Behind the Scenes

by Jen Turano

  “An . . . announcement?”

  Mr. Dana slammed one of his hands down on the desk. “Yes, Miss Griswold, an announcement, and one of the intended matrimonial type.” He shook a thick finger her way. “I want your promise here and now that the Sun will get an exclusive on that announcement. That means you cannot allow the information to become public until I have the presses up and running with details that include the way he proposed, your reaction to that proposal, when the wedding will be held, along with what church . . . and the names you have chosen for your first three children.”

  “Forgive me, but have you perhaps taken to having a few nips from a bottle in the afternoon? And not from a bottle of milk, if that was in question.”

  Ignoring what Permilia thought was a perfectly reasonable question, and one that would have explained much, Mr. Dana leveled a rather intense gaze on her. “Your promise, Miss Griswold, and now, if you please.”

  Permilia crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Dana, but . . . Mr. Rutherford and I have no intention of making any type of announcement. Why, we barely know each other, danced only one dance together, and didn’t even join each other to dine.”

  Mr. Dana let out a grunt right before he dropped his head and began rummaging through a stack of papers on his desk, pulling out a sheet of rather rumpled newsprint a second later. Smoothing it out over his desk, he ran his finger down one of the columns, stopping when he found whatever it was he was searching for and lifting his head again. The look he settled on Permilia was hardly reassuring.

  “According to our friends at the New York Times, you were noticed arguing with Mr. Rutherford while dinner was being served. Because of that, you may want to revise your statement about not dining with the man, unless what you truly meant to say is that you missed dining with the man because you became involved in an argument with him—thus putting you off your food.”

  Permilia wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Rutherford was partnered with Miss Lukemeyer for dinner at the ball, which means I have absolutely no reason to revise my claim of not dining with him.”

  Mr. Dana nodded in a far too knowing fashion. “Ah, well, that explains why the article went on to claim that Miss Lukemeyer was observed to be looking quite put out for some unknown reason.”

  “And that right there is what’s known as shoddy reporting, Mr. Dana, since anyone with eyes in their head could have deduced that Miss Lukemeyer was distressed because I interrupted her meal with Mr. Rutherford because of some unfortunate news I . . .”

  Snapping her mouth shut the second she realized what her temper had almost allowed her to disclose, Permilia took to inspecting the cut of her sleeve, pulling absently at a thread that was coming loose.

  Mr. Dana stood up and, curiously enough, looked rather excited. “I didn’t read anything that could be construed as unfortunate news at the Vanderbilt ball in a single paper, which means this could be the exclusive we need to prove we’re still the best paper in the city.”

  Permilia blinked. “Oh, I don’t think we need to prove anything of the kind, sir.”

  Moving around the desk in a surprisingly agile fashion, given his somewhat bulky frame, Mr. Dana snagged a spare chair as he moved, pulling it right up beside Permilia, ignoring what she’d just said as he sat down.

  “Tell me all the details regarding the unfortunate news that had you interrupting Mr. Rutherford when he was supposed to be dining with Miss Lukemeyer.”

  Permilia lifted her chin. “Did I mention that my stepmother, stepsister, and even Mr. Eugene Slater were sitting down to dine at that table with Mr. Rutherford and Miss Lukemeyer?”

  Mr. Dana lifted his chin right back at her. “Unless that has something pertinent to do with the story of the unfortunate news, I really don’t have an interest in the other guests sitting at that table.”

  “I was supposed to dine with Mr. Slater, but I was delayed, and he sat down to dine with my sister instead.”

  “You’re beginning to annoy me, but traveling back to this delay, what was the reason behind it?”

  Permilia began to drum her fingers on the arm of the uncomfortable chair she was sitting in. “Did you ever consider that I’d simply lost track of the time doing what I was supposed to be doing for you, searching out information for my article?”

  Mr. Dana sent her another roll of his eyes. “Since everyone knows that gossip is always served as a side dish at any society meal, if you’d really been doing your job, you’d have been sitting at a table, listening in on the tales that were surely being bandied about.” He shifted on his chair. “However, since it’s clear you’ve not yet been convinced that disclosing to me, your employer, information that could benefit the paper is the proper thing to do, tell me more about your stepsister and how it came to be that she sat down to dine with a man you said was supposed to partner you.”

  Realizing that she’d made a grave error in using her stepsister as a distraction, especially since she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Mr. Dana would not hesitate to print anything of a salacious nature if he felt it would sell more copies of his paper, Permilia summoned up a smile and abruptly changed the topic. “Did I mention that I’m off to Paris tomorrow, going there to do a bit of shopping at all the couture salons, which will allow me to provide you with some delightful fashion articles?”

  Mr. Dana glared at her for all of five seconds before his eyes suddenly widened. “Your stepsister stole your dinner partner straight from you, didn’t she?”

  “I’m not certain how you expect me to respond to that.”

  “I would have expected you to include that little tidbit in with the nonsense you wrote about yourself and Mr. Rutherford, perhaps insinuating in the process that there’s strife between you and Miss Webster.”

  “That would have made for an interesting breakfast conversation between me and Lucy, not to mention the indigestion it would have given my stepmother.”

