A Love by Design, page 9
“You are a genius,” Violet enthused. “I’m sure your tunnel will be the most innovative in all of Europe.”
While her friends heaped praise on her, Margaret concentrated on appearing unmoved. The more accolades she received for her work, the larger her fear they would discover her secret. That she was an imposter, a woman who spent her life hanging on by a thin thread while the rest of the world assumed she was in complete command.
A sensation of standing far away made Margaret dizzy and she gripped the arm of her chair to stay in place.
“But we should have a party to celebrate,” Violet said.
“Oh, no,” Margaret objected. “I don’t think—”
Mala huzzahed in approval and Althea held up a teacup as a toast.
“A party is an excellent—”
A loud crash interrupted them.
“Careful with those boxes, men. Can’t have any broken pieces.”
Grantham.
A fizzing sensation ran through Margaret’s veins at the sound of his voice.
“This gift has made it from Denmark without a scratch. All we have to do is sneak it through the kitchens,” he called.
Yesterday, Arthur had declared the staff at Beacon House were not to accept any parcels from the Earl Grantham. Violet had stopped him from banning Grantham from the house altogether, claiming if Arthur stopped complaining about the gifts, Grantham would stop sending them.
Obviously, Grantham had found a way around the ban by entering through Athena’s Retreat rather than the house.
“Go right down this hallway,” Grantham ordered the workmen, who tramped past the open doorway with arms full of large wooden crates. “Don’t mind the smells, or the smoke. Or the screams.”
Violet hurried to the doorway at the commotion, glancing at Margaret in apology. “What are you doing?”
He popped his head in the entrance and grinned. Gone was the reflective man from last night’s ball. In his place stood the public facade of the earl, chest out and merriment fair blazing in his eyes. No hint of any ambivalence or depth of feelings; he was once again his normal charming self.
Why must he be so damned compelling?
Margaret’s body came awake as he entered the room as though her skin were made of tiny magnets that felt a pull only from him.
“Bit of a miscommunication twixt myself and your footman, Vi. Less trouble to bring this through the back. Good day, ladies. Is that port I smell?”
“No,” said Althea as she shoved the bottle of port behind a pillow and sat on it.
“Not a bit,” Mala said as she gulped the contents of her teacup and turned it upside down on its saucer.
“We were having a lovely coze and you’re interrupting us. Go make certain those men don’t make a mess.” Violet made to shut the door, but Grantham had lost interest in his delivery and pushed past her.
“I’m certain I smelled port,” he said, ambling across the workroom.
“Don’t be silly,” said Violet, taking one last look at the workmen before rejoining the group. “Respectable ladies would never be drinking in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Hmmm.” Grantham let her lie go unchallenged. Instead, he turned on one heel and surveyed the room. “Where can I find a sixty-gallon tub, Vi? I’d like the men to finish the setup tonight.”
“Sixty-gallon . . . oh my goodness. What have you bought? Oh, Arthur will be livid.”
Amusement lightened Grantham’s face. His enjoyment had always been contagious, and even through her distress, Violet could not remain unaffected. The lines between her eyes smoothed, and Althea and Mala leaned toward him like flowerheads following the path of the sun.
Grantham didn’t even glance at Margaret.
She traced a gilt ribbon on her teacup, scratching with her thumbnail at a spot where the gilt had flaked off. The teacups and saucers, jars and plates in Letty’s workroom were comprised of castoffs. Pieces once unblemished and desirable eventually grew worn from careless handling and indifferent washings. The more familiar something became, the less precious it appeared. Eventually, anything shiny and new would be relegated to belowstairs.
Grantham might kiss women all the time. Hadn’t the scandal sheets hinted at such? What happened last night at the ball after his confession may have held no great importance to him. Had she simply been another warm body on a cold night?
“You’ve interrupted Margaret telling us her marvelous news,” Violet said, coming back to her seat and tossing a shawl over her teacup. “She has a commission.”
Grantham beamed as though he’d been given a medal. “Of course she has,” he exclaimed. “Whatever bridge she designs will be famous. I shall make it front page news in my broadsheet starting tomorrow,” Grantham announced.
His what?
“Your what?” Violet asked.
Mala turned to peer at Grantham over the top of the sagging couch.
“You own a newspaper, my lord?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hill.” Wrenching his gaze from Margaret’s, Grantham beamed at Mala. “I own The Capital’s Chronicle, this city’s finest weekly broadsheet. A paper of record that has been enthralling London since 1836.”
Althea tilted her head and Mala frowned. “I’ve never heard of it,” she said.
“Me neither,” Althea agreed.
“Oh?” Grantham scratched his head with a disappointed air. “Well, soon you will hear of nothing but The Capital’s Chronicle.”
He twirled his top hat between his fingers and beamed at Margaret. “Once I’ve delivered instructions to the workmen for my much-anticipated six-foot replica of Egeskov Castle, I am scheduled to visit The Chronicle’s offices and meet with the editor. I shall have him write a story about Madame Gault’s tunnel.”
