CHAPTER7
“Do you have the fashion column, Rhoda?” Phoebe called across the room to the woman who was sketching out the order of this week’s final list of articles before they would send it to the press for printing.
“I do, it’s here!” the woman called back, her dark head, dusted with grey, bent over her work. Phoebe could not have asked for a better editor of the paper. The woman was efficient, dependable, and had a knack for knowing what would be of interest to readers. A widow, she had aided her husband in his own small publication before he passed, and when she had seen Phoebe’s advertisement, she had replied immediately. She was the first potential editor Phoebe had interviewed, as well as the last. She was perfect.
Phoebe spent as much time in the office as she could. She was drawn to the work, thrived on it really, but she had other engagements to see to as well, and so could not be exclusively here. Their team, however, was talented — frightfully so. And even better, their first publication had been widely read, judging by the reaction of other young ladies of her station. While Phoebe hoped women of all classes would benefit from the words ofThe Women’s Weekly, she was well aware that the cost alone would prohibit many from reading. Not only that, but the unfortunate way of it was many women simply couldn’t read, or had no time for leisure.
She hoped she could help change some of that. She didn’t know how, but perhaps in time she could do more. They could, at the very least, write of such issues to bring more awareness of the plights of many women to the noble and middle classes.
“We sold all of the copies last week, Rhoda?” she asked the woman, coming around to sit in front of the table where she currently worked, looking around at the drab brick walls to which she hoped to soon bring life.
“We did,” Rhoda answered with a returning smile. “All one-thousand of them. I hate to admit it, but I can hardly believe it. Do you suppose we should print more this next issue?”
Phoebe tilted her head, considering.
“No,” she finally said. “Let’s ensure it continues to remain in demand, and then we’ll print more the following week.”
“Very well,” she said with a nod. “And as for next week’s deadline—”
“Miss Phoebe!” Rhoda was interrupted by the young lad who raced through the doorway so fast he nearly collided with another of her writers.
“Slow down, Ned,” she admonished, but with a smile. “And do come in.”
He was one of her delivery boys. She paid them more than most young ones of their station would make, but she wanted them to remain loyal to her and continue to return, to not steal any of her profits.
“Now,” she said briskly once he was seated in front of her. “What is the matter?”
“There was a man asking after you, Miss,” he said, his blue eyes wide in his dirt-splattered face. Phoebe wished she could do more for these children, but at the very least they were taking home money to their families. They should be in school, really, but if they weren’t working for her, they would be working for someone else, picking pockets or worse.
“A man?” she asked carefully, not wanting to rush the information, to ensure he imparted it thoroughly. “Was he asking for me specifically?”
“No, ma’am,” the boy said with a shake of his head. “He was asking about the publication. He wanted to know who the owner is, and the editor. He wanted to know where I receive my pay, but I wouldn’t tell him. He offered me decent money for it, he did, but I told him that I didna know anymore.”
“I see,” Phoebe said, standing, pulling a coin out of her small reticule, and the boy’s eyes gleamed. “Here you are, Ned, for the trouble and for your loyalty. Now, tell me, what did this man look like?”
“He was dressed fancy, he was, a nob to be sure,” Ned said with a nod. “He had the neckcloth choking him like fancy men do, and a fine jacket. Light hair. Dark eyes. His face was kind of… craggy. And hard.”
That’s all Ned seemed to remember as he then shrugged. Phoebe’s heart flipped in her chest as she listened to the boy’s description. Was she simply picturing the marquess as the man Ned described because he continued to infiltrate her mind? Hehadbeen so against her own words at the party. But would he truly go so far as to come after her newspaper?
“Did he give you anything, Ned? Any way to try to contact him?”
His eyes lit up. “He did! He gave me his card, said to call on him if I wanted to talk about anything further.”
He handed her over the slim white card.
“The Marquess of Berkley,” she read the embossed words aloud as unease and disappointment filled her in equal measure. “Just as I thought. Thank you again, Ned. You have been more than helpful. I shall not forget it.”
He blushed a bright crimson and nodded at her, then was out of the door and gone just as fast as he came in. Phoebe walked over to Rhoda, who had been listening intently.
“I know this man,” she said in hushed tones. She hadn’t told her staff of her particular status, though they were smart enough to know that she was of a fairly high station. “He is relentless, and stubborn. I will do my best to stay apprised of his actions so that we are not surprised. But if he does come here, we cannot tell him anything.”
“Of course not, Miss Winters,” Rhoda agreed. “I knew when I came to work for you that this type of publication wouldn’t be accepted by all. But I believe in what we’re doing, and we’ll continue it.”
“Thank you, Rhoda,” she said, before turning to speak with the other two women who currently occupied desks in the large room, and were attempting to look as though they were not listening to the conversation. “None of us have done anything wrong. This is simply men trying to prove their dominance over us. We will continue to carry on. If they are scared, well, that means we are doing something right.”
The paper ready, her staff in understanding, Phoebe threw her cloak around her shoulders and left. So the marquess was coming after her. She refused to go down without a fight. And she had an idea of just what weapon she should use against him.
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