by Tamara Allen
“Isn’t Thompson there?”
“No, he’s at the hospital, apparently on the verge of fatherhood. Married men are goddamned useless.”
“Yes, sir. What about men who are nearly engaged?”
“Jesus Christ,” Holloway muttered.
Charlie sent a pitying grin in Nesmith’s direction before heading downstairs. Whether or not Nesmith’s intended was the instigator behind his move to Manhattan, Charlie didn’t envy him. A copy editor’s salary wouldn’t go far in town with a young bride on the loose. And she wasn’t going to be very happy about the late hours he’d be working. Charlie doubted the pace at the New Brighton paper was quite so demanding.
All down the stone steps to the main office’s crowded rotunda, he mused on the happy possibility that Nesmith might dislike the faster pace and livelier atmosphere and choose to return to the peace of his old job. It was a thought cut short at the recollection of the man’s calm, confident air, the unflappable gleam in his eye. Old Smitty wasn’t an apple cart easily upset. It was going to take more than the usual turmoil to send him running.
Speaking of turmoil…
Just inside the entrance, a young woman was engaged in a heated conversation with Otto, who kept strict track of Holloway’s visitors with a kindly but firm hand. Usually his fiercest confrontations were with folks who felt they’d been libeled and had come to threaten Holloway and the paper before reconciling themselves to the futility of filing suit. Big-boned and fiercely browed, Otto could spar with the best of them, but this latest appeared to be giving him pause. She was not much more than twenty-five, Charlie guessed, her petite figure arrow-straight, shoulders squared in indignation, and if she’d needed a breath in the past two minutes, Charlie saw no sign of it. Otto couldn’t get a word in, though he tried. He’d fallen to glancing around as if hoping someone would come to his rescue.
Charlie obliged. “‘Morning, Otto. Mr. Holloway sent me down to warn you he’s handing out assignments and won’t be bothered, so—”
“Has he met with William Nesmith, do you know?” Otto was gasping rather fish-like, and his bony fingers found an uncomfortable grip on Charlie’s arm. “This young lady—”
“Violet Chapin,” the young lady stated, fixing as unyielding a gaze on Charlie. “Can you assist me, sir? This gentleman will do nothing but argue, it seems, rather than taking the simple step of inquiring for me.”
“And you’re looking for Mr. Nesmith?” Charlie didn’t think she could be a relative. With her dark auburn hair and those blue eyes under lashes as thick and dark, she looked nothing like Nesmith. That meant she was likely his sweetheart. “Mr. Holloway’s hired him and put him to work—”
“Already?” She sounded dismayed. “I didn’t expect—well, this is certainly a surprise.” She looked Charlie up and down as if he’d accosted her on the street to ask for change. “You’re employed by the Herald?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a reporter—”
“Oh, dear.” She took a delicate step back. “No, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.” She turned an anxious gaze toward the stairs. “Where will I find Mr. Nesmith?”
“Second floor, corridor to your left, straight back. But you might want to give him another ten minutes. He’s editing copy right now.” Charlie fished from his pocket the packet of Turkish cigarettes he kept on hand to bribe doormen, cab drivers, and secretaries. “Would you like a smoke while you wait?”
He might’ve offered her a basketful of snakes. Giving him a wide berth, she marched for the stairs and he let her, beseeching Otto to do the same. “It’s all right. I’ll take her up.”
Otto looked grim. “She’s out to cause trouble.”
One could only hope.
Chapter Two
Will bent low over the page, not to give the impression he was hard at work, but to hide his exasperation. A bare week ago, he’d had a desk beside a window looking out upon blue sky and late blooming asters. He’d had a door that shut out most of the noise common to newspaper offices. And he’d had the trust of reporters with whom he worked.
The latter would, of course, come in time. For the moment, he could only wonder what he’d gotten himself into. Violet had wanted him to take advantage of her father’s offer, despite Will’s lack of knowledge in regard to steamships. But Will wanted nothing given to him unearned. And Vi, though she wasn’t happy about it, agreed he might go the longer route to success. He’d not yet asked for her hand, but it had become an unspoken eventuality after they’d fallen into a sort of mutual appreciation of each other’s possibilities.
