Leeds, 1796

THE HEAT FROM the flames brought a swelter to Gilbert Monkhouse’s face, but his face would have burned if he were standing ten miles away. His beloved printing-office was in the last stages of destruction by fire, and grief and anger consumed him just as the flames consumed his paper and his press and melted his metal type. He had gone through in his mind again and again, since he had been shaken awake by his landlady in the predawn hours, the last moments he had spent in the shop, but he knew he had extinguished all the lamps; he knew this was not his fault. For the first time in his life he thought that his ability to recall almost any words set in type was a curse rather than a blessing, for now he could remember nothing but a small piece that had run in the Leeds Intelligencer a few weeks before. In a story about a fire that had been started by some idle boys playing with gunpowder, the penalties for that and related offenses had been stated:

Every person selling, or exposing to sale, any squibs, serpents, or fireworks, or permitting the same to be cast or fired from their house, or other place, into any public street or road, shall for every offence forfeit £5, half to the poor, and half to the informer.—And if any person through negligence, or carelessness, shall fire, or cause to be fired, any dwelling-house, out-house, or other building, he shall forfeit £100 or be committed to the house of correction, to hard labour, for 18 months.

Gilbert had little hope that anyone would be held accountable for the fire, and the catastrophe meant he had lost not just his personal savings and inheritance but also the two-hundred-pound loan from his former employer. For all intents and purposes, Thomas Wright now owned him.

Wright was not an unkind man. He was even among those who struggled to douse the flames that night. But he was also not foolish with regard to his investments. He gave Gilbert his old job back and allowed him to repay the loan little by little out of his wages. After only a week, Gilbert knew that he would work for Thomas for the rest of his life. He was not unhappy—he was, after all, still doing what he loved—but he would never forget that blissful year when he had made books on his own, sending them out into the world with his imprint, “Gilbert Monkhouse, Printer, Leeds,” on the title pages.

In the commotion and emotion of the fire and the days that followed, Gilbert had forgotten all about the proof sheets that lay on the table in his room. It was almost a week later, working once again at his post as compositor for Thomas Wright, that he set a story in the Intelligencer:

Rev. Richard Mansfield, 80, of Croft, died on December 4 in Hampshire. He was taken ill on a journey thence. Funeral services and burial were at the chapel at Busbury Park. Mr. Mansfield had been Rector of Croft for sixteen years and was much loved by his parishioners.

Gilbert thought of Mansfield’s book and realized that, like his own dreams, it would never come to fruition. He waited a few months, to see if any family members would contact him, but when no communication came, he took the pages to the bindery favored by Mr. Wright and had them bound up in a simple, unmarked cloth cover. He kept it always, as a reminder of what almost was.

Gilbert’s dream of owning his own printing-office gradually faded and was replaced by other dreams—especially on the day that Thomas Wright’s daughter, Theresa, stopped by the office on her way to the dressmaker. As a man in debt, Gilbert had given little thought to marriage, but after several weeks of walking with Theresa through the streets of Leeds on sunny days and taking tea with her in the parlor of the Wright home, Gilbert had the boldness to ask her father if he might have Theresa’s hand.

Thomas Wright could see the joy that Gilbert brought to his daughter, and he not only gave his consent, but on the day they were married, he forgave the balance of Gilbert’s loan and gave the couple a small cottage in which to start their lives together. Gilbert owed Thomas so much that he worked for him, and happily so, until the day some decades later when the old man sold the business and retired on the proceeds.

Theresa gave Gilbert a wonderful daughter; her father not only gave him employment, but allowed him to print an extra copy of any book that came through the press that interested Gilbert. By the time he died, Gilbert had built a collection of almost three hundred books, which he passed on to his son-in-law, Joseph Collingwood.