Author's Note: This ridiculous idea came to me on a whim a few months ago. There are no plot twists whatsoever. You'll see it all coming from miles away.

The Printer's Apprentice

Stylishly coiffed and attired as always, Caroline Bingley sat before her dainty ladies' desk with a determined glint to her eye. Metaphorically speaking she stood before a precipice; her pen mirrored her indecision as it paused mid-air above a fine sheet of hot-pressed paper. What she considered doing was reprehensible, even vile, but when tallied against the potential benefits on her mental balance sheet…

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she thought to herself, and there is so, so much to gain!

That thought firmly in mind she finally took the leap, touching pen to page with single-minded determination. Using the well-rehearsed strokes of a writing style completely unlike her own, she committed to paper her dearest wish for the future, a future which had been playing out for years in her own heart and mind:

'Friends of FD of P in D were overjoyed to hear that normally staid gentleman declare himself 'incandescently happy'…'

No! she thought, as she caught a potential faux pas, Mr. Darcy would never spout such treacle!

After ripping that sheet to shreds and consigning it to the fire, she plucked a fresh one from the drawer, dipped her pen and began writing anew:

'Friends of FD of P in D were overjoyed to hear that normally staid gentleman declare himself 'rather happy' after announcing his intentions towards a certain auburn-haired beauty of his acquaintance, Miss CB, whilst in attendance with that lady and her brother Mr. CB, both currently residing at N in H. It comes as no surprise that the lady's happiness rivals his own, and will only be surpassed on the glorious day she is finally ensconced as the Mistress of P.

"There!" she trilled aloud, "Much better."

Caroline was well pleased with her efforts, despite the small, tattered twinge of something resembling a conscience which niggled at the back of her mind. Though admittedly ashamed to be employing such underhanded tactics, Mr. Darcy, with his recent, obsessive attraction to fine eyes and pert opinions, had left her no choice but to employ whatever means were necessary, be they fair or foul. Once her anonymous letter reached the Times, this juicy little morsel – a rare one indeed, involving the elusive Mr. D! - would appear front and center in the only section of that loathsome rag that mattered, the gossip sheet. Being a true gentleman, Mr. Darcy would be duty bound. Their future would be sealed!

As she reached for the shaker to sand her note, Caroline was suddenly hit by a stroke of pure genius. Her brow creased in concentration as she lowered her pen a second time, appending her note as follows…

'In that same neighborhood, although involving persons of a decidedly pedestrian circle, friends of Miss EB of L, an estate of low to middling importance bordering N, cannot help but notice the marked attentions being paid to her by a consecrated cousin, one WC of HP in K. So effusive his admiration and relentless his pursuit, their mutual friends are assured that an announcement is forthcoming in the very near future. The lady, whose family will benefit greatly from the anticipated union, is said to be awaiting his address with keenest anticipation.'

There! Two birds, one stone.

After this addition, the note was sanded, sealed, and placed on a tray. As part of her plan, Caroline had arranged for one of Netherfield's upstairs maids to spend a few days with relatives in London. With a shiny gold crown as her inducement, Molly would carry her lady's letter with her and see to its immediate and discrete dispatch from Town, thereby further obscuring its source.

~~o~O~o~~

It had been an especially busy London season, far exceeding the usual allotment of tiffs, cuts direct, schemes, intrigues, and assignations. In short, just the sort of thing to make Samuel Teller, The London Times' print shop manager, an extremely happy man. Between the war on the continent, an unusually contentious Parliament, and the goings on in Town, his beloved Times' numbers were way up. Indeed, the recent purchase of an additional three of Stanhope's excellent metal printing presses served as proof of The Times' steady financial footing and would significantly increase its daily output.

Today marked the day for delivery of the presses' major components, an event which would require most, if not all, of Samuel's energies and attention. It was a good thing that he had a hard-working right-hand man at his disposal in the person of his young nephew Jamie Monroe. Jamie, who had just entered the third year of his apprenticeship, was Teller's favorite sister's favorite son. But despite this, the young man never capitalized on his family connection and was always quick to carry out whatever task was entrusted to him - all this while hardly ever breaking anything in the process! Although somewhat ungainly, Jamie's innate wrong footedness had yet to cause any major catastrophes, and a more diligent worker could not be found.

However, despite his department wide oversight and nephew's able assistance, there was one section of The Times that Teller would never completely relinquish – the gossip broadsheet. Due to his own inherent nosiness and love of things salacious, Teller continued to play a major role in its daily output, including what went into it. As he considered the tall stack of mail perched on his desk, Teller rubbed his hands with barely restrained excitement. These letters had already been reviewed and determined as gossip-worthy by the pool of clerks assigned to screen and distribute The Times' daily onslaught of correspondence. Now it was up to Teller to peruse them again, the better to assign their importance and determine their placement on the page.

