“Oh, do.” Clara laughed again, a little wildly this time, for her exhilaration was deepening into absolute glee, and she wondered why she had ever tried to pacify this man or work with him or even tolerate him. She waved a hand toward the stairs behind her. “Please, do. He’s upstairs in the drawing room. I’m sure he’ll give you sympathy over how unfair I’m being and commiserate with you about how difficult and disobliging women can be. He’ll probably even offer you a drink. But what he won’t do is countermand my decision. He hasn’t the legal authority to do so, nor—let us be frank—does he have the will.”
“He owns this building—”
“But he does not control, nor even own, the newspaper, and he certainly does not control or own me. Now, remove yourself from these premises at once. The personal items in your desk, as well as all wages owed you until this moment, will be forwarded to your residence by the end of the day. Don’t expect a letter of character, for there won’t be one. And don’t,” she added as he stepped closer to her, his fists clenched, “make me call a constable.”
He stood there a moment, staring at her, his jaw working furiously. Clara stared back, unblinking, and after a moment, he turned away with an oath and stalked toward the door. He paused only long enough to pull his mackintosh from the coat tree before walking out and slamming the door behind him.
The sound reverberated through the silent room like a gunshot, but no one moved. The three other women in the office stared at Clara in wide-eyed shock, but none of them, it seemed, knew quite what to say.
Clara drew a deep breath, feeling a bit shaky now that the deed was done. She glanced around. “Has he been as abusive as this every time I’ve been away from the premises?”
The women exchanged glances, but none said a word, and Clara had her answer. “I see. Ladies, you have my deepest apologies, for I have unforgivably neglected my duty to you and to the newspaper. None of you should ever have to put up with such appalling behavior from anyone, man or woman. If it ever happens again, you must report it to me immediately. You will never be in trouble for doing so, I promise you. As for my part, I will do my level best not to neglect you again. Now, Evie?”
She turned to the secretary. “Ring up Merrick’s Employment Agency, and inform Miss Merrick we require a newspaper editor. Someone experienced in the position, and—preferably—pleasant to work with. Make it clear the person must be not only knowledgeable and experienced, but also comfortable operating under a woman’s authority and, when needed, supervising a female staff. As owner of her own agency, I’m sure Miss Merrick, of all people, will appreciate our reason for such requirements.”
The other three women laughed, and the tension broke.
“Hazel,” she went on, turning to the blonde young woman beside Miss Huish, “since you’ve donned your coat, I take it you were on your way to lunch? Are the advertisements ready for typesetting?”
“Yes, Miss Deverill.”
“Then, I hope when you return, you’ll be willing to compose an advertisement stating our need for a new editor?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll even work through lunch.”
Clara smiled. “I appreciate the sacrifice, but I think we can spare you for half an hour. After you’ve composed the advertisement, bring it to me for review. Once I have approved it, Evie will arrange to have it inserted in the appropriate newspapers.”
“Will they accept it, do you think?” Evie asked. “Being competitors?”
“Some may not, but some will—particularly the larger papers up north. Try theManchester Daily Mailand theLeeds Gazette, for a start. And all of Lord Marlowe’s papers. Even his London papers will likely accept an ad of that sort. Marlowe’s never had to be afraid of losing staff to his competition. And,” she added, returning her attention to Hazel, “we shall put a quarter page announcement in this week’s edition of theGazette, inviting qualified candidates to apply, so I’d like you to design that as well.”
“What about the layout?” Hazel asked. “Mr. Beale’s already done it. There’s nowhere to add another advertisement, not one of that size.”
“I will reconstruct the layout. You design the advertisement, Hazel, and I’ll make it fit. A full quarter-page.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll just get a sandwich and apple from the costermonger and come straight back.” Hazel departed, and Clara turned to the woman whose latest article had been the catalyst of this showdown, but she had no chance to give Elsa any instructions.
