Chapter Twenty-One
It took all he had not to turn around, to see her reaction, but instead, Jeffrey flicked the reins and drove away, attempting to refocus his thoughts on his next course of action. Fleet Street. It was where all the printers seemed to have set up shop, and where most of the newspapers did business. There, he would hopefully find answers and would determine his own next steps.
He had been about to ask her once more about his marriage proposal, to tell her so much more eloquently all that was flowing through his mind, but her words to him had told him something else entirely—that, perhaps, his decision on this blasted paper would affect her own thoughts.
And so, instead of asking what he had really wanted to know, he simply told her how he felt, leaving quickly so there was no pressure on her to return his words one way or another.
Jeffrey had the printer’s mark now, but he wasn’t entirely sure where to begin. He found a place to leave his phateon and then began walking down the street at a quick clip, looking in one shop window and then the next before he finally found what he was looking for. This must be a printer’s shop, judging by the advertisements displayed on the window. He pushed open the door, waiting a moment until a man finally came out to greet him.
“Good day. May I help you, my lord?” the man asked, his thick mustache bobbing along with his words.
“I hope so,” Jeffrey replied, holding out the paper. “I am seeking the publisher of this paper. I am unsure where to find the building’s location, but I was hoping you may help me. This is the printer’s mark—would this be yours?”
“No, my lord, I’m sorry, but I cannot help you,” the man said with a shake of his head. “If you look at our sign, we have an entirely different mark.” He paused for a moment. “If you find your way down the street a few doors, I believe you’ll find the printer you’re looking for. Though if you are needing printing of your own completed, be sure to come back here to Flynn’s!”
Jeffrey nodded at him gratefully before he continued on his quest, soon seeing the sign the previous printer had pointed out. When he entered this establishment, it seemed not quite as clean, not quite as efficient, but then it was likely less expensive, which would be important for a fledgling publication.
“My lord?”
Jeffrey was shocked when a woman came out of the back to greet him. Well, he thought, recovering himself, this made much more sense. Of course, The Women’s Weekly would choose a printer in which a woman was, if not the owner, firmly established within the business. Though this may prove trickier for him to determine how to receive the information he sought.
“Hello,” he said with as much charm as he could muster, though he was aware that it did not exactly come naturally. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“I hope I can as well, my lord.”
“I am an admirer of one of the publications you print, and I am hoping to get in touch with the publisher in order to offer my support.”
She eyed him warily. Apparently this was not a usual request.
“Which publication are you interested in, my lord?”
“The Women’s Weekly.”
Her eyes widened, and then she shocked him by letting out a snort of laughter. “I’m sure you are, my lord. Unfortunately I cannot help you.”
“No?” he asked. “That is too bad. I have a substantial financial donation to provide them.”
Her laughter died as she considered him. “And just what would a man like yourself be after with support of such a paper?”
“I am blessed with four sisters who greatly enjoy the publication,” he said. “I would like to make the donation on their behalf.”
“How about this?” she asked. “If you leave me your information, I will send it onto the publisher and have her contact you.”
“Very well,” Jeffrey said, realizing he wouldn’t get any further with this woman, who was as loyal as everyone else seemed to be to this elusive publisher. He passed her his card. “As quickly as possible would be greatly appreciated.”
She nodded and wished him good day, watching him carefully as he left the building. He did not, however, continue home. No, instead he waited around the corner. It took some time—longer than he would have liked. But he was rewarded for his patience, as soon enough, he saw a young lad—a messenger no doubt—scamper out the front door. Jeffrey had to set a quick pace to follow, but luckily it wasn’t far until the lad opened the door of a building just down the street—53 Fleet Street. It was fairly nondescript, not showcasing any of its true identity from the exterior. At the slab gray front punctuated only by a smoky window, he wondered at the prosperity of the publisher. While this clearly wouldn’t have been the most expensive real estate available for offices, he wondered at where a woman would find such funds. Perhaps the “lady” moniker was simply a ruse, and there was a man behind the scheme, making a significant sum off of the publication that women were apparently flocking to in droves.
