The Daily Observer

The Daily Observer

E

dward Ellis stood on the newly constructed Victoria Embankment looking down into the gray River Thames. He spent many hours in that spot, near the Houses of Parliament, daydreaming while he watched the lapping water wind its way from the Tower of London, past London Bridge, the gateway to the city, past the dome of St. Paul’s, there near the Palace of Westminster and the Abbey, continuing further west past Hampton Court where it flowed through Oxford, Reading, and Windsor. Edward remembered how, when he was 12 and his family had first moved to London from Portsmouth, the Thames was a great pot of stink. There had been efforts to clean the water since then, and now, on certain days, it was as pleasant a river as any. Edward admired the view, the pea-soup-like London fog held at bay. The rain had gone and the sun was high, and he paused for a moment, hoping for a breeze to soothe the humidity that weighed him down from the top of his chocolate-brown hair to the bottom of his polished boots. He looked toward Westminster Abbey, its Gothic towers watching over London like the patient angel it was, and he continued along the embankment, staying near the river until he reached Savoy Street and then the Strand, which he followed until it became Fleet Street near his destination on Gough Square—the offices of the London Daily Observer.

As it neared nine a.m. the streets grew from merely active to heavily congested as omnibuses released clerks, lawyers, and agents by the hundreds. Edward watched the men on the knife-board seats at the top of the buses disembark down the ladder as soon as the vehicle came to a halt (some before the wheels had completely stopped and he laughed when they had to unravel themselves—an arm over here, a leg under that fellow there—after they hit the ground). The men dispersed in whichever direction their employment lay, walking quick-step to offices of commerce, finance, or government. It was a morning ritual Edward found amusing. These were men who rode the same buses with the same men day after day, week after week, year after year. They passed the same faces on their daily travels, and still they hardly acknowledged one another, as if they couldn’t be bothered with the effort. I’ll see you again tomorrow, won’t I, so I need hardly bother with you today. The difference between the older workers and the younger workers was striking. The younger workers looked shiny, new, excited for the day. They had a spring in their step and they walked with glint-filled eyes toward wherever they were expected. The older workers had lost their sheen altogether, their radiance faded into something between dull and dead. In their downcast glances Edward guessed these men had decided that this is all there is, this is all there would ever be, their demeanors matching their yellow neckcloths and brown-black coats.

Edward stepped quickly along the rounding streets, past the shops and taverns, past the Royal Courts of Justice, near the offices of the Daily Courant, the Mitre Tavern, and St. Bride’s Churchyard, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral watching with its giant green eye. He stepped around newspaper men going in and out of the public houses while two-wheeled Hansom cabs, barouches, and broughams filled the narrow streets as each vehicle attempted—some more successfully, some less—to bring their passengers to and from wherever they needed to go while carts and drays carried goods and people too poor to afford other forms of transportation. Everywhere was sound: wheels growling, hooves clopping, and horses neighing mingled midair amidst shouts from the drivers, bells from the muffin man, cries from the street peddlers, and too-loud conversations shouted over the din.

Normally, London made Edward’s heart pump with the fascination of being alive. He had lived there half his life and he considered the city home. Still, at that moment he found himself yearning for the melodic bird songs in the quiet country village that was Hembry. Edward shook his head. If he was anything, he was honest with himself (most of the time) and he knew it wasn’t really the birds at Hembry he dreamed about. He shook his head again, hoping to rattle awake any sense he might have left between his ears. Nothing could come of the particular interest he had in Hembry, he knew, and he was mad to devote one more moment to such thoughts. It’s a month already since the funeral, he reminded himself, and she never even knew I was there. Besides, she’s returned to America by now, certainly. The fact that she’s the niece of the Earl of Staton doesn’t bode well, either. Whatever would his grandparents have to say about that! And then, Edward reminded himself, there’s that other matter, so he dropped the thought entirely. Or he meant to.

He was so caught up in his daydream of the beauties of Hembry he nearly passed the offices of the Daily Observer, located in a brick building within the L-shaped court of Gough Square, where Dr. Johnson lived in his day. He stopped, realized his mistake, turned back, and walked into the building and up two flights of stairs. Somehow he ended up in the correct office. He nodded at a fellow reporter as he sat at his desk near the window. He knew he should begin transcribing his notes from the parliamentary hearing he attended the night before, but the political mumbo jumbo meant nothing to him then, his shorthand notes looking like sketches of fireworks instead of symbols for sounds and words.

