Chapter 3
Logan liked working at dawn. Whenever he had something to accomplish, he did so in those quiet morning hours when there were few interruptions and his mind was clear.
In the dawn hours, the council chambers were dimly lit by a few sconces along the corridor. Other than one other representative and a doorman, whose task it was to secure the building and check for fire, he had the chambers to himself.
The hall smelled faintly of camphor, and he wondered if it was something used to clean. Even so, that agreeable scent had no chance against the odor of the gas lamps.
The carpet was crimson, embroidered in a Celtic pattern along the edges. Whoever had designed this newest iteration of the council chambers had decreed that all things Scottish must be featured, just as nothing could be used that hadn’t been made in Scotland.
The furnishings were finer than in most bureaucratic offices. The occasional bench was finely carved wood, the landscapes on the wall of various scenes around Edinburgh. Even at dawn he had the feeling that this was the center of the city. Here, decisions were made that would affect thousands of people.
Where once the city had thrummed with political intrigue, now it puttered along slightly behind its Glasgow sister. They were being jerked and yanked into the future with a reluctance that was curiously Edinburghian.
As Lord Provost, he was dealing with topics that had never touched the desks of his predecessors: steam versus horse power, the stench and sanitation of Leith, and the eternal construction in New Town.
He hesitated before the double doors that marked his office. A bench sat on each side of the doors, and a sconce sputtered to his right, illuminating the brass plaque inscribed with his name.
Each morning, he felt a pinch of surprise when looking at it. Each morning, he hoped he was worthy of the honor. People depended on him to be wise and just, to think of their welfare. He never forgot that.
His secretary, Thomas, was seated at his desk when Logan opened the door. His own desk was larger and wider and set in the center of the window with a view of the castle. Thomas’s desk was aligned against the south wall. Although the office was spacious, befitting the Lord Provost, at times it felt suffocatingly small.
Thomas was not only responsible for those activities mandated by his position, but served as his social secretary as well, attending to those matters of a more social or ceremonial nature. He was rarely without Thomas, the night before being one of those occasions.
His secretary possessed a narrow face and long, thin nose. Despite the fact that he was forever munching on a snack he squirreled away in his pocket, Thomas was almost cadaver thin. Even with his penchant for biscuits, Logan had never seen a crumb on any of his papers.
If Thomas had any flaws at all, it was his nose. That offending feature was always twitching or sniffing. When the two of them worked late, the nights were punctuated by sounds: a quick rustle of paper in his pocket, a surreptitious nibble, and a sniff.
Thomas was a human rat.
But he was a damn efficient secretary. Logan didn’t know if he’d be able to perform all his duties without the man. All in all, he had very little free time, and what he had was devoted to another task—that of finding a wife.
According to Thomas, the fact that he’d been elected to represent his ward as a single man was astonishing. Thomas also thought that if Logan wanted to advance, he had to give some thought to marriage. Since more than one political mentor had given him that advice, Logan was beginning to think there was some merit to it.
His three brothers were married, and all of them seemingly happy. In record time they’d given him a dozen nieces and nephews.
For the last decade, he’d never had time for courtship. He probably would have continued thinking that but for one thing: he was giving thought to running for Parliament. A wife would be a political advantage, as much as not being married might prove detrimental.
Logan nodded to the Queen’s portrait, a habit he’d formed when first taking up his position a year ago, then settled behind his desk.
“Was the lecture worth the time, sir?” Thomas asked.
“It was, for the most part.”
Strange, that during the lecture he’d seen the Sinclair woman’s flashing blue eyes and stubborn mouth. More than once he had to drag his thoughts back to the author’s words.
Several men engaged him in conversation afterward. He allowed himself to be dragged into a discussion of the new royal infirmary and the talks about the Edinburgh Academy Cricket Club, but he begged off meeting Hampstead himself. He preferred some mystique to exist between himself and the writers of the books he enjoyed, the same reasons he hadn’t met Mr. Dickens during a similar lecture four years ago.
Now, he pulled out a piece of paper on which he’d jotted a name. “Find out what you can about her,” he said.
