Chapter Thirteen
“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Mabel asked.
“It’s best to look your enemy in the eye,” Eleanor responded, marching firmly toward the building the duke had sent her directions to.
“Are we talking about Zoo Man or the Linotype?” Lillian asked.
“Both, and we have nothing to fear from either.” Eleanor sensed her two friends exchange a look as they traveled behind her.
While both had agreed that the duke was, in fact, the devil and had condemned him thoroughly for not revealing his true identity earlier, neither had manifested the same level of rage toward the machine he was selling, just wariness.
He must have had his man standing by the door, because within seconds of Eleanor’s giving it a firm rat-ta-tat, it swung open.
“Miss Wright, I presume.” The man doffed his hat respectfully. He had a soft smile and kind eyes. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Andrew Gray, at your service.”
Eleanor liked him instantly, damn it. “It is certainly interesting to meet you, Mr. Gray, given the circumstances.” She held out a hand.
She didn’t normally wear her best gloves on workdays, even though her typecase was spotless.
She’d bought the gloves from a traveling Romani, and she’d never find the like again.
But they matched her olive green jacket bodice, which was also not her usual work attire, and the ensemble was an armor of sorts.
“May I introduce my work partners, Miss Cole and Miss Thompson?”
Mr. Gray shook her hand firmly and then offered his to her friends. “I’d heard that typesetting was a solo task.”
“We do things differently,” she replied, more defensively than she would have liked.
“Which is what makes you the best, I hear.” He stepped back, gesturing widely at the warehouse behind him. “You’re most welcome. Please come in.”
There was no natural light. Gas lamps hung from the ceiling at irregular intervals, casting the room in an uneven orange hue.
Eleanor’s breath caught. She hadn’t given much thought to the actual challenge between the night she’d issued it and now.
Her mind had been too preoccupied with the challenger and with the Captain.
But if she had stopped to think, she would never have anticipated a warehouse so large, filled with row upon row of the infernal machines.
They were huge, easily as tall as she was, and imposing both in their size and in the danger that was only now beginning to register.
They were not some novelty. They were not some grandiose idea from an aristocrat whose head was in the clouds. They were very, very real.
“Goodness,” Mabel said, her tone echoing Eleanor’s shock. “You must be very confident about this investment to have built so many of these machines already.”
“We are. The design is flawless and all the tests we’ve done so far suggest the Linotype will be far more efficient than traditional methods.”
Her. He was saying that it would be far more efficient than her. She was the “traditional method.”
“How many machines are there?” She almost choked on the words. They were all neatly placed. She could’ve counted one row, and then done the multiplication, but she was feeling dizzy, and the abacus in her brain was sliding about.
“There are three hundred in this showroom,” Mr. Gray said.
“That is almost thirty percent of the newspaper compositors in London.”
“Yes, and they will do more than quadruple the work.”
Blood drained from her face, but she refused to give any other sign that his words had thoroughly rattled her.
Instead, she gathered up all the courage she could muster.
“You think it will quadruple their work. But that’s what we’re here today to prove, are we not?
” Her voice sounded hollow, and she prayed he hadn’t noticed.
She was the best. If anyone could prove how redundant these machines were, how poor a substitute they were, it would be her.
“We certainly are here for that,” Mr. Gray replied. “I cannot tell you how much we appreciate your participation in this demonstration, Miss Wright. Our audience is really looking forward to this.”
“Audience?” Her voice faltered.
At that moment, the duke emerged through a door on the side of the warehouse.
He had a glass in hand, brandy by the looks of it, and the twist of his lips might be construed as a smile if his eyes matched it.
Several men followed him like ducklings.
Ducklings that she recognized. Ducklings that had each hired her at one point or another.
There was Mr. Bell, publisher of The Times.
Mr. Barnes from the Evening Standard, Mr. Russel from the St. James’s Gazette, and Mr. Wickham from The Globe.
Each of them doffed his hat as he approached. Most even had the grace to look guilty.
“Miss Wright.”
“Miss Wright.”
“Miss Wright.”
“Eleanor, you look well, as always,” the duke said. The strangle of his voice was as awkward as his smile.