  “It might have been a bonding experience for everyone involved,” Mr. Dana countered. “You and your stepsister against the dastardly Miss Quill, star reporter for the New York Sun.”

  “I am Miss Quill.”

  “Well, of course you are, but your stepsister doesn’t know that, nor does anyone else save me.” Mr. Dana blew out a breath. “Considering I employ reporters who are supposed to be the best of the best, it’s rather disheartening that none of them have uncovered your identity, but there you have it.” He waved a hand her way. “As far as they seem to be concerned, you, as you’re dressed now, are simply one of many informants I have around the city, an informant with a preference for hiding her identity behind widow weeds and veils.”

  “You have informants all around the city?”

  Mr. Dana’s gaze sharpened on Permilia’s face. “Would they come in handy in helping you with that unfortunate news?”

  The truth of the matter was yes, they would. But since Permilia got the distinct impression Mr. Dana would only allow her to use his informants if she agreed to some type of exclusive article, centered around what amounted to a scandalous murder plot . . . She pushed the temptation of his implied offer aside.

  Squaring her shoulders, she forced a smile. “Do you know that when I received your note earlier, asking me to come speak with you, I believed it was going to be a pleasant meeting, one I hoped would end with you offering me a much-deserved increase in pay?”

  Rising to his feet, Mr. Dana stomped his way back behind his desk, took his seat again in his well-worn and somewhat squeaky chair, and then caused Permilia to jump when he banged his fist on his desk.

  It took significant effort on her part not to remark about his earlier statement that reporters were a dramatic lot—when in reality, it seemed as if editors were more prone to that particular condition.

  “I have no words to reply to that increase-in-pay nonsense, Miss Griswold. You are the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country, and as such I never understood why you insisted on being paid a salary wh
en I first offered you your position.”

  Permilia’s temper began to simmer. “Forgive me for pointing this out, Mr. Dana, but it seems to me as if you have more than enough words to speak on the subject. And . . . I find it truly insulting that you would question why I insisted on a salary for a position you approached me about, not the other way around, even with me being the daughter of a wealthy man.”

  Mr. Dana let out a snort. “It’s a known fact that wallflowers spend their time in sheer boredom at all the society events they’re expected to attend. I gave you an opportunity to stave off that boredom.”

  Permilia rose to her feet. “Only because you needed someone who could travel with ease behind the scenes, observing society without anyone noticing. Because of me and my Miss Quill column, you had an advantage over all the other papers that did not have a wallflower at their disposal.”

  Mr. Dana rose to his feet as well. “We’ll only continue having an advantage if you agree to put your nonsense aside and report on what our readers want to read.”

  “I will not set aside my principles simply to sell more papers.”

  “I’ll give you a fifty-cent-a-week raise.”

  Permilia tapped her toe against the hard floor underneath her feet. “How generous of you, Mr. Dana, especially since it’s just been made clear you don’t feel as if I deserve any money for the work I do, but . . . I think not.”

  Mr. Dana narrowed his eyes as his jaw turned stubborn. “Then I’m afraid, if you won’t agree to write what I need written, this is where you and I, Miss Griswold, part ways.”

  Her toe stopped mid-tap. “Are you letting me go?”

  “I do believe I am.”

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Marching out of the New York Sun with her head held high, her vision obscured because she’d not bothered to take the time to adjust her veil properly, Permilia stumbled her way down the sidewalk, finally forced to stop when she barely missed toppling over an elderly gentleman.

  Shoving aside one of the layers of netting that made up the veil, and annoyed with herself that she’d almost caused someone an injury simply because she was in a temper, she reached out a hand and steadied the man now wobbling on his feet.

  Professing her deepest apologies to him—even though he immediately reassured her that it was his fault, not hers, marking him as a true gentleman—she watched as he hobbled off, his kindness a distinct help in dissipating the temper that had been flowing through her.

  That dissipation did not last as long as expected, though, especially when a New York Sun reporter, a man she’d seen around the building often over the two years she’d worked for the paper, hurried past her. He was clutching a sheaf of papers in his hand, obviously returning from his latest assignment.

  The sight of him brought into stark relief the pesky little notion that she would never be sent out on assignment again because . . .

  She’d been dismissed from her position, stripped of her responsibilities with barely a blink of an eye, rather as if she hadn’t been very essential in the first place. Quite honestly, now that she thought about it, she evidently hadn’t been essential, given that Mr. Dana seemed to believe he could easily replace her with people who apparently wouldn’t think twice about setting their scruples aside in order to give the public what it wanted—scandal, titillation, and . . . gossip.

  As if her being dismissed hadn’t been bad enough, Mr. Dana had refused to give her the wages owed to her, stating in a matter-of-fact sort of manner that since she’d done such an abysmal job reporting on the Vanderbilt ball, she deserved . . . nothing.

  The very idea that she’d been released from her position, especially when she’d been anticipating an increase in salary, was humiliating, irritating, and downright concerning now that she considered the matter fully.

  Realizing that lingering in the middle of the sidewalk was certainly not going to allow her to puzzle matters out to satisfaction, she stiffened her spine and started forward. Dodging other walkers on the sidewalk, she blew out what she thought was a well-deserved sigh as she contemplated the troubling situation her dismissal had caused.