“Egeskov Castle?” Violet squeaked.
“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Margaret said, the repercussions dawning on her. “In fact, I think—”
“The castle built in the center of a lake?” Mala asked.
“Oh, Grantham you go too far. Stop, please.” Violet ran out of the room after the workmen without bidding them farewell.
“What kind of a newspaper is The Chronicle?” Althea asked.
Grantham, who’d been watching Violet’s flight with pleasure, turned from the doorway and regarded Althea. “What kind? The regular kind, I suppose. Reports about the Railway Regulations Act. Articles about that business with the government reading the Italian bloke’s mail.”
Mala shook her head. “She means what are its political leanings. Tory? Whig?”
Grantham lifted one shoulder and held out his hand as though asking for the answer from them.
“Its leanings are anything the Guardians of Domesticity find offensive.”
“What does that mean?” The sour taste from Margaret’s bad conscience coated her tongue and slurred her words more than the port could. “What does your newspaper have to do with Victor Armitage’s group?”
“I grow tired of leaving his insults unanswered,” Grantham said. “If I must see ridiculous caricatures of myself in his magazine—”
“They were . . . revealing,” Althea noted, blushing.
Unable to resist, Grantham flexed his arms. “Indeed. I begin my campaign against Victor Armitage and his Guardians this very day.”
A weight settled on Margaret’s chest. Grantham never did anything by halves.
Grantham’s gaze settled on her. “Perhaps we might meet later to discuss the story, Madame Gault?”
The innuendo in his voice rattled her. Crossing her arms, she lifted her chin and scoffed. “The Capital’s Chronicle will have to find something else with which to fill its pages.”
He blinked twice at her scorn, such a small movement, all but unnoticeable, yet Margaret felt as though she’d kicked a puppy.
“I will take my leave, then.” Grantham bowed to her, his eyes lingering for a scant second as he tried to read her face, then he smiled as though nothing had occurred.
“Good day, ladies,” he said to Mala and Althea, then winked. “I must find a tank before we can begin construction.”
Margaret scowled at the broad, muscular back of him, refusing to let her gaze linger on the way his trousers fit tight to his legs, rejecting the momentary sympathy infecting her when his smile had dimmed.
When Grantham left, the morning light left with him, but her friends did not notice. Their spirits remained high, and Althea pulled the port out from beneath the cushion with a flourish.
Mala held out her teacup despite what her mother-in-law might say and turned to Margaret.
“Now. Tell us every detail about the project from beginning to end.”
* * *
“BEING AS YE dine with the queen and all, ye might no’ be ready for the sight of men who dirty their hands for a livin’, me lord.”
A gnome-like man clad in rough woolen trousers and wrapped in an ink-stained apron stood beside a printer’s press. Abel Runnymead was the head printer for The Capital’s Chronicle. His squat stature and sloped shoulders belied the deftness of his stubby fingers when it came to pulling out the myriad shelves on the wall behind him, which held drawer after drawer of tiny type.
“I wasn’t born an earl,” Grantham retorted. “I’ve mucked plenty of stalls in my life and not until I left soldiering behind did I hide these baby-soft hands beneath a pair of gloves.”
Abel made a derisory sound and continued his lecture. “Newssheets were taxed each page until a few years ago. Taxes have gone down, but thrift prevails, and we still use broadsheets for The Chronicle. We lays out two pages of print onto one side of the sheet, turn ’em, and print on the other side. After they come off the press, we folds ’em.”
Abel pointed out the four separate layouts for one piece of paper. Each issue of The Chronicle used two broadsheets, which was the equivalent of eight pages of news.
For all his republican leanings and horror at the fact that an earl nosed about his beloved printing press, Abel was generous with his knowledge. He explained the presses at The Chronicle were Columbian hand presses designed by an American. This met with Abel’s approval, as did their system of government. He lectured Grantham on both the process of printing and the benefits of a representational democracy with equal vigor.
As two assistants moved around them with the ease of men used to working in confined spaces, Grantham listened carefully to everything Abel had to say. He couldn’t help but think Margaret would enjoy the process of laying type and watching the backward script become legible.
“Biggest change came a few years ago when The Illustrated London News started up,” Abel said as they examined a wooden etching about to be molded so the image could be transferred to a metal plate before printing. “They are almost half pictures, half story but the process is expensive and takes a bit of time. We only print pictures when it’s guaranteed the story will be a big one.”
There was no newspaper in the village where Grantham grew up, and they were as rare and precious as gold when he was soldiering in Canada even when delivering news over a year old. He’d never once thought about the process of making a broadsheet and asked as many questions as he could think of in the moment.
Finally, Abel had enough of him and declared he’d work to do.
“There’s some at other newspapers what use the steam press.” Abel said, finishing his lessons as they left behind the press room and made their way upstairs to the ground floor. “We would certainly make more money if The Chronicle used the same, but we would lose half the men what works below.”
At the top of the stairs, Grantham thanked the other man for his time and promised to visit the press room often. Abel stared a moment at the hand Grantham offered him but shook it gamely and trundled back to his kingdom of ink and paper.