Violet had been the one rather more fond of the idea of settling in Manhattan. Her aunt resided on a block only somewhat less fashionable than the Vanderbilts, whom she claimed as very distant relations, and her brother had won the hand of a young lady whose father had hired him on at a respectable brokerage house. Violet could do no less, even if her intended required some refurbishing of his manners, habits, and of course, his opinions. She was a hardy girl, up to the task, and Will would admit he found her unflagging confidence difficult to resist.
He’d left New Brighton and taken a flat on an even less fashionable block while he settled himself—minus the able assistance of Violet’s father. Though he’d held his ground in that regard, he sensed he might be swiftly losing it in others if he did not remain vigilant. Already, Violet was talking of introductions to gentlemen who would, once Will had obtained a position as editor, provide the material for him to write a few society pieces that might bring him acclaim. Despite the public’s intrigue with its idle rich, Will had never liked the society columns in the Standard. Stories of who was currently chasing whom around the gilded halls of Manhattan hardly counted as news.
Besides, Mr. Holloway wouldn’t give any editorial of his a first glance, not so early on. Violet had to be patient. Will didn’t care to be relegated to lifelong bachelorhood, but there were rules to follow in business. Rules which must be respected. And there were proprieties to consider, such as the advisability of paying an unexpected call at your soon-to-be intended’s place of work on his first day…
But he was glad to see a friendly face, even Violet’s at her most disdainful. That reprehensible rat of a reporter had gotten her flustered. Will could see it in her icy backward glances as Charlie Kohlbeck followed her in. Rising, Will met her halfway. “My dear, you shouldn’t be here—”
“Nor should you. This place, it’s…common.” Even at a whisper, her voice carried sufficiently to turn all eyes in her direction. Some were curious, some amused; the appreciative glances most disturbed him and he maneuvered Violet back toward the door.
“Now that I’m respectably employed, my dear, you must let me get at it. Is your carriage outside or did you come by cab?”
“Carriage, of course.” At the landing, she turned a wounded look upon him. “What about our dinner?”
“There will be few dinners for a while. You know the hours newspaper men keep and I can’t spare the time—”
“You must have some dinner.”
“A quick one at best.” Will offered her his arm and they started down. “You can’t deny that it’s a production of Wagnerian proportions to go to dinner with your aunt, and until I feel secure here, I must limit extravagances of both money and time. I’m sorry, my dear.”
Violet squared her slim shoulders as if bearing up with all the strength at her command. “Well, I just hope you don’t mean to be so insistently practical after we’re married. A wife expects some sentiment in her husband, you know.”
“I shall err on the side of sentiment as frequently as it is within my means to do so.”
“Such a practical answer,” Violet said with a sniff.
“Now, Vi, you must not mind it. This is for our future together. You wouldn’t want to marry a man who cared only for leisurely suppers and endless balls, like some of these social-climbers who infest the city. You’d tire of all that soon enough.”
“I wouldn’t mind the chance t
o tire of it,” Violet ventured, reproach tempered by the affectionate smile she flashed him. “I’m afraid if you go on living in that miserable little boarding house and working here besides, you’ll grow accustomed to it and I’ll never be able to take you anywhere, for fear you’ll have the manners of…” She tossed a backward glance toward the city department. “And it’s so silly when Father’s offered to put you up—”
“Vi, we’ve talked about that, too.” As they reached the rotunda, Will turned and gave her cheek a gentle buss. “Your father is very kind, but I will not yield self-respect for the sake of convenience. Now let me show you to your carriage and tomorrow I’ll meet you for breakfast at that cafe on your street. Eight o’clock. All right?”
“Best make it nine. Elliot is escorting me to the Bainbridge ball tonight, remember. I suppose there will be a shortage of ladies with whom to dance,” Violet continued in a most casual tone. “One wonders how far one’s duty goes, in such circumstances.”
