Link dashed back over with the requested galley, and then Mr. Black leaned down beside her. “Give the ink a few minutes to dry properly.”
“I can manage. Thank you.” Sitting self-consciously, she straightened the galley in front of her, careful to only touch the edges. The very large page would be folded in half, making up the four pages of the paper, but even with eight different columns and the small print, she recognized her stories.
Her stories!
She’d loved helping Mr. Thistle, but this was so very different. Nothing could have prepared her for the pride she felt seeing her words in print in a London newspaper.
Buzzing inside, she plucked a pencil out of a tin cup, and then realized Mr. Black was watching her.
She very deliberately did not look up and a minute or so later, he finally left the table in favor of his press.
Matilda. The notion that he would name his printing press, a monstrosity of metal, ink, and grease, had a smile dancing on her lips.
She spotted two errors in the society section and informed Mr. Wallace, who nodded approvingly. “I’ll give this to Fred. You start on the Scotland Yard section,” he told her and then crossed to where the compositors worked.
Caroline liked this. She not only felt useful, but she felt like she was a part of something special.
Until she began to read the assigned story.
Scotland Yard opening new investigation into the deaths at Seabridge Manor.
Hungrily scouring the few small paragraphs that followed, red encroached on her vision. An anonymous person had come forward swearing they’d witnessed Reed pouring spirits around the building and then striking a flint.
It wasn’t true. Caroline knew it wasn’t true because Reed had spent most of that evening in the stable. She herself had delivered the meal Cook had made up.
With the stable-master ill that day, Reed had been walking one of their mares who’d been acting colicky rather than joining their uncle, father, and cousins in the hunting lodge.
Even if the mare hadn’t been having difficulty, Caroline doubted Reed would have attended such a gathering. Because they weren’t only drinking, but smoking.
It had started when their cousin returned from Calcutta with some special tonics he’d brought for his father. The man had injured his leg jumping horses and was still in a fair amount of pain. A thoughtful gesture, perhaps, but he really should have just stuck with laudanum or something similar.
Even after his leg was healed, her uncle grew more and more dependent. Caroline’s mother warned their father not to join in, but the brothers had always been close.
If the fire hadn’t killed them, Caroline had no doubt that the opium would have.
“I have to print it.” Mr. Black was reading over her shoulder.
“You can’t. It’s not true.” Her lips felt numb.
She felt his breath near her ear. “If you want to discuss this, come to my office.”
And then he disappeared. Was he expecting her to follow?
He couldn’t print this. It would only serve to fuel those horrid rumors all over again.
She glanced toward the smaller press and clenched her fists. All her instincts screamed for her to remove the frame and tear out the offending letters. But that wasn’t an option. If she did that, Mr. Wallace would merely have the story set again, and she’d get fired.
Ultimately, putting Reed in even more danger.
So… she needed to talk with Mr. Black.
Her legs feeling numb, Caroline placed her pencil on the table and then, very casually, rose, stretched, and forced herself to stroll slowly toward the front of the building. Once she was in the corridor, she lifted her skirts and ran straight to his office.
She didn’t knock, but threw the door open and, unfortunately, didn’t consider the laws of physics. Thrown by the moment of her entrance, the door bounced off the wall and would have closed again if not for Caroline standing there.
PURPOSE
She was too curious, too argumentative.
