Miss Shields raised an eyebrow, then turned and marched into Reith’s office.
That fist inside punched all the way up Maisie’s throat and nearly leaped out of her mouth. Damn her, damn her, damn her. A curse that worked for both Miss Shields and Hilda, with whom Maisie was equally furious. How dared she get Maisie interested in anything beyond the strict parameters of her work? How dared she . . . ?
“Miss Musgrave? Come!” Miss Shields barked.
Maisie walked slowly, feeling like Anne Boleyn on the way to her execution. She finally stepped inside Reith’s office, and he nodded to Miss Shields.
“Thank you, Miss Shields. If you would close the door, please? Leaving Miss Musgrave and myself alone, I meant,” he clarified, when Miss Shields tried to stay inside. Maisie refused to turn and see her expression, merely waited for the footsteps to fade and the door to click shut.
Her first instinct was to plunge to her knees—Anne Boleyn’s last pose—and beg for clemency. But she stayed upright. “Sir, I can explain—”
“Sit down, Miss Musgrave.” Reith waved her to the club chair with a flourish of his cigarette. “Miss Shields informs me you have committed a series of minor infractions, and all against your duties to this office, which is to say, to Miss Shields and myself. Infractions are not acceptable for someone so low on the ladder as yourself. I am most strict about duty and tasks, as you know, and I am quick to remove anyone unable to conform to these standards.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. I really am. But they said, in one of the Talks meetings, it might be interesting to have someone who manufactures radios give a Talk. And I remembered Mr. Hoppel. It just came to me so suddenly. I had to make the note. I couldn’t wait. I knew Talks wanted a right-thinking, right-minded sort of person to speak, someone who understands about managing things, and who would be better than someone intimate with yourself?”
Reith took a long drag of his cigarette, and as he exhaled, she was overjoyed to see his warmer scowl behind the smoke.
“I had a feeling it was something like that,” he assured her. “And I daresay Hoppel will be glad to broadcast should his schedule allow. You may tell Miss Matheson so. But remember, each of your duties belongs in its own place. And . . .” He paused, pondering his cigarette before looking deep into Maisie’s eyes. “I might warn you—not that you need it, I should think—but working for a girl like Miss Matheson, Bloomsbury type and all that, you might start thinking you’d like to do something more than just secretarial work.”
Maisie hoped he didn’t see her gulp.
“I don’t object to girls writing nice little stories, of course, although you’re hardly . . . Well, you will always remember what your real duty is, yes?”
There was only one answer, and she gave it.
“Good!” He nodded. “Now, then, I think docking your pay this week will be sufficient punishment. Don’t you, my dear?”
“What?” she shrieked. Too late, she clamped her hand over her mouth. Miss Shields had gotten her reward.
“Just a shilling,” Reith clarified. “That compensates for your lateness. Even minor infractions cannot be allowed to go without punishment, or where would we be? Besides, you’re a young girl, and unprotected. You need to be guarded against your weaknesses. Ambition is a dangerous thing in a girl like yourself. And it has a dreadful tendency to lead to rule-breaking. I should be very sorry to see that.”
The words “just a shilling” zinged through Maisie’s head. A shilling was nothing to Reith, casually lost in his trouser pocket. To Maisie, it was twelve pennies, precious armaments toward the new dress that would demonstrate her heightened respectability. She looked down at her knees, the overly mended stockings covered by the blue serge dress that bore a patch under the arm and was growing shiny in the elbows. Just a shilling. And she was lucky. There were families in her road for whom the loss of a shilling would mean the choice between having supper that week or losing their home.
“I’m only looking after your interests,” Reith said. “Now, off you go, then, back to work.”
Maisie nodded. She knew she should thank him for his benevolence, but couldn’t get the words out. She breathed carefully as she measured the steps to the door. By the time it opened, her face must be neutral.
Miss Shields was at her desk, upright and efficient as ever, but her eyes sparkled with cold triumph. Maisie stood before her, ramrod straight and yet apologetic.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in any way, Miss Shields.”
The secretary simply looked at her, an unhurried, untroubled stare mindfully designed to make Maisie feel more uncomfortable.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Musgrave. Mr. Reith sees you as a pet, which is lucky for you. You should maintain that so long as you can. He has nothing to do with the hiring of the girls, and so he can’t see that you don’t belong here. You’re a good enough worker and sharper than you look, but you lack—”