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 at The 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 when the matrix slid its way down the chute and came to rest on the assembler.
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 at The 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.
He squared his shoulders and prepared to dive deeper into the fray, steeling himself with the knowledge that innovation was always met with opposition. It had been that way since the dawn of time. He was not the first man of progress to face such a demonstration. He would not be the last.
As he maneuvered closer to the heart of the protest, a woman in a clean, well-pressed shirt and skirt shoved a flyer toward him. Not one to insult a lady, he accepted it with a grimace.
Nobs Print the Laws But Can’t Spell Justice!
A muscle ticked along his jaw, and he crumpled the flyer. Very funny. Hilarious. Perhaps these men should take up careers in theaters instead of print rooms.
Reluctantly, he tossed his top hat to the ground, wincing as it was trampled, and ducked his head, avoiding eye contact.
The crowd’s attention was toward the palace, but it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed that his coat was thick and unsullied.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling down one side of his coat so that it didn’t look as well-fitting as it was.