Will bit back a smile. After ten years of friendship, they’d learned to tease and torment each other as capably as any long-married couple. “You must dance with whomever you wish, my dear. I have unshakable faith in your judgment.”
Violet threw him a dubious glance. “You really are the most vexing man.”
He had to laugh. She wasn’t the first to conclude such a thing. Certainly, Charlie Kohlbeck thought as much; though of course that was to be expected from a reporter who didn’t care to have his work endure an editor’s scrutiny. Will wasn’t worried about it. Charlie seemed to have some sense, likely enough to know the benefit of a proper editing. Once Will had his trust, things would run more smoothly.
By day’s end, he’d made a good start. After breakfast with Violet, he went into work early and spread Thursday’s Herald on his desk to read it from front to back. Charlie’s flower story had gotten in—a much abbreviated version of it—and the piece on the boarding house robbery, which must’ve been turned in at the last minute. Charlie had to be pleased about that.
But when he appeared shortly after the dinner hour, Will made note of the frown on his face and the muttered oath that invoked both Holloway and the devil in the same breath. The other reporters lounging in the room only seemed amused by it, so Will didn’t inquire what the trouble was. He had the feeling Charlie would be elucidating soon enough.
An hour slipped by, a quiet hour, and Will, in the midst of editing yet another story about the young Miss Vanderbilt’s marriage, could not help noticing that Charlie had fallen hard to work a few desks away, filling page after page with every word in his arsenal—including, no doubt, a number of words gone stale through over-use. To his credit, he seemed oblivious to the constant noise around him, the chatter of the other reporters, the clack of typewriter keys. His free hand tapped absently on the desktop as if aiding his fierce concentration. It was a rhythm that only ceased when he occasionally stopped to brush his hair out of his eyes.
Curious, Will rose and walked over to steal a look at what he was writing. That got him a faint glare before Charlie laid an arm over the page in an apparent attempt to shield his defenseless prose. Will merely smiled in return. “I’ll see it at some point.”
“After it’s in print, with any luck.”
“Your story on Belcourt?”
Charlie snorted. “If it was—” His voice rose. “I wouldn’t be writing it around this bunch of pilferers.”
Wadded balls of paper came sailing and Charlie ducked most of them. Ignoring the disgruntled retorts that followed, he grabbed up his story and rose. “When I do get an interview with Belcourt, you’ll be seeing it after it’s in print, I promise you. That story’s too important to be shredded to pieces.”
Will broke into a laugh. “You needn’t be afraid of me. Mr. Holloway will come to your aid if I do any real damage to your sacred texts.”
Charlie’s dark brows rose, only to give way to a scornful grin. “Afraid of you? You’re just another copy chopper with a box of pencils and enough arrogance to think no one knows more about this business than you.”
“It doesn’t occur to you that someone might think the same of you—minus the box of pencils?”
“You came over here in the first place because you wanted a crack at this.” Charlie waved the handful of paper in Will’s face. “Admit it.”
“That is my job. But if you think your work’s only good enough to be edited by someone who’ll take pity on you and pass no real judgment—”
Charlie thrust the papers toward him. “Pass all the judgment you want. Pencil the life out of the damned thing. Holloway’s already had an eyeful of most of it and he thought it was just fine. I’m interested to learn if his opinion can live up to the superior editing talents of the divine Mr. Nesmith.”
The man was truly provoking. Will snatched the papers out of his hand. “I never claimed to be a better editor than Luther Holloway, and you know it.”
“Just better than me.”
“Decidedly better than you.”
“Not reluctant to pass judgment on me, are you?”
“I’ve seen no evidence you’re good at editing. You could be—”
“How about a lesson, then?” Charlie drew out the desk chair. “Have a seat.”
Will hesitated. “If you’re going to hover at my shoulder so you can take issue with every sentence I cross out—”
“I won’t say a word.”