“I am so sorry, Miss Deverill,” the other woman burst out. “I didn’t mean to give Mr. Beale any cheek. Truly, I didn’t. And now, we’ve no editor. I know I’ve put us all in the devil of a mess—”
“Please, Elsa, do not apologize. What happened was not your fault in any way. The man is impossible, and I thought you remarkably restrained, given the circumstances. I put up with him for far too long, I know, but I can assure you, I don’t consider his departure any great loss. However, if you believe any of the comments in his tirade to be valid—and try to be as honest with yourself as you can about that—then I want you to incorporate them into your piece. Put anything else that awful man may have said to you out of your mind, all right? Once you’ve finished reviewing your work,” she added as the other woman nodded, “type a final draft and put it on my desk for editing.”
“Does that mean you’ll be our editor until you hire a replacement?”
“I shall have to be.”
Elsa smiled, clearly relieved by that news, but Clara could not really share the feeling, for the position of editor was arduous and difficult, even for someone experienced at the job, and Clara wasn’t at all confident she could do it properly. And as she’d told Rex, good editors were a rare commodity, so it would probably take some time to find the right person, which meant her first season in society might well be over.
On the other hand, when she thought of Mr. Beale’s shocked face, she knew that forfeiting the rest of her season was a small price to pay. And, more importantly, she also knew that no matter how many mistakes she made in her new role, she would never again make the worst one of all. She would never trust anyone else’s judgement, including her beloved sister’s, more than she trusted her own.
Rex had never been the sort for self-torture, but after the Montcrieffe ball, it soon became clear he’d somehow become addicted to it, at least as far as Clara was concerned.
In the two weeks since the ball, he’d spent most of his time searching for her amid the crowds at whatever event they both happened to be attending. Whenever he had happened to catch sight of her, she always seemed to be talking to some other man. At dinner parties, silly rules of precedent always prevented him from sitting beside her at the table, and though she’d saved him a dance at every ball, it hadn’t always been a waltz, worse luck. As a result, he’d spent most of his time since the Montcrieffe ball tamping down either lust or jealousy, perfectly aware he had no right to either, and by the time two weeks had passed, he was in a state of such acute frustration, he felt ready to chuck the entire business and go find some form of employment that was more relaxing to his mind and easier on his body—prizefighter, perhaps, or lion tamer.
But after a fortnight of this frustration, he found himself relieved of it, and his mood took a decided turn for the worse. She vanished from society altogether, and after a full week passed with no sign of her at any party or ball, he decided to find out what was going on. Catching Lady David at the opera during intermission, he asked after Clara and was assured that though she was quite well, she had been obligated by unforeseen circumstances to return home for an indefinite period. A press for more details yielded no additional information, and Rex, not knowing whether to be worried or exasperated, decided it was time to find Clara and hear from her what these unforeseen circumstances were. On the off-chance he might be responsible in some way for her absence, he acquired a bottle of champagne from the refreshments steward, then he left Covent Garden and took a taxi to Belford Row.
When he arrived at Clara’s home, the windows of the newspaper showed the front office to be dark and empty, but there was light spilling from Clara’s office into the corridor at the back, and he concluded she must be working late. He tried the door, and finding it unlocked, he went inside, but when he called her name, there was no answer. Despite that, he went inside, thinking it best to extinguish her lamp before presenting himself at her front door, for an unattended lamp was a fire hazard. As he crossed the outer office, he made a note to give Clara a sound lecture about leaving lamps lit and doors unlocked, but when he entered her office, he found her still there, and at the sight of her slumped over her desk, sound asleep, her cheek pillowed on the back of her hand, the fingers of her other hand still clenched around a pencil, any lectures about anything died on his lips.
He removed his top hat and took a step closer, then stopped, realizing he probably ought not to wake her, and yet, he could hardly think leaving her to sleep this way, hunched over her desk, was a better idea. Before he could decide, however, some instinct woke her. She jerked upright, an abrupt move that rolled her chair back a few inches and sent a lock of her hair tumbling down over her face.
