“Send for me when the first galleys are ready.” He needed her out of his office. What he wanted, however, didn’t matter. She was off-limits.
As was every other woman in the world.
FITTING IN
Caroline rubbed her eyes. She’d read over these articles so many times, she could hardly see straight. Just as Maxwell suggested, they’d proofed two separate galleys. And everything looked perfect.
She stood up, stretched, and needing a moment of peace and quiet, slipped out the back door.
But she was not alone. Because she, apparently, wasn’t the only person with that idea.
The pressmen, along with half of the compositors, were milling around outside. They appeared to be sharing a flask.
This was… interesting…
Mentally putting names to the faces, Caroline allowed the door to close quietly behind her. “The fumes are quite strong.” She spoke to no one in particular, explaining her presence while at the same time trying not to draw attention to herself.
“You get used to it.” Fergus spoke quietly, offering her the flask.
Caroline hesitated, but the man gestured with it again. “It’s the least we can do, seeing as you shared your meal with everyone.”
Did this mean she was going to be accepted? If that was the case, she couldn’t risk losing their trust. If she refused Fergus’s offer, she could report their drinking to their employer.
“I’m happy to.” She smiled and accepted the very basic container of what she guessed to be… ah, yes. It was gin.
It burned all the way down her throat.
She glanced around the moonlit area. It was a narrow drive to what looked to have once been mews. “What’s in there?” She pointed toward the older-looking building.
“An old press. Old issues of the paper. Mostly trash. Sometimes the boss keeps his horse in there.” Fergus flashed her a shy smile.
“It’s nice out here.” Caroline tilted her head back so the breeze could cool her neck. When she tilted it back down, she was more than a little discomposed to see them all watching her. Well. She might as well make the most of this. “Do you gentlemen convene here every night?” She did her best to sound indifferent, not wanting them to suspect her of checking on them.
One of the compositors snickered, proving she’d failed.
The older pressman, Mr. Crenshaw, poked the snickering fellow in the side with his elbow.
“When it isn’t raining,” he answered. “We won’t get a chance later on. Not after we start the presses up.”
“You can’t stop them?”
“We can. But that would put us behind. So we take this last break first.”
“The Gazette is more dependable than the tide, or so they say,” one of the other compositors added.
“Except for the mistakes,” the snickerer added.
Caroline dipped her chin, her mind putting all the pieces together even as she smiled weakly. Because she had an idea. She inhaled, then exhaled, then smoothed her skirts and made an excuse to return inside.
The frames lay unattended, corrections supposedly in place, waiting to be attached to Matilda for the nightly run. Even with several gas lanterns burning, however, she couldn’t actually read them. It was like trying to read with a looking glass.
Of which a miniature one might come in handy in the future.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh!” A long shadow draped itself across the room and, startled, Caroline touched her hand to her chest. “Mr. Jones, I didn’t see you.” But she did not answer his question.
“Mr. Black doesn’t want anyone touching those.” His gaze shifted to the ink-stained frames waiting to be loaded onto the press.
