Page 16 of Solving Sophronia

She didn’t think the engravers had been pleased by his commentary. One man in particular, a Mr. Potts, had appeared especially insulted. His scowl had made Sophie wince, and each time she’d come to the newspaper, she’d made a particular effort to notice and mention something praiseworthy about his carving.

Sophie made her way through the room to the larger desk in the corner opposite the engravers, pausing to greet Mrs. Ingram, the editor’s research assistant. According to Mr. Leonard, Mrs. Ingram knew the newspaper archives better than anyone in London and could find any story, no matter how obscure. The notion of the woman managing a complicated cataloguing system surprised Sophie. Mrs. Ingram’s curls were always falling out of her pins, her clothing was wrinkled, and she seemed generally disheveled. Perhaps her organizational skills didn’t extend to her outward appearance.

Mr. Leonard rose when he saw Sophie approach, cigarette hanging from his lips. Sophie had been shocked, on her first visit to the office, that he would smoke in front of her, a lady. Such a thing was unthinkably rude. But now she was used to seeing it and thought she would be startled to see him without the accessory.

“Miss Propriety, there you are.” He smiled and bowed. “Lady Sophronia, I should have never doubted your story would arrive on time.”

Mr. Leonard’s belly was round, the buttons straining to hold his waistcoat in place. He had a thick dark mustache and thin dark hair, his scalp shining between the greased rows combed across the top of his head. His eyes bulged slightly, and he smiled with yellow teeth between jowls that hung from his jaws. The man’s appearance gave an impression of a walrus.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Leonard.” Sophie would have taken a seat, but there was not an empty chair to be had. And she was pleased not to be coddled or fussed over. In the newspaper office she was treated like any other employee. She took her notebook from her bag and drew out the story she’d written about the Royal Academy’s Private View.

Mr. Leonard took the paper. He sat back in his chair, making notes with a pen as he read. “Yes, yes. Very nice.” He crossed out a few words, then an entire paragraph, made another note, and put the article into a basket on his desk.

Sophie had been offended the first time he’d marked up her story, especially since she’d spent hours composing it, but Mr. Leonard had explained that he was simply “tightening the prose.” The paper had a limited amount of space. Each word needed to be important, and some sentences were unnecessary. Once she’d gotten past the initial affront to her pride, Sophie had to admit the story was better for his improvements, and in the months since, she’d come to trust his judgment fully.

“And your illustration?” he asked.

Sophie opened her notebook, fishing through the pictures until she found the one she was looking for. The drawing was extremely detailed, showing a crush of people: men in top hats and tails, women in gowns with trains, and even children—admonished to be on their best behavior. The crowd was surrounded on all sides by the works of the masters in thick frames, brought in specifically for this year’s summer exhibition. The drawing did little justice to the beauty of the art on display, but Sophie had purposely paid tribute to works she thought readers would recognize and appreciate.

She handed the paper across the desk, but Mr. Leonard’s gaze was upon her notebook.

Sophie closed the notebook, not wanting to make the crime scene drawing available until she was certain she’d be allowed to write a story to go with it.

Mr. Leonard took the illustration, studying it closely. “Very nice, my dear. You captured the showcase exquisitely.”

Perhaps he’d not noticed the other picture.

The editor gave back the drawing. “Thank you, my lady. Deliver the illustration to the engravers right away. Your story will run in tomorrow’s edition.” He turned back to his work.

Sophie recognized the dismissal but remained where she stood. “Sir, I wonder if perhaps I might write a different type of story.”

Mr. Leonard glanced up. He blinked as if not understanding what she’d said. “What’s that?”

“I hoped to write a different type of article. To report on an actual news story.”

He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together over his tight waistcoat. “Such as?”

“The plight of orphans in the rookery or the expanding railroad’s threat to city tenement buildings. Or perhaps the growing tension between France and Prussia...” Her words trailed off as he shook his head.

Mr. Leonard waved his hand, his brows pulling down as he frowned. “I see no need for that.”

“Or suppose I was to report on a murder.” She spoke carefully, not wanting to give any indication that such a story was already in the works.

Mr. Leonard chuckled, making his jowls wiggle. “My dear, Miss Propriety would never concern herself with something so unpleasant.” He leaned forward, picking up his pen. “Focus your energy on ball gown sleeve length and ladies’ face creams or something of the sort. Know your strengths. That’s a lesson every good journalist should remember.” He held up a finger. “Let the real reporters deal with the more complex stories.”

Realreporters. His words stung, though she knew he didn’t intend them to. Was he right? Was she being silly, hoping to venture beyond her world? Discouragement settled heavily on Sophie’s shoulders as she bid Mr. Leonard farewell and crossed the room to the engravers.

Not wishing to startle Mr. Potts and cause him to make an error in his carving, she stood next to his table and cleared her throat quietly. “What a beautiful landscape, sir. You’ve captured the clouds quite perfectly.”

“You’ve another drawing for me, my lady?” the carver muttered without looking up.

She set it on the table next to the block of wood he was carving.

He glanced at it and grunted. “More lace. Told you to simplify those details.”

“I did.”

He poked a finger at the image of a woman’s gown. “This will take extra time.”

---