“Abel convince you to renounce your title and join the radicals, yet?”
The editor of The Capital’s Chronicle, Moses Wolfe, scratched his beard as he leaned back in a rickety chair behind his desk. At least, Grantham assumed a desk sat behind the piles of old broadsheets stacked nearly to the man’s nose.
“He gave it his best effort, but I’m afraid I’m a monarchist through and through,” Grantham confessed. He took a seat without waiting for an invitation and lifted his chin, dropping his shoulders and widening his legs slightly—posturing designed to show Wolfe he was not too high in the instep to hear what needed saying.
“Did you enjoy your tour of our offices?”
From the lack of inflection in his voice, the editor sounded disinterested, but Grantham wasn’t fooled. No one at The Capital’s Chronicle could believe it when he walked through the doors earlier today.
They’d assumed he’d forgotten them, or even if he hadn’t, that he would send a man of business to root through their books and then be on his way. An enormous earl who wanted to explore the place from the cellars to the attic was beyond their ken.
Wolfe’s office was on the second floor and well away from the main floor, where the majority of the newspaper’s folks worked, but Grantham had no doubt every person there would know the contents of their conversation before he made it home later that night.
“I suppose you are here to tell me what I have to change?” the editor asked.
Skin color a dark olive that could point to mixed race or Southern European heritage, Wolfe had taken to the latest fashion and sported impressive raven-black muttonchops and he stared at Grantham with amber-colored eyes that took in everything.
Grantham liked that Wolfe was respectful but not deferential. The assumption that the earldom lent legitimacy to his pronouncements made Grantham uncomfortable. A title didn’t confer upon him any wisdom or innate gifts. It made no sense if someone went and slapped a coronet on a costermonger, half of Parliament would be toasting him that night. This reluctance to embrace the benefits of the title was another reason his peers viewed him with suspicion.
“The Chronicle is losing money,” Grantham said without preamble. “Why should I keep this place running if it cannot bring me profit?”
One of Wolfe’s bushy black eyebrows perked at the statement in a gesture of surprise.
Grantham might not have shown much interest in The Chronicle before now, but he kept track of his assets and the paper had been in the losing column for almost a year.
Wolfe straightened in his chair. “There’s been more broadsheets opening as the newspaper taxes have decreased. It’s taken us some time to adjust to the competition, but I can assure you that—”
Grantham pointed to last week’s issue sitting on the center of the desktop. “The other broadsheets are talking about the visit of Louis Philippe or the opening of the Royal Exchange.”
Wolfe nodded.
“The Chronicle, on the other hand, has a profoundly pedantic article about the Parliamentary Boundaries Act and how it relates to the Counties Act, a column about cravats, and the worst serial mystery I have ever read.”
“That means there’s something for everyone.” Wolfe’s reply did not sound convincing.
“But not enough of that something to keep everyone interested,” Grantham countered.
“I do not care to pander to everyone,” Wolfe retorted. The first hint of irritation crept into the man’s voice. “Yes, we print what is popular to keep readers, but it is also important to inform the public. That is the point of a broadsheet.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Profoundly pedantic it may be, but the Boundaries Act has a direct bearing on whether a landholder is fairly represented in Parliament.”
Grantham said nothing and the two of them took each other’s measure. Rather than talking around a subject, Wolfe was more like Arthur—without the three thousand knives and black stare of death.
“What do you want to print if not columns on cravats?” Grantham asked.
“I want to print the news without having to take a side,” Wolfe said without hesitating. “I want to print stories to inform the public about what the people in charge are up to and how it will impact them. I want to change lives.”
In light of those lofty goals, Grantham’s mission to make Victor Armitage look a fool seemed small and petty. Damn his damnable conscience.
“That is a noble aim indeed,” he said. “I might consider extending the life of the paper for another year and even investing more money if . . .”
Leaning back even more, Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I have the feeling I won’t like what’s coming next?”
“You will have a year of grace to print the news as you see fit, once we complete one small mission.”
“What mission is that?” Wolfe asked.
“To bring down Victor Armitage.”
Grantham exited the building two hours later after an enervating talk with Wolfe about what The Chronicle might accomplish. As was his wont, he glanced over at the offices of Gentlemen’s Monthly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Armitage himself. While Victor was an unattractive man and Grantham could probably squeeze him out of existence just by sitting on him, it would be amusing to challenge him.
Instead of Armitage’s pasty face and ridiculous hair, Grantham found himself face-to-face with a conundrum of another stripe.
“Good day, my lord.”
Cool as a stream in winter, Margaret exited the building next door, glancing suspiciously at the sky then over at him as if he’d conjured the light mist.
“Good day, Margaret.”
Delighted by her unexpected presence, he fell into step at her side, staring at the building. She still hadn’t explained her connection to the place.
“You have to stop following me,” he informed her. “As flattered as I am, I cannot return your fevered affections.”
Margaret huffed so hard, her bonnet slipped.