Thomas stood and came to his desk, taking the paper from him. “The Edinburgh Gazette? It isn’t a very large paper, sir. Not like The Scotsman.”
“I want to know everything you can find out about its editor.”
Thomas nodded, not asking any more questions.
Logan knew, just as the sun was rising in the east, that Thomas would make a thorough job of discovering anything he could about Mairi Sinclair.
At dawn, Mairi dressed, donned her cloak, and was on her way to wake her driver when she found him in the kitchen.
The room was warm, smelling of sausage and scones. James was finishing what looked to be a fine breakfast of black pudding, two slabs of sausage, and a few fried eggs. Abigail, one of the maids, was flitting around the table like a butterfly only too aware of its short life span. Any trace of scones had vanished.
Abigail personified sunlight. Her smile was always in place, her brown eyes sparkling. Her blond hair was kept braided and tucked beneath her cap, tendrils occasionally escaping to frame her round face.
James was tall and spare, with a shock of brown hair that was unkempt even after he’d combed it. His Adam’s apple was prominent. She often found herself staring at it in fascination, wondering if it hurt him to swallow. When he smiled, like now, he looked more like a boy or a brownie in coachman’s garb than a fully grown man.
Bemused, Mairi watched the two of them for a moment until James glanced in her direction.
“You’ll be wanting to get to the paper, I imagine,” he said, standing.
Abigail nodded to her, smiled, then busied herself clearing up the dishes. Did Cook know that Abigail had taken over her duties? Mairi decided she wasn’t going to ask.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s early.”
“Don’t fash yourself,” he said, grinning at Abigail and then at her. “I’ve already readied the carriage.”
Evidently, she was becoming a creature of habit.
Although they lived close enough to the paper that she could have easily walked there, Macrath had given orders that a driver was to be at her beck and call. Her relationship with James had never been employee to employer. He was a cross she must bear, and she was his task.
At least he wasn’t as annoying as Robert.
Once at the paper, she sent James home. Since Allan lived above the paper, she was safe enough. She didn’t need a duenna. Having Allan there was a reassurance she hadn’t had six months ago. Back then she had worked on her own and sometimes with Fenella as a companion. But the newspaper finally provided enough income to hire a pressman with talent like his.
Unlocking the door, she entered the front office, then walked down a long hall, turning up the lamps as she went. Entering the pressroom, she hung her cloak on a peg by the door and pulled the poem from her reticule.
She read it through once more with a critical eye. Only when she was satisfied did she move to the frame beside the press. There, aligned in military precision, sat all the letters she needed to compose the broadside, along with symbols and spaces.
If she’d had the time, she would have ordered a lithograph carved of the Lord Provost, a pose with his bearlike arms stretched out to protectively enfold all the male inhabitants of Edinburgh while leaving the women huddling in a group to the side. But that would require time—and expense—she didn’t have.
Her fingers flew as she began to typeset what she’d written, the click of metal against metal the only sound in the silence. In hours the broadside would be hawked through the streets of the city, sold for a penny apiece. The idea that what she thought would be conveyed to hundreds of Edinburgh citizens never failed to amaze and fascinate her.
The pressroom was a cavernous space devoid of any but the barest amenities. Two high-placed windows let in the dawn light, coloring the beige walls pink. She hadn’t bothered to light the brazier in the corner, but she had donned her fingerless gloves. The walls were covered with wooden bins and shelves overflowing with paper. She’d plundered those files often enough to know what each contained even if they weren’t labeled.
The woodsy scent of paper vied with the odor of the chemicals used to clean the press. Added to that was the ever present smell of ink. Would her skin be saturated with the odors after a lifetime of work here?
She’d spent her childhood in this room, had grown to womanhood doing exactly what she was doing now, setting type, preparing to work the press. Every memorable event in her life had somehow involved this exact place.
She’d learned to read here, by placing the metal letters in their boxes.
She’d come here after her father’s death because this was the one place she’d always seen him. Sometimes she could almost feel him with her, whispering in her ear. “No, lass, there you’ve misspelled a word. Go back and change it. Always check yourself.”
Here she’d been spurned, not far from where she stood. Calvin had held his hat in his hands, explaining with earnest embarrassment how his parents didn’t think her suitable for their only son.
