“Miss Wright!” Brendan Wiles, theTimescompositor who worked from a desk two down from Eleanor’s, caught up to them, still in the process of buttoning his coat. “Another edition done and dusted, eh?”
Lillian and Mabel exchanged amused glances, and Lillian clapped a hand to her ear. “You know, I think I’ve lost a bauble,” she said. “Mabel, come help me look for it.” She dragged Mabel back the way they’d come.
As the doors closed with aswoosh, Eleanor sighed. Their workstation had been properly tidied and definitely did not have a loose bauble lying around. “Mr. Wiles, what can I do for you?”
“I thought I’d escort you out. Make sure you got into a cab safely.” He grinned. That smile had likely won over many women. His teeth were straight and showed no sign of tobaccouse. The curve of his lips was friendly with a hint of mischievousness. Eleanor could see why he was so popular. His curly hair fell over his eyes in a devil-may-care manner.
But it did nothing for her. “Thank you for the offer, but I am perfectly capable of hailing my own cab. Have a lovely evening.” She didn’t wait for his response and instead crossed to the vacant reception desk, leaving him gaping after her.
After a moment, he shook his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stalked out. She might have felt bad about it, if she hadn’t known exactly how the conversation would have gone. Given the snippets she’d overhead while Brendan and his colleagues bantered, it was clear that he wanted a wife who could take the place of his mother. There was no point drawing out his disappointment.
She should probably sit. Mabel would want to give Brendan as much time as possible. As she sank into the leather chair, her gaze snagged on a piece of metal resting next to a pad and pen.
“You cannot be serious.” She snatched it, surprised at how little the line of type weighed.
THETIMES MARCH BOLDLY FORWARD.
It was as gimmicky as the product it was selling.
Still, trepidation twisted through her. Sophie would see through the novelty of the Linotype and prioritize quality over whatever it was the machine offered. She didn’t have that same faith in newspaper owners. Their standards, already low, might disappear under the flimflam of “progress.”
Eleanor clenched the metal. Something so slight could hardly withstand the rigors of printing, surely. Her palm stung. How many other printing houses had the Duke of Straffordvisited with his polished flyer and cheap piece of type? How quickly would her employers fall for such tactics?
“Eleanor?” Mabel asked as she and Lillian approached.
Eleanor shoved the slug into her pocket. “I’m fine.”
Lillian’s brows furrowed. “What happened? Did Brendan upset you?”
“He wanted to escort me to the door.”
Mabel huffed. “You couldn’t let him? He’s good-looking and an awful lot of fun. I feel rather jittery whenever he looks at me.”
Eleanor sighed. “Then you can marry him. I am perfectly happy on my own.”
Lillian looked reproachful. “You don’t mean that.”
She very much did mean it. “I haven’t the time for or interest in a beau. Nor do I have the need for one. I earn more than enough money to suit my wants without a husband, and I don’t need to share my space. If I wish to read, I read. If I wish to travel to the seaside on a whim, I do so. I don’t see what benefit a husband brings.”
Lillian cocked her head. “Companionship?”
Eleanor threaded her arm around her friend’s. “I have the two of you for that.”
“Sex?” Mabel asked, flushing.
“I have found an alternative to that, too.” Eleanor was friends with Dr. Joseph Granville’s secretary. Ygritte had been tasked with ensuring each percussor worked. Coincidentally, the number of defective devices exactly matched the number of women in her book club.
“I have a nice life. My work, my friends, and my library bring me all the joy I need. Why mess with a good thing?”
Dear Captain,
I’m sorry, but you are wrong. The tsarevich’s tattoo was of a Sphinx. He had it inked in Egypt. I know this for a fact, though I cannot reveal my source. I’m frustrated that you don’t believe me. No doubt as frustrated as the tzar was when he saw his son’s tattoo… of a Sphinx.
Dear Booklover,
I know it must pain you to hear it, but for once your facts are wrong. I, too, have a source that I cannot reveal. He is more reliable than yours; I am sure of it. Nicholas’s tattoo is of a dragon. It curves around his right forearm. He had it inked in Nagasaki just days before he was attacked. Apparently, it hurt more than a saber to the head.
Is this our first fight?
