“I’m ready.”
Mr. Black kept right on moving to a door at the back of the room. “The printer is on the main floor. But supplies are kept in here.” He opened it and Caroline peered inside. It was a large closet filled with ink, paper, and at least a thousand different pieces of metal. Without knowing for certain, she’d assume they were spare parts for the printing press.
“Why don’t you keep all this in the print room?”
“We had some flooding last summer—nothing major, but everything is safer on this floor. I’d bring Matilda up here if that was even possible.”
Matilda? Who was this Matilda person and why was it impossible for her to come upstairs?
Needing answers to other, more pertinent questions, Caroline refrained from asking.
For now.
Mr. Black ran a hand along one of the shelves, and Caroline was willing to wager he knew the name of every single piece, along with how it worked and where it went.
“Do I turn my articles in to you?” she asked.
“Only if necessary. Wallace handles most of that.”
“Are there only two reporters, then?” She quickly changed the subject. “Plus me?”
He nodded, and not for the first time, Caroline wondered why he wasn’t addressing his earlish duties. What drove a gentleman, an earl, to take on the massive challenge of running one of England’s biggest newspapers?
“Wallace handles initial edits,” he said as they began their descent.
“And who proofs those?”
“Whoever is available and can read and write, but at the end of the day, either Wallace or I proof all galleys before the printers start up.”
Galleys?
She wasn’t sure exactly what those were, but even so, she pinched her lips together and barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Because—obviously—he and his editor weren’t doing a very good job of it.
“I know what you’re thinking.” He glanced over his shoulder. “On nights you aren’t required to do your debutante thing, you may come and proof as well. But I don’t imagine that’ll be often. These days, it seems there’s some ridiculous festivity thrown almost every night for your set.”
“It’s your set too,” she pointed out.
He grunted but continued down the narrow staircase. He didn’t seem to appreciate the reminder, so she returned to their original topic.
“What’s a galley?” Caroline asked.
“The first page printed after the type has been set. We use the old Stanhope press for the proof. Once it’s been looked over, the pressmen get on with the run.”
“I imagine all that happens late at night.” Which likely explained why he looked tired all the time.
He dipped his chin.
“How late, usually?” Caroline asked.
“Anytime between midnight and dawn, depending on how the paper comes together.” They’d arrived at the landing, but rather than head towards his office, Mr. Black led her through a hallway that opened into a large open space. Tall windows lit the area, which contained several tables, but those hardly signified. Because two printers took up most of the space. A small one, similar to what Mr. Thistle had used in the country, and another one that was absolutely massive.
A vaguely familiar scent permeated the air—a unique combination of ink, cleaning liquids, and paper. It was oddly invigorating.
“This is the press room.” For the first time since meeting this man, he looked relaxed and… proud.
Which brought Caroline up short. Because all things considered, she’d never met a nobleman who didn’t carry his arrogance like a banner.
Why was he so different?