When Macrath had gotten word that his ice machine was a success, she’d celebrated with him here, toasting him with whiskey until the room had spun. She wasn’t sure if it was an abundance of laughter and joy that had made her dizzy or simply the spirits.
Until her brother’s success, when Macrath moved them into a substantial house, they had all lived in the cramped rooms upstairs. Now, half of them were used for storage except for Macrath’s old room, which Allan now occupied.
Mairi heard a sound down the hall. Grabbing a rag, she wiped her fingertips, greeting Allan as he came into the room holding two steaming cups. She took one, biting back her smile at his shiver. A native of Dumfries, Allan had started complaining about the cold in September. She wondered how he’d like Edinburgh come spring.
The dazed look in his brown eyes was normal. Allan didn’t wake easily, rarely speaking until nearly noon. His beard and mustache were always well trimmed, unlike the brown hair that flopped over his brow. He was forever brushing his wrist over it as he worked the press. He was only her height, but his shoulders were broad, his arms heavily muscled from years of manipulating a printing press.
Today, Allan wore his normal attire, so familiar it might have been a uniform: a blue shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and dark blue pants.
She’d never seen anyone work a press as quickly as he did, not even her father. Allan could produce twice what she or Macrath did in the same time frame. Plus, he was a near genius at figuring out which bolt or screw was loose or needed to be replaced, and which part should be oiled.
“I had a visit from your cousin last evening,” he said.
“Fenella?” she asked, surprised.
“No, Robert.” He shook his head. “He wanted to know if I’d be willing to work for half my wages.”
She bit back her irritation. “I hope you told him no.”
Allan smiled. “He’s a crafty old badger. He started making noises about how he could fire me if I didn’t come cheaper.”
“I’m the only one who can fire you,” she said, making no attempt to hide her annoyance now. “And I’ve no wish to do that. Robert will simply have to grumble. Still, I’m sorry he bothered you.”
She didn’t care if Macrath had installed him to be her chaperone. Badgering her pressman wasn’t included in Robert’s duties.
“I’ve written a broadside,” she said after taking a few sips of her tea. Before she handed him the paper, she told him about what had happened the night before.
“Is it wise, do you think?” he asked, reading it. “It’s the Lord Provost.”
“I may not be able to vote, Allan. I may not be able to do a great many things, being a woman, but my voice has not yet been fettered.”
“Still, he’s the Lord Provost,” Allan said.
“I’m not insulting the position, merely the man. If he hadn’t appeared, I might have been able to convince the doorman to let us in.”
Allan only bent his eyebrow in response.
“Very well, I might not have,” she admitted. “But he certainly didn’t do anything to assist us. He’s the Lord Provost. He could have done something. If he believed in treating women equally, he could sway countless people. He’d no doubt even be heard in Parliament.”
“There are rumors he wants to run for election there.”
Surprised, she glanced at Allan. “How do you know that?”
“Gossip,” he said. “I hear it occasionally.”
“Well, you should tell me,” she said. “Gossip makes for readership.”
Before she could ask, Allan moved the stack of paper below the press, guided the finished blank into the housing and locked it into place. The press was old and needed to be replaced, but Allan was a genius at repairing it every few days.
After carefully rolling ink over the blank of the broadside, he rubbed off the excess. Placing a page on the press, he moved to the large iron wheel and turned it in a practice run. The plate descended to the page and back up again. Opening the press, he peeled the printed page away, handed it to her, and waited.
After reading it through quickly, she gave her approval.
She glanced at the brooch pinned to her collar. She had three hours to produce five hundred sheets. Allan, even working at moderate speed, could do that easily.
“The provost could make things very difficult,” Allan said.
“How? By demanding that we not publish the truth? That would only get us more publicity.”
“Is it the truth?”
She turned and looked at Allan. He was fully awake now, his brown-eyed stare direct and unflinching.
“Yes, it’s the truth,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel on such shaky ground.
Perhaps the provost couldn’t have changed the rules, but he could certainly have been more gracious. Nor did he have to smile at her like that.
She nodded just once, hoping Allan wouldn’t question her further.