He turned his attention to the window, as he often did, watching the faces of those passing below. He was fascinated by people, Edward. He had a quick eye and rarely missed a thing as he studied others for the truth they tried to hide—the silence within their words, the secret shiftings of their gestures, the meaning behind every expression. He couldn’t help but notice the impressive-looking older woman who carried her vast self with great ceremony while a young man in midnight blue livery followed several steps behind. The young man opened the door of a brougham almost as impressive looking as the woman, while a driver, also in midnight blue livery, waited with the reins in his hands.

Edward watched as the woman attempted to lift herself into the brougham with some difficulty, then with assistance from her servant. Edward was joined in his spying by two fellow reporters, Thomas Roberts and Oliver Wellesley. The three young men pressed their faces against the glass as they watched the woman struggle to slide her ample bottom half onto her seat while maintaining some semblance of dignity. Edward snickered when he realized that the woman was lodged with her top half in the carriage while the bottom half remained stubbornly out.

Wellesley tapped his nose with his index finger. He unlatched the window and pushed the pane up, letting in a thick brush of summer air. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and removed a fistful of peanuts in their shells. The three young men cracked the shells and ate the peanuts, admiring the half-in, half-out woman still floundering below. When the young men had their fill of nuts and the shells were empty, Wellesley began dropping them one by one out of the open window. Some of the shells dropped onto the parasols of passing ladies (you never did know what might fall onto your head in London). Other shells dropped onto men’s bowler hats, the wearers unaware of Wellesley’s attack. When the peanut shells started pummeling the fine-looking lady still not entirely within her carriage, Edward laughed so hard he walked away from the window to avoid being heard on the street below. Wellesley, dark eyes small in concentration, remained intent.

“Oh!” they heard. “It rains peanuts now, does it, Chester?”

A voice, which must have belonged to Chester, answered dutifully, “Yes, my lady.”

“Well then! We must exhibit due diligence in such matters, mustn’t we, Chester? We will not allow peanuts to spoil our day.”

“No, my lady.”

Wellesley nodded, pleased he had accomplished his goal. He dropped the remaining peanut shells into his trouser pocket, presumably for use at another time. He knocked the peanut dust from his hands as he turned to Edward. “I’m covering Parliament tonight. Are you off to the by-election, Ellis?”

“Tomorrow,” Edward said. “I have the night off for once.”

“They don’t like to let you sit idle,” said Roberts. “They say you’re the best political reporter in England.”

Edward shrugged.

“He wants to be like his hero, Mr. Dickens,” said Wellesley. “They say Mr. Dickens was the greatest political journalist in his day. He also used to travel across the country to report on the speeches and elections. Ellis here even moved to Fetter Lane to be near Furnivals where Dickens lived when he was a parliamentary reporter.”

“It’s a good place and it’s close to here,” Edward said.

“I’ve heard of worse reasons for living somewhere,” said Roberts. He looked out the window and waved as the brougham carrying the great lady lurched away. “I still can’t believe Mr. Dickens is gone. I’m half-expecting the next edition of Drood to come out and now it will never be finished. Can you imagine? Writing his book one day, dead as a doornail the next. So how would it have ended? Drood, I mean. Who killed him?”

“The uncle, Jasper,” Wellesley said. “Dickens had to have meant for it to be the uncle. Dickens shows where Jasper goes to the graveyard and discovers the quicklime, all the better to decompose the body with. Later Edwin is told that Ned is in great danger, and Edwin was known as Ned by Jasper. And what about the way Jasper reveals himself to Rosa Bud? Such meanness! Certainly, he had the temperament to do away with his own nephew, especially if he thinks that nephew is a threat by being engaged to the woman he loves.”

Edward nodded. “But keep in mind that the most obvious answer may not always be the best answer. A master like Dickens may have wanted us to believe that it was Uncle Jasper, set him up perfectly, and then surprised us in the end. There are some hints that Datchery is in disguise. Disguised as whom? Why disguised? Datchery is a suspect, surely.”

“As one Ned said to another,” said Roberts. “At least there are two more numbers to be published, so there may be more clues yet to come. Mr. Dickens certainly seemed preoccupied with mysteries toward the end. What about the mystery in Our Mutual Friend?”

“What mystery was that?” asked Wellesley.

“The mystery of John Harmon.”

