Page 61 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“Pam, as they’ve started to call him?” She arched her brows. “As the editor ofThe London Crier, I can testify that he possesses a knack sorely lacking in most of his political peers—namely, an ability to engage with the public. On the whole, the common man approves of him. In many cases, his opinions are theirs.” She tipped her head. “Or should I say he reacts to situations in the way they would, so they feel they have a certain bond with him?” She shook her head. “Either way, I would say Palmerston is one to watch. No matter that his peers and the palace distrust him, whatever political future comes, he’ll be a part of it.”
He was unsurprised to discover that her views aligned with his. “What do you think of this latest brouhaha? Was Russell right in forcing Palmerston’s resignation?”
“For my money, that was unwise. Palmerston has a lot of support in Parliament, and it wasn’t in session. The move smacked of ambush, even if it wasn’t intended as that. But more, Palmerston’s congratulatory note to Louis Napoleon was simply a statement of what the vast majority of the British public—and his peers in Parliament—thought. The idea that the note compromised a neutrality Victoria and her advisors wished to preserve is too abstract a concept to carry much weight with the public.” She softly snorted. “That’s not an argument I would attempt to run inThe Crier.”
He sipped. “That’s an illuminating way to gauge things.”
She studied his face. “Are you serious about running for a seat in the Commons?”
He met her gaze. “Therese Cader suggested it some months ago. Initially, I shrugged aside the notion, but somehow, it stuck and took root, and now…” He paused, then nodded decisively. “Yes. I’m serious.”
He watched her read as much in his face and felt ridiculously buoyed—schoolboyishly buoyed—by the approval he saw in her eyes.
She pushed aside her plate and picked up her teacup. “The way Russell’s ministry is going, you might not have that long to wait before putting your case to the people. Have you given much thought to the sort of policies you’ll espouse?”
“As I told Silas, I’m interested in supporting industry, but alongside that, I’m also interested in improving the lot for the workers and local communities. I’d rather not have uprisings and revolutions. Leave that to the French.”
She laughed and nodded, then glanced at the clock. “We’d better get going.”
In pleasant accord, they left the table, quit the house, and rode in her carriage to Woburn Square. There, they didn’t dally and were soon opening the printing works’ front door.
The staff arrived on their heels.
While Izzy sat at her desk and put the final touches to her lead article, Gray and Mary sat in the office’s armchairs and carefully conned the initial proofs of the obituary, Mary’s article on the Foundling Hospital, and the listing of “What we know of Mr. Quimby’s Movements on That Fateful Day,” searching for errors.
Gray was intent on being there when the police came calling, just in case Baines had been further pressured and needed reminding of the forces supporting the hue and cry edition. After Izzy signed off on the three articles he and Mary had proofread, curious to see what came next, he left Izzy correcting the lead article and followed Mary as she hurried out to deliver the approved pages to her father.
Maguire and Matthews had their heads down, filling what Gray had been told were compositing sticks with lines of type. The filled sticks were subsequently set within boxes nestled in the large, page-sized formes. Laid out on the other half of the typesetting table were six formes—rectangular frames constructed of stout wood about two inches high, each the size of a double page. A thick piece of wood ran down the middle of each forme, dividing the area into the two pages, with the six formes accounting for the twelve pages that comprised an edition ofThe Crier.
Digby was sitting farther along from Maguire, swathed in one of the leather aprons and busily working on the blocks that would allow the photographs to be incorporated as part of the printed pages.
The forme that would print the front page, with its banner headline and large-print title, had already been partially filled, and the required type was now residing in the left-hand side of one of the formes, leaving space for the beginning of the lead article to be slotted in. Apparently, the type to fill the right-hand side of that forme would relate to the final page of the edition.
Maguire grunted when Mary set the approved proofs of the three articles by his elbow. He paused in his work and studied them, then glanced at Gray. “The police are going to come and read through everything, aren’t they?”
“So they said.”
“In that case, I’m going to concentrate on finishing setting the details for the photographs. No sense in us finalizing those articles if there’s a chance they’ll be reworded.”
From the office, Izzy called for Mary, and Gray followed the girl as she rushed to return.
The instant Mary appeared, Izzy held out the sheets of the lead article. “Here—read it over.” When Mary took the pages, Izzy slumped back in her chair. She met Gray’s eyes. “I think it’s done. Could you take a look, too? The more eyes the better.”
“Of course.” He returned to the armchair as Mary, eyes already scanning the lines of Izzy’s neat script, slowly sank into the other chair.
Gray waited patiently, and when Mary looked up and said that she had found no errors, he took the pages and read carefully through.
He was starting to appreciate just how easy it was to miss little words that the mind supplied even if they weren’t actually written on the page.
He found no spelling errors within the lengthy article, but queried two verb tenses. Izzy looked, then grumbled at herself as she changed them. That done, she declared the article ready to go to Maguire. Mary had already returned to the front counter, so Izzy rose to carry the pages to Maguire herself, and Gray went with her.
In the foyer, two men were standing at the counter, one speaking to Mary and the other to Lipson, while several others waited impatiently to do so.
As they crossed behind the counter, Izzy murmured to Gray, “Word of the special edition has spread.” She tipped her head toward the men. “They’re merchants wanting to place small advertisements. Mary and Lipson will deal with them, accommodating the requests as they can and filling up the smaller spaces left between articles, photographs, and the larger advertisements we’ve already slotted in.”
She reached Maguire, and he glanced over the article, and she agreed it would be best to wait just a little longer before typesetting it in the hope the police would arrive closer to ten o’clock than later.
“If they don’t show by ten-thirty,” Maguire said, “we’ll start setting the lead article and work from there.”
