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, he 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.”