“The first thing I did when I bought the Gazette was retire the old Stanhope iron hand press and replace it with Matilda here.”
So Matilda was the printing press. “Huh,” she said.
He rubbed his hand over the massive piece of machinery almost lovingly.
No—not almost. The puzzling man before her did, in fact, stroke Matilda as he called it—her? —with uninhibited affection.
“A hand press like the Stanhope is limited to about four hundred pages an hour, and that’s only if the press operators don’t hit a snag.”
She moved closer to the press to get a better look, but Mr. Black held up one hand, stopping her.
“She looks innocent enough now, but if you don’t know what you’re doing, she can be dangerous.” He held her gaze, ensuring she listened to him. “Don’t touch her, is that understood? Better yet, don’t even get near her.”
Caroline dipped her chin. “Yes sir!”
“I’m being serious.”
“Don’t touch Matilda. Got it.” She took a step back. “How many papers can it—can she—print at once?”
“Over twice what the Stanhope can do.” He moved around the gigantic cylinders to where pulleys and chains moved through a maze of wheels. It was taller than both of them, and took up as much space as a small carriage. With each step, he touched some piece of the machine, as though testing it—reassuring himself. “More if the compositors can keep up. But this is only the beginning. Brilliant minds are working every day to increase printing capabilities.”
“What exactly is a compositor?” Caroline wanted to appear capable, but she couldn’t do that if she didn’t know how all this worked.
Mr. Black led her to the opposite side of the room where several pedestals stood in a row along the windows. “They set the type.” He lifted out a plate, and then gestured for her to examine the two cases of drawers. “This one up here holds the upper-case letters, the lower one, holds the—”
“Lower-case letters.”
He nodded, and standing beside him, Caroline would swear she could feel his excitement as he continued. It felt familiar to her own.
“Do you ever get bored with all of this?” She doubted she would.
He paused. “No. The mistakes have been frustrating, but selling thousands of papers—spreading news around the world.” He shook his head, looking almost awestruck. “It’s unprecedented.”
A tingling spread from her spine to her limbs. She might very well be the luckiest lady in all of Mayfair. Because she was a part of something so much bigger than herself.
“Even the best compositor can only set about two thousand characters an hour,” he continued. “But that’s about to change. There’s a group of Americans who are working on a machine that will set each character with the press of a button. They’re also working on a revolving press. It’s only a matter of time before we can print thousands of papers a night. If the typesetting can be streamlined, publications could be ten, even twenty pages long.”
Mr. Black continued explaining how the steam engine was activated with the pull of a chain, but after that, relied partly on its own momentum. He showed her the ladder where the pressmen stood, the reservoir where the ink was applied, and also the platform where paper went in and came out. Caroline felt overwhelmed, but gradually began to understand how so many newspapers could be produced in so little time.
Still, she couldn’t help but think...
“Forgive me, Mr. Black, if this is too forward, but…” She trailed her hand across a table that stretched almost the length of the room. “Why would you want to print more papers when you can’t get the ones you have right?”
IT’S BACKWARDS
Maxwell jerked his chin around to stare at his newest employee. Of course this woman would ask that. He’d send her a cutting glance of disdain, but rather than meet his gaze, she was scribbling notes in the small book she’d withdrawn from one of her sleeves.
He could chalk her initial lack of restraint in disparaging his paper up to the fact that she hadn’t known who he was. After she’d discovered his identity, however, she hadn’t exactly changed her tune.
“The more papers we distribute, the more money we can charge for advertisements. The more we can charge for advertisements, the less we have to charge for the paper itself—which increases distribution, making it so more people can be informed. And that, in turn, allows us to charge more for ads.” It was a relatively new concept and he found himself feeling defensive—something he wasn’t used to, especially with young women—impertinent young women. True, he’d found her pretty and intriguing at their first two meetings, but all that was changed now. If she expected to remain in his employ, she was going to have to learn to keep her opinion to herself.
“But.” She wrinkled her nose—a nose that would be classical if it didn’t tilt up at the end. “Won’t advertisers care that the content isn’t accurate?”
“It’s bloody accurate,” Maxwell grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped one of Matilda’s handles, irritation buzzing through him. “Mostly.”
“Hmm.” She hummed and approached one of the iron frames where the copy had been removed but the typesetter had left some ad graphics in place. Lady Caroline leaned forward and two lines appeared between her eyes.
“It’s backwards,” she observed. “It’s like trying to read in a looking glass.”