Edward shook his head. “That wasn’t a mystery, just a misidentification. Harmon wasn’t dead, he was presumed dead and living as John Rokesmith.”

“Harmon was supposed to have drowned in the river,” said Roberts. “Edwin Drood’s watch and shirt pin were found by the river. I should stay away from the river, if I were you.”

“I wasn’t planning on drowning any time soon, thank you, Roberts.” Wellesley pressed his face against the window again, either looking for a new mark or trying to find some coolness on a stifling day. “Poor Mr. Dickens. Poor us! Never to know how his final tale should end. Wherever you look you see people still wearing their black for him and it’s been over a month since he died. Did you go to his funeral, Ellis?”

“I didn’t. I went to Westminster Abbey to pay my respects after the crowds died down.”

Roberts nudged Edward with his elbow. “Ellis here got a little weepy, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. I was there. I saw you. A lot of people were sniffling and dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. I mean, I did like his books, I liked them quite a lot, actually, but it wasn’t as though any of us knew him. Tell me, Wellesley, have you ever heard of people mourning a man they never met?”

“Many people who never met the Earl of Staton mourned him,” said Edward.

“Speaking of,” said Wellesley. “I’ve been away covering speeches, Ellis, and I haven’t seen you since you returned from Hembry. How was the funeral?”

“Well attended. Many dignitaries were there, but it wasn’t just the toffs. I think the entire village of Hembry turned out. My grandmother said the funeral itself was low key, no great ornamental displays, which is what the Earl wanted. Apparently he never cared much for grandiose funerals even if they are the fashion. Lord Staton believed in celebrating people while they were alive so they knew they were appreciated.”

“How are your grandparents taking it?”

“Rather hard. They knew the Earl for more than 40 years.”

Randall Tewson, the copy editor at the Daily Observer, wagged a crooked finger at the loitering young men. “You fellows might want to get some work done today. The new editor will be here any moment.”

Tewson squinted at them, a poor man’s evil eye. The copy editor shook his head and barked orders at others who laughed when he said the new editor was expected. Edward watched Tewson stomp toward his desk, still wagging a crooked finger at some invisible adversary.

“It hasn’t been the same since Mr. Barden left,” said Wellesley.

“What happened?” Edward asked. “I was away at Hembry when he resigned.”

Wellesley looked back toward Tewson to make sure the copy editor’s attentions were elsewhere. When he spoke he whispered. “Barden walked in one morning and announced that he was leaving to edit an English language newspaper in Spain and his friend from Oxford would be taking his place. It just so happens that friend is one Mr. Frederick Meriwether, or should I say the Honorable Frederick Meriwether, younger brother to the new Earl of Staton.”

“I saw him at the funeral,” Edward said. “I didn’t realize he was taking over here.”

A flash of golden hair danced behind Edward’s eyes. He shook his head with that snapping motion again, casting the vision aside.

“Why would the younger brother of the Earl of Staton be in newspapers?” asked Roberts. “Seems he ought to be well set up in life.”

Wellesley, the man of confidences, whispered again. “I overhead Tewson say that Mr. Meriwether studied literature at Oxford. When he arrived in America he took a job at the New York Times. He started as a reporter and worked his way up, and now that he and his daughter will be staying in England for a while he decided to help his old friend Barden and take over here until someone permanent can be found.”

Edward stopped listening at “…he and his daughter will be staying in England for a while …” She was still in England then. He remembered his promise to stop thinking about her, but knowing she was still in England pleased him very much.

Wellesley and Roberts drifted back to their desks. Edward looked at his notes again, only now he was distracted by the knowledge that the beautiful American girl was still in England and he was working for her father. The window drew him again, and he watched the movements of the city as though the sights and sounds spoke to him. He studied the faces, wondering who the people were, where they were going, what they were thinking. With typical July abruptness, the sky darkened and rain fell. The men pulled their hats closer to their chins, the women shifted their parasols, and everyone continued on their way.

Edward knew he should pull his attention from the panorama outside to the work on his desk. He still had to turn his notes into some cohesive narrative. That’s the odd thing about being a writer—when you have something pressing that needs to be written, everything and anything seems more interesting than the writing you have to do. In the corner of the L of Gough Square Edward saw a flower merchant with his barrow of violets, lilies, dahlias, and daffodils in reds, yellows, and pinks, calling “Alla-growin’, alla-blowin’!” Next to the flