“That’s why we proof the pages on galleys.” Maxwell shoved his hands into his pockets. Torn between his desire to defend himself and hear what she had to say, he hesitated but then turned around and grabbed one of the sheets they’d proofed the night before.
“Have a look,” he said, holding it out for Lady Caroline to take. She immediately set it on a table and smoothed it flat.
He hadn’t expected her to actually read the stories, nor had he expected her to compare it with the notes she’d taken in that little book of hers.
She did both.
And while she focused on yesterday’s stories, Maxwell fiddled with Matilda. It had taken weeks for him to learn all the workings of the impressive piece of machinery and he’d nearly lost a digit more than once. But working with and watching the invention at work was one of his favorite aspects of owning the Gazette.
Noticing that one of the pins was loose, he donned a pair of gloves and went about adjusting it. After that, he tightened a few others. And then he oiled one of the handles.
Several minutes passed before she interrupted his concentration.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said.
Maxwell glanced up, conflicted because he liked the timbre of her voice, but he dreaded what else she might say.
“What?”
“This line.” She pointed at one of the paragraphs that had been marked incorrect. “It’s circled here but was never corrected. Do you have the original, the part you put on the printer?”
“The form?” Maxwell removed the gloves and joined her at the table. “Forms are emptied after a run so the type can be cleaned and put away.”
But Maxwell immediately recognized the sentence she had indicated. “I proofed that myself—It was corrected.” Hadn’t it been?
He turned to the table where they discarded all the galleys and, finding it empty, touched his chin. The line, along with a misspelled headline, had both been fixed, but that proof was nowhere to be seen.
The calm he’d felt while working on Matilda ebbed away.
Meanwhile, Lady Caroline had removed a folded copy of this morning’s newspaper from that puffed sleeve of hers and was opening it beside the galley proof.
“See…”
Maxwell didn’t need to see.
“Right here,” she said, pointing to the offending column. And then she had the temerity to give him a pitying look. “As you’ve said yourself, it was late. Perhaps you were just tired.”
But Maxwell had not been tired.
Blast and damn.
He didn’t have time to deal with this chit right now. He needed to speak with Wallace. And Michaels and Pip.
“I’d be more than happy to stay—”
But he was shaking his head. “I want you to attend Lady Mann’s musicale.” Maxwell had visited with his mother over breakfast and when she’d hassled him again about not covering society, he’d assured her he would have a reporter there.
Aside from the gentlemen he met with at the Emporium, along with Wallace and Jones, his mother was the only person who knew he’d hired Lady Caroline.
His mother was good at that—at keeping secrets, that was.
“I can come help after,” Lady Caroline offered.
Maxwell took a moment to imagine this woman dressed in a gown made up of billowing sleeves and layers of skirts. Carnage was sure to ensue if she came fluttering around while the press was running. The scenario was a horrifying one.
“You’ll do no such thing.”
He expected her to argue but instead, she fussed at her sleeve. The sun slanted through the windows, showing all the different mahogany tones in her hair. When she lifted her lashes to hold his gaze, Maxwell nearly forgot what they’d been discussing.