Unconvinced, Will took the chair. If observing the process would open Charlie’s eyes to the necessity of it, that might be worth the vociferous complaints sure to follow. So one dared hope.
What he’d underestimated was Charlie’s ability to shake even the most single-minded concentration. Perched on the corner of the desk, Charlie leaned near enough that every murmur of doubt or disapproval might be heard. Will kept the pencil resolutely plucking stray commas, correcting misspellings, and crossing out whole paragraphs when their pointlessness jumped out at him on the second read-through.
Finally, Charlie cleared his throat. “That’s not misspelled.”
A smile wanted to come, but Will held it back. “A wether is a gelded ram, Mr. Kohlbeck. Bellwether has nothing to do with the climate.”
Charlie’s brow knit. “That so?”
“That’s so.” Will resumed, only to pause at a distinctly exasperated exhalation. “Mr. Kohlbeck, you said you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“I said I wouldn’t say a word.”
“You’ve said more than one.”
“I thought I’d better make use of them while there are words in existence you haven’t crossed out.”
Will’s sigh would not be as easily held back. “If you’ll read through your story, you’ll see it’s the stronger for having been edited—”
“Stronger? There’s barely a quarter column left. I didn’t wander all over the park today for my health. I want this story in tonight, if only to warn folks about these rich old hens who can’t keep their horses under control. It was a miracle they didn’t kill anyone.”
He was angry about more than the editing, Will realized. “How is the boy?”
“Daniel?” Charlie scowled. “Bruised from top to bottom, poor kid. But he’ll be all right.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You’ll have your story in if you’ll give me the chance to finish.”
“Good God. At this pace, I’ll be the only reporter you ever have time to edit.”
“Belaboring the point, aren’t you? Anyway, you did say you wanted to learn something—”
Charlie plucked the pencil from Will’s hand, then the papers—to poke a hole through the lot of them. Startled, Will took a moment to find his voice. “What on earth are you doing?”
But Charlie was already striding across to Will’s desk, where he pulled out the chair, climbing from there to the desktop. When he reached toward the pendant lamp’s pull chain, Will knew what he was about. “Mr. Kohlbeck—”
“You want to display the battered remains of your conquests, don�
�t you?” Charlie slipped the pull chain through the hole in the paper, then looped the chain, apparently trying to knot it. “Got any string?”
Will rose, crossing the space in an instant. “Is this meant to be some sort of initiation ceremony for new editors? Or are you ordinarily this much of a—” He stopped himself, but Charlie had heard and the grin on his face was almost triumphant.
“I figure I owe it to my colleagues to warn ’em when they approach the altar of the all-knowing Will Nesmith, formerly of the New Brighton Standard, an upstanding newspaper with a circulation of—what? Thirty?”
Devil take the man… Will yanked the chair to one side of the desk and climbed up. “We published a quality paper in New Brighton and if you mean to match that quality in the Herald, you won’t do it by handing in a dime novel disguised as journalism—”
“Dime novel!” Charlie laughed. “There’s no better paper than the Herald and plenty of folks like my work just fine. I know how to keep a story lively and interesting. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them the lifeless remains of this one,” he finished, pulling the papers loose to wave them in Will’s face.
“You haven’t even read it.” Will caught hold of the battered copy, but Charlie would not let go.
“I read the last piece you edited.”
“So did Mr. Holloway.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see what he thinks of this unholy massacre.”
Will held on all the tighter. “Let me finish it, at least.”
“I’d sooner toss it in the furnace.”
“I don’t know how you expect to learn anything—”
“Oh, I’ve learned something. You have no respect for reporters.”
“I wouldn’t say all reporters…” Will bit his tongue at the sight of Luther Holloway standing in the doorway, his calm smile promising the advent of a most unnerving storm. Abruptly conscious of his grip on Charlie’s copy, Will let go and stepped back—nearly off the desk. Charlie’s quick grab kept him from going over. Will stuttered a thank you, but Charlie had already dissembled for Holloway’s benefit, taking on an air of innocence so divinely formed as to make the angels weep.