After decades at his post, Samuel Teller knew better than most who all the major players were, and more importantly, which of them would ultimately sell newsprint. After a brief review he placed them in order of precedence, with one letter occupying the top of the heap. Samuel knew very well who Mr. FD of P was, and that gentleman's infrequent appearance on the gossip pages made this morsel especially tantalizing, thereby earning it top billing! The second couple referenced in the letter, although obscure, would by default share the same place of honor. How lucky for them!

After carrying the bulk of the correspondence to Jamie to start work on setting the type, Samuel advised the young man to leave room at the top for the two-paragraph lead story, and the approximate amount of space that would be needed for its insertion. Samuel then commenced preparation of the lead item himself. Normally uncle and nephew worked together to complete the gossip section in tandem, and it was only today's special circumstance which necessitated them working apart. The expected timeframe for delivery of his new presses would not commence for another hour, thereby allowing Samuel plenty of time in which to complete the lead article at his leisure.

Perusing the letter again, Teller was pleased to note that there would be no need to interject much, if any, of his own well-honed dramatic flair, as the author had done a well enough job of it on their own. This enabled Samuel to set his type in record time, exactly as it appeared on paper. Task now done, Teller secured and carefully lifted the block of type to take it to Jamie, whose job would be to incorporate it at the top of the section he was currently working to complete. In the event his nephew might need to make any last-minute spacing adjustments, Teller thought to bring the letter with him, carefully folding and tucking it away in his apron pocket before making his way to his nephew. And what fortunate timing! For no sooner had Teller set his block of type down at Jamie's table, a young runner appeared with the message that the Stanhope presses had finally arrived! All else forgotten, Teller rushed off to attend to the delivery, leaving Jamie alone to complete the task at hand.

~~o~O~o~~

Jamie felt the full force of the complement his uncle had bestowed upon him. For the first time in his apprenticeship, he would be solely responsible for delivering a finished product directly to the Press Line Supervisor. So it was with great care that he attended to his duty.

This same supervisor, one Jeremiah Claggert, had been keeping tabs on Jamie's progress by casting the occasional glance in his direction. As the one ultimately responsible for the actual printing of London's foremost and finest dispenser of news, it fell on Claggert's shoulders alone to ensure that each day's run adhered to a strict schedule. Late runs meant late distribution, late distribution meant unhappy customers, and unhappy customers – who were notoriously more inclined to pay for the first dispenser of news as opposed to the finest – ultimately lead to decreased revenues and unhappy management. Such being the case, Claggert took his job very seriously.

On this day, the final section he awaited before the run could commence was the gossip broadsheet, and his last glance in Jamie's direction had not inspired confidence. While not an unkind person, neither was Claggert a particularly patient one.

"Step it up lad!" he shouted above the usual din, "Ye got ten minutes!"

Jamie, at that moment holding the lead story in his hands, jumped at the sudden interruption. Though managing to hold fast to his precious cargo, he didn't realize that his startled movement had resulted in one foot coming to rest on a partially loose shoelace, completely unravelling it in the process.

"Almost there, sir! Just this last section and I'm don...ahhhh!"

Jamie's next step sent him flying, face first onto the floor, taking his uncle's lead story with him in the process. Though startled by the suddenness of it, he was luckily unhurt. Slowly pushing himself up onto his elbows he looked around to survey the damage – and his assessment was not good. Although some sections of his uncle's carefully blocked typeset remained somewhat intact, much of it now littered the four corners of the room, with a few pieces even clinging to his forehead. He peeled them off as he slowly rose to his feet.

"Nine minutes!" bellowed Claggert, "An that includes cleanin' up yer mess!"

Jamie scrambled in record time to collect the scattered letters from the floor. After gathering the last bit of type, he took everything back to his workstation to try to recreate his uncle's work. Unfortunately, having only given it a cursory glance, he was having a hard time remembering all the details. So many details! It didn't help having an impatient Press Line Supervisor breathing down his neck…

"Six minutes!" Claggert roared as he held up his watch.

With a sudden happy thought, Jamie rushed to his uncle's workstation to retrieve the original letter, but as luck would have it, it was nowhere to be found! Without it he would have to cobble something together and hope for the best. He ran back to his workstation and set out to do exactly that. When the inevitable Letters of Retraction arrived in the mail his uncle would have his hide, but at least he would avoid Claggert's immediate ire.

"Two minutes!"

Which left Jamie with just enough time to insert the last few letters and secure the block of type. One minute and fifty-three seconds later, the gossip sheet block was presented to a pleased Mr. Claggert. With no further mishap, this day's edition of the London Times finally went to print.

All that was left for Jamie now was to await his uncle's ire.

~~o~O~o~~

Author's Note: This story is complete. The final section will be posted tomorrow.