Did one knock at the entrance of such an establishment? No, he decided, pushing open the door, which creaked slightly as he did so. A small, scarred wooden desk sat near the door, a chair behind it, but no one was sitting awaiting him or any other arrival. He walked down the short corridor, looking in to find one small, dim, empty room, then another, before finally an open door revealed a rather large space, filled with rows of desks, a bank of long, narrow windows lining the side wall, showing nothing beyond but another building beside.
Here, a couple of women sat at the tables, one scratching away on the paper in front of her, the other lining up rows of sheets of paper, and he wondered if she was determining the layout for the next issue. The boy he had followed was just about to pass the note to one of the women, but paused when Jeffrey entered.
“Pardon me,” Jeffrey said into the quiet of the room, and both women gasped, the one standing turning to him as she clutched at her breast.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said a bit breathlessly. “I did not hear you come in.”
“There was no one at the door when I entered,” he explained, and she nodded.
“Quite right,” she said. “Quite right. There will be in due time.”
Whether she meant later that day, or later on in the future, he had no idea, but he didn’t question it any further—it didn’t make much difference to him.
“I am here to speak with your publisher,” he said, and the woman’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked him over. She was a bit plump, around his mother’s age, the thought, her hair dark with a touch of gray. But she looked quite … competent, he decided, and he wondered if he had found the woman he sought. “Would you be the woman I am looking for?” he asked when she said nothing.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, not so much in denial of his words, but as though bringing herself out of a trance of some sort. “Forgive me. I am Mrs. Ellis. Rhoda Ellis, and I am the editor of this paper.”
“’Tis a pleasure,” he said with all of the politeness he had been bred with.
“Might I ask what business you have with our publisher?” she asked bluntly, not sharing any information in regards to whether or not she was available.
“It is a personal matter,” he said, “One that requires a conversation with the publisher directly. You see, I am a supporter of the newspaper, and I would wish to speak with her of what I could possibly to do help see to this publication’s success.”
Mrs. Ellis crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against one of the tables. The other woman present—a girl, with blonde, swept-back hair, watched their exchange with interest.
“Our publisher … she is not in at the moment,” replied Mrs. Ellis, and Jeffrey stored that piece of information—so the publisher was a woman, as he had initially suspected. But how did a woman manage an operation such as this? “In fact, it is the day when many of our writers are out gathering material for their columns and stories. Perhaps you might come back tomorrow?”
“Very good,” he said. “Perhaps I shall do that. Mrs. Ellis, I do not suppose you might show me around the offices? If I am to offer my support, I should like to see where it is needed.”
She was somewhat apprehensive about his request, he could tell, but finally she nodded her head and waved a hand to for him to follow her.
“There’s not much, really, not at this point,” she said as they walked back into the corridor. “We were just in the room where the writers congregate when they are in the building, though many choose to write their columns in their own homes and send them into us. We do meet in there as well from time to time. Only two other offices are currently in use. This is mine, to your left, and then beside me, one door over, is our publisher’s.”
He stepped into the publisher’s office, finding hardly anything of note with the exception of scattered papers across the desk, a quill pen on the surface of it, and smudges of ink upon the wood peeking out beneath it all.
Jeffrey leaned over the desk in an attempt to see what might be on the top of the pile, at the very least, but Mrs. Ellis was clearly aware of his intention as she stepped firmly in front of him, a strained smile covering her face as she held an arm out to usher him out of the door.
“That’s all there is to see,” she said politely, yet with some tension.
“I did not hear your publisher’s name,” he said as nonchalantly as he could as they continued back to the front entrance.
“That is because I did not tell you, my lord,” she replied. “And what of yours?”
“Forgive me,” he said, finding a card in his pocket and passing it to her. “Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ellis. I shall see you again tomorrow.”