From behind her, Mr. Bell bellowed, “I can see you’ve all discovered the future of composing.” Eleanor flinched as he brushed past her and strode to the front of the room. Her colleagues peppered him with dozens of questions, a cacophony of anxiety and anger.
The publisher held up a hand to quiet the room. “I’ll take your questions one by one.”
“What is it?”
He beamed. “This machine can set type five times faster than the best of you,” he said, addressing the room yet failing to look in Eleanor’s direction, because he knew the truth.
She had beaten the damned machine, if only just. Perhaps if she trained really hard, if she took her work to a level beyond what she’d thought was her limit, then there would still be a place for her. She wouldn’t lose everything.
“What does this mean for us?” Brendan yelled.
“You will all be given the option to train on these machines during your nonworking hours. Those who show the most promise will have work waiting when the transition has been finalized.”
“Are the rest of us to be laid off?” The cacophony increased in tone and volume. The volatile energy in the room was one she’d never experienced.
“Our new business model does not require fifty compositors when ten will suffice.”
Mabel chewed on her thumbnail, chest rising and falling in rapid waves. “Forty of us are to be let go,” she whispered. “That’s so many.”
Eleanor grabbed her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “It won’t be us. We work too hard; our outputs are too good.”
“Besides,” Lillian added, “even if we were let go, we are here only one day a week, unless there’s an emergency. Sophie will not put us out like this.” But her face was white and her voice did not hold the same confidence her words did.
“You are right.” Eleanor might have faltered when they’d first walked in, but Mr. Bell’s smug and smarmy attitude had fortified her. If worse came to worst, they would always have work at Cumberland Press.
But just because she would be fine didn’t mean that such behavior should be allowed to stand. Forty men were to be let go because the Duke of bloody Strafford and Mr. Bell wanted to line their pockets, and that was just atThe Times. How many other newspapers were on the cusp of tossing most of their workers into the cold? How many publishing houses would follow?
The Linotype and the blasted man who had brought it here were about to destroy countless lives.
“Is this happening everywhere?” someone yelled.
Bell nodded. “Yes, which is why we must act quickly if the company is not to be left behind. My people tell me this same conversation is being had all across the city as we speak.”
Hundreds of people losing their jobs in one morning. “What compensation will there be?” she demanded. Nothing was going to stop Mr. Bell from doing what he planned, but maybe he would soften the blow for those who were to be felled.
Bell scowled. “Your employment agreements allow for one week’s wages. You will be compensated as per your contracts.”
“One week?” Brendan’s outrage rippled across the room.“How are we supposed to find work in a week when every printer is making cuts?”
The publisher shrugged. “I’m sure you will work it out.”
While the others pushed forward, demanding more answers, Eleanor straightened and squared her shoulders. She faced her friends. “Let’s get to work.”
But she didn’t mean setting this week’s paper. No, she had another task ahead of her.
As Peter strode down Abingdon Street, his coat flapped in the wind, snapping in concert with his mood. He’d already been running late when his sisters had demanded a family breakfast, and then a traffic jam had kept him at a standstill for more than thirty minutes. It was quicker to continue on foot to the Palace of Westminster than it was to remain in the carriage.
The morning air was still brisk and, as his breath warmed from the exercise, it formed small puffs that swirled around him. Plenty of lords remained in their carriages, their gleaming heralds adorning polished doors. Only two had taken the same measure as Peter and were walking ahead of him, briefcases in hand. Of those that remained, a handful were curious enough to open the curtains and peer outside to see what the holdup was. Most had the curtains firmly closed, much like their politics, which was determined to keep the public at a distance.
The closer he got to the palace, the louder the ruckus got. Finally, the cause of the morning’s traffic nightmare was revealed. There was chanting and catcalling and yelling. A crowd had formed and was blocking the street, preventing carriages from getting through the palace gates to deliver the lords directly at its door.
Hordes of people holding picket signs lined the street. Bobbies formed a blockade across the street, creating a clear run from the Abbey to the Peers’ Entrance—if one could make it as far as the lines of navy blue and nickel. The few lords whose carriages had accomplished the feat stalked past the police, lips thin and jaws set. It would be a quiet and tense day in the house. Most would simply turn around and spend the day at White’s instead.
Where the edges of the fray had been a chaotic whirl, closer in was more organized. Placards were raised in concert and men weaved through the crowd banging sticks against dustbin lids, uniting the crowd in tone and timing—“A duke’s device, a printer’s price! The Linotype is out of line!”
Damn it.Bell and Wickham had said that reception to the Linotype had been better than they’d anticipated, that there had been some complaints, but that overall the compositors had taken the news in stride and were keen to retrain or explore new opportunities.
That was not the case, apparently. If the snatches of conversations he heard were anything to go by, there had been more layoffs than expected.
