It had been twelve hours. Surely, if there had been a good reason for the Captain’s absence, he would have sent word by now. God, she regretted sending last night’s letter.
It was the duke’s fault. He’d turned her life topsy-turvy and in the process had shaken all sense from her.
“It is time to solve the mystery of the Letter Man,” Lillian said. “Once we uncover his identity, we can track him down and demand he account for his absence.”
“We are not tracking him down,” Eleanor said. She forced herself to look at them so they could understand how serious she was.
“But if we knew who he was,” Mabel said, “we could arrangeanother meeting. A more subtle one this time. If we discovered where he worked, you could casually bump into him wearing the rose and lime dress you are so fond of.”
“I am not going to stalk him.” It was humiliating enough that she’d sat waiting for him when he clearly didn’t value their friendship as much as she did. She certainly wasn’t going to seek him out now that she knew she wasn’t wanted. She was going to go to work for as long as she had it. She was going to focus on what was in front of her and nothing else.
A crease formed between Mabel’s brows and she cocked her head. “Is it truly stalking if the purpose is matrimony?”
Eleanor’s jaw dropped. Lillian’s followed a millisecond afterward. “Yes!” they said in unison.
“Though it’s not technically against the law,” Lillian added.
Eleanor sighed and rubbed her temples as another bump in the road made her head throb. “It may not be against the law, but it is certainly against all my values.”
“Your pride, you mean.” Lillian snorted. Where Mabel usually couched her criticisms, Lillian got straight to the point.
“Yes, my pride.” That was what hurt. That was the cause of the pain in her chest. Her ego was enormous and its bruise was likewise, so the ache had nothing to do with her heart.
Unless it did. Perhaps both had been irreparably damaged, and there was no telling if it was the Captain or the duke who’d cast the blow that felled her.
Apparently her pain did not warrant an end to the conversation, as her friends prattled on without her input. “The articles this morning might give us a clue,” Lillian said. “If there were any notable arrests last night, those should be the starting point for our investigation.”
“There will be no investigation,” Eleanor replied. Whenneither of them responded, she grabbed their hands. “I beg of you both, drop it. If he contacts me, I shall tell you. Otherwise, it is best to forget him.”
She would. At least she would try.
Lillian and Mabel shared a look. Dash it. They would forget nothing. Hopefully, they would at least keep their conspiracy theories to themselves.
The cab pulled to a stop and Eleanor threw open the door. What she needed was work. Nothing calmed her like the feel of her fingers flying across her typecase. Working hard was what made a person, and she needed to feel excellent right now.
“Good morning, Otto,” Mabel said as he held open the door.
“Good morning, Otto,” Lillian added.
Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to match her friends’ geniality. She nodded as she passed him. He nodded back, with a sympathetic look that made her think he somehow knew what had happened last night.
She set her jaw against the tears. Her feet were leaden as she dragged them through the foyer. For the first time in years, she could feel every ounce of her typecase. Instead of keeping her steady as she sailed, it threatened to drag her beneath the waters, until she was choking on ink.
She had struggled to rise from bed. The temptation to never cross this tiled floor again had almost kept her beneath the heavy quilt. But until she had truly decided to quit and had givenThe Times’ publisher sufficient notice, she would show up. That was what good people did. They showed up. They worked hard and did their job to the best of their ability regardless of what personal crisis ailed them.
Lillian opened the door to what should have been an empty print room. After all, it was only fifteen minutes to seven. Hercolleagues would not be in until seven on the dot. Whichever colleagues still came to work after last week’s protests, that is.
Instead, the print room was humming with new faces and new energy. Men and women stood around the Linotypes, happily chatting. A few of them looked to Eleanor, Lillian, and Mabel, and shot them welcoming smiles, as if the print room was their territory and Eleanor was the interloper.
“They have hired new staff.” Mabel’s voice was barely a whisper.
Which meant Mr. Bell clearly had no intention of negotiating with those still protesting. Instead of listening to his workers’ concerns, he had simply erased them.
“Dowestill have work?” Lillian asked.
Eleanor looked at the foreman, who stood in the far corner, talking with one of the new hires. He returned the look and jerked his head toward her usual desk. “I guess we still have work,” she said.
“Thank goodness.”