  She was the sole benefactor of Miss Snook’s School for the Improvement of Feminine Minds. Without the funds she earned from the paper, it was going to be difficult for Miss Snook to pay the rent on the building used for the school, keep the lights on and the coal furnace burning, or even provide her students with paper and writing utensils.

  The only saving grace Permilia could see at the moment was that she did receive a rather substantial amount of pin money from her father. But while she certainly wouldn’t balk at turning over all that money to Miss Snook to keep the school up and running, Ida would certainly take notice if Permilia suddenly became even more frugal than she already was—especially since they were traveling to Paris, and Permilia always splurged every time she traveled to Paris . . . on pastries.

  If there was one item on the face of the earth for which she wouldn’t haggle over the price, it was pastries. And Paris, unfortunately, had the best pastries she’d ever eaten, a fact Ida was fully aware of. She would certainly notice if Permilia abstained from purchasing the treats.

  Slowing her pace, she glanced down, wondering if perhaps she could make the claim that she was watching her figure as a way to explain why she’d need to go pastry-free until she found other means to earn some much-needed funds, but unfortunately, she was as willowy as normal.

  She blew out a breath and picked up her pace when she saw that an omnibus was just now trundling down the street. Having no desire to linger any longer than necessary in an area where she’d just suffered one of the greatest humiliations of her life, she stepped briskly around a lady strolling down the street, raising a hand to flag down the omnibus.

  “Miss, excuse me, miss?”

  Turning, even though she was fairly certain she wasn’t the miss in question, Permilia discovered a young man racing her way, waving one hand at her while swinging a small box tied with twine in the other.

  Stopping in her tracks when she realized that she was the lady he was trying to catch, she peered through the netting of her veil, watching the man close the distance that separated them. Stopping beside her a few seconds later, he drew in a wheezing sort of breath, then lifted up the box and held it out to her.

  “I’ve been asked to give this to you, Miss . . . ah . . . well, I wasn’t told your name, just told to run down the woman wearing the veil, but I’m supposed to tell you that this is yours.”

  Taking the package, she frowned. “Do you know who this is from?”

  “The man who asked me to run after you simply said that you would appreciate it since it was yours, or . . .” The man tilted his head. “Perhaps he said you’d earned it. I’m afraid I wasn’t listening as well as I should have been.”

  “Is this man an employee of the Sun?”

  “He might be, especially since he caught me right as I was walking past the building.”

  Permilia smiled. “It’s nice to see my faith in humanity hasn’t been completely misplaced, since this is surely from Mr. Dana, who would not be capable of running me to ground, given the problems with his back and all. But that has nothing to do with this lovely gesture, a gesture that means Mr. Dana has apparently come to his senses.”

  The young man’s brow wrinkled. “Which I’m sure is lovely for you to realize, although I’m not certain who Mr. Dana is, but since I’ve now completed my task of running you down, I’ll bid you farewell and hope your faith in humanity continues to improve.”

  Slipping her satchel off her shoulder, Permilia opened it and tucked the package inside, pulling out a few coins she kept in a side pocket. Holding the coins out to the man, she frowned when he shook his head.

  “I’ve already been compensated for my troubles, miss, but thank you for the offer.” Tipping his hat to her, he turned and hurried away in the direction he’d just come.

  Feeling even more charitable toward her former edi
tor since he’d apparently shelled out his own money in order to ascertain she’d leave the Sun with what she thought had to be the wages she’d been owed, Permilia slipped the strap of the satchel over her shoulder and continued forward.

  Reaching the omnibus, which had, surprisingly enough, waited for her, she climbed onboard and took a seat, setting her satchel on the floor before she straightened and looked out the window.

  All the breath seemed to get stuck in her throat when she discovered a man standing on the sidewalk and staring directly at her, a man she swore was the same one she’d seen earlier right outside her house, and a man who looked, now that she saw his face more clearly, distinctly familiar.

  When he lifted a hand and tipped his hat to her, she felt the hair stand up on the nape of her neck. Wanting to get a better look at the man, she took hold of the veil, but before she could lift it, the omnibus surged into motion, causing her to list to one side. By the time she pushed herself upright, the man had disappeared from view.

  Having absolutely no idea why anyone would be watching her, she crossed her arms over her chest, and then froze as the only reasonable explanation as to why anyone would take to following her reluctantly sprang to mind.

  She’d heard a plot centered around murder, which made her a distinct threat to the two men who’d been discussing that murder, but . . .

  She’d not seen the men in question, nor had they seen her, which made what she’d just reasoned out to be anything but a reasonable conclusion. Unless . . .

  Worrying her lip, Permilia forced herself to think.

  The only way anyone would know she was the person who overheard them was if they’d heard her warn Asher about the murder plot in the midst of dinner. That possibility seemed somewhat unlikely, although she certainly hadn’t been mindful of keeping her voice down when she’d blurted out the startling business about someone wanting him dead. But a more logical explanation might be that . . .

  Someone had found her shoe—and learned it belonged to her.