She exhaled sharply. “Yes, let’s comment on my appearance, rather than my abilities and the task that I’m here to do.”
He blinked and then shook his head. “That was not intended as an insult. My sister insisted that I…” As he trailed off, he looked at Mr. Gray.
His condescension and how-do-I-explain-it stare was another branch tossed on an already crackling flame.
He thought her a fool. He thought her stupid and incapable and unable to match him.
He thought her an oddity who was no more than a collection of useless trivia and otherwise incompetent. She would show him.
“That you think you can replace me with a machine is an insult. But it will be you who leaves this room a fool this afternoon.”
“Eleanor!” Mabel grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her backward so the three of them stood together.
Both friends looked shocked, and not a little fearful.
The duke was a duke, after all. He was one of the most powerful men in England and should he wish to punish them for Eleanor’s outburst, he certainly could.
She doubted that he’d ever had someone disagree with him so forcefully, let alone someone on a social level so far below him. It was beyond time.
Instead of cursing her out or ordering a footman to chop off her head, he swallowed hard and that wretched, patronizing, twisted smile reappeared.
Eleanor. How can you know so much and yet not know how to comport yourself in public? She cursed herself for her misstep. He’d baited her and she’d been stupid enough to fall for it. Now she looked unreasonable and uneducated in front of all these men who had previously viewed her as excellent.
Ignoring her outburst, he gestured toward the machine. “Perhaps seeing the Linotype at work might make you more open to its possibilities. Shall we?” He stood aside so that she could take the lead.
“You are lucky,” Lillian whispered as she nudged Eleanor forward. “Please be more circumspect in your rage.”
A makeshift stage had been built at the other end of the room. On it was a Linotype and a compositor’s bench. She and her opponent would face each other, not that she would see the person past all the machinery.
Shoulders square and spine straight, she marched forward, finding comfort in the heavy sway of her typecase against her legs. The weight of it kept her heart anchored. Otherwise, the organ might’ve dislodged and bounced around like the rest of her insides.
Mr. Gray had sourced two stools for Lillian and Mabel and placed them on each side of Eleanor’s bench.
Her friends chatted quietly as Eleanor set up.
She opened her typecase and laid it flat on the bench top, which leaned at a forty-five-degree angle, putting all the letters within reach.
She closed her eyes and ran her fingertips over the lead, each letter cast in reverse so that it would print the right way around.
The curves, ridges, and bumps were smooth, familiar sensations.
She didn’t need sight to know if a letter was out of place. Her fingers would sense it immediately.
She adjusted the typecase a fraction, rolled her shoulders, stepped a quarter inch to the side, and adjusted the case again.
This would be fine. In this, she excelled.
She’d been setting type since she could stand.
It was as easy as breathing. Easier, at this minute, because her chest had tightened and breath was hard to draw.
She reached out to Mabel, who handed her a composing stick, the wooden block that housed paragraphs of type, ready to be inked and printed.
Eyes still closed, Eleanor plucked a series of letters quickly.
THE DUKE IS DONE FOR.
She opened her eyes and winked as she handed the composing stick to Mabel and accepted another in return. Mabel cast her eyes down, smiled, and flashed it toward Lillian, who raised a hand to her lips to hide her grin.
Oblivious to their silent banter, the duke faced his potential customers.
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining us today. We are honored to have Miss Wright and her colleagues with us, as I know they are the best in the business. Not because they say so, but because each of you has told me as much, as has practically every publisher in London. More than once, Mr. Gray and I have heard the words ‘I don’t need a Linotype. I need another Miss Wright.’ I hope my colleagues speak as highly of me behind my back as the industry speaks of her. ”
He looked over, checking for a response to his flattery. Now that she knew who and what he was, she couldn’t be swayed by his compliments or his interesting conversation.
She saw a flash of resignation cross his face when she didn’t return his smile and he refocused on the publishers. “Mr. Gray has offered to take on the challenge. He’s a better man than I. Should we lose, his ego will tolerate it far better than mine would.”
There was a chuckle at the duke’s self-deprecating remarks. Even Mabel giggled, and he tossed her an appreciative look.