be a part of it. Every issue after for that matter too. You are the best assistant editor I have ever had.”
“I can’t, William. Not yet at least.” It was staggering how much those words cost her when her fingers itched to get cracking again. “But as soon as Leo gets his annulment, obviously I will be back here with a vengeance.” She filled him in on Leo’s plan to discredit Nolley and get her first conviction overturned so she no longer had to worry about being transported. “In the meantime, I am headed to London, to be presented to the king, so even if I was allowed to help, I still can’t.”
