Her friends’ insistence on tallying up all the reasons sheshouldmeet the Captain was having an effect opposite the one they’d intended. It was making her chest tighten. It was making her underarms sweat. It was as if she could feel each molecule of air that brushed her cheeks. All her prior thoughts of what it would be like to see him in person and have him exist in her world were crowding her vision and growing larger until he was no longer charming and handsome but suffocating and grotesque in size.
“Meeting him could completely destroy the relationship we have,” she blurted out as the cab came to a stop. Before either of her friends could respond, she leapt out, sucking in the fresh air.
Her friendship with the Captain was one of the few purely lovely things she had at the moment, and she was loath to jeopardize it.
Mabel jumped from the cab and came to stand next to her. “That is an argument against, certainly.”
“So we’re at an impasse, then.” Lillian rummaged around her purse for her spectacles. “There are equal arguments for and against it.”
The arguments against felt far more pressing than the arguments for.
Otto held the door open with one hand and doffed his hat with the other. “Miss Wright. Miss Cole. Miss Thompson.”
Eleanor gave him the brightest smile she could muster. Then, when they were out of earshot, she whispered, “I will make an excuse not to meet the Captain and maintain the status quo for as long as I can.” Assuming the status quo had not already been irreparably upset just by his suggestion. That would be sad. More than anything, she wanted to cling to what stability she had.
Mabel sighed. “Very well, but I feel that you’re running from an opportunity for happiness.”
“Or I’m avoiding terrible failure.”
Eleanor was about to push open the door to the print room when Lillian put a hand on her arm. “It is all right to fail sometimes. You know that, don’t you?”
What kind of question was that? Of course she knew failure was inevitable at times—if you were too careless or lazy or stupid to avoid it. She had failed plenty.Eleanor, how can you know the square root of 484 and not know to put the vegetables in the ovenafterthe chicken goes in?
She swallowed. “I don’t need a relationship. I have you, and my work, and my own flat. I’m successful and happy. Meeting the Captain was a silly idea. I should never have mentioned it.”
Lillian persisted nonetheless. “Refusing to meet him is fine, as long as you’re doing so for a sensible reason, like not being eaten, and not because you’re scared.”
The comment struck beneath the ribs better than any boxer could have. It took a moment for Eleanor to reply without coughing. “I don’t aspire to be eaten. That is all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Eleanor pushed open the print room door with more force than usual, eager for a moment of quiet to reset herself after Lillian’s question.
She would set up her station, do a quick check on her sorts to make sure they were smooth, and read through that day’s handwritten draft to familiarize herself with them. That way, when the seven o’clock bell rang, her work would already be well underway when other employees were just walking in, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Her habits didn’t endear her to others atThe Times.In the early days of her employment, she’d been called a toady and accused of trying to make the men look bad. But Eleanor had let the insults bounce off her. Hard work was what made a person. That was what her parents had always insisted. It was what they’d admired, and so she continued to arrive fifteen minutes early. If the men had a problem with being shown up by a woman, they were welcome to arrive fifteen minutes early as well.
But as they entered the familiar room today, the three of them were frozen by the unfamiliar.
“Goodness,” Mabel whispered.
No, no, no.This was happening too fast. She was supposed to have years.
They were still paralyzed in the doorway when the bell rang and their colleagues began to pour in around them. One by one, the men came to an abrupt halt, often smacking into the person in front of him, and then being pushed forward as the man behind also struggled to enter.
“Blimey. What in God’s name are those?”
The print room had been rearranged. The compositors’ desks had been pushed up against one another, with barely any elbow room, to make room for ten Linotypes. The machines were as large and imposing as Eleanor remembered, and her chest tightened. The Linotypes had been given the most coveted spots in the room, in front of big windows that almost made one forget they were stuck inside for twelve hours at a time.
“What the devil is that?” Brendan asked.
Eleanor couldn’t find the words to tell him. Her throat was so constricted she struggled to breathe. Lillian and Mabel stared at her, waiting for her to take charge of the situation as always. But she could not. Only the work ethic that had been drilled into her checked her impulse to turn tail and flee.
It was happening. It wasn’t a threat looming on the horizon like a storm that may or may not turn in her direction. The storm had arrived and the rain was torrential.
When Lillian realized Eleanor wasn’t going to answer the question, she responded. “It’s a Linotype.”
“What the devil is a Linotype?” The initial shock had worn off and the men pushed past Eleanor to swarm the machines. One was bold enough to press a key, and they all jumped whenthe matrix slid its way down the chute and came to rest on the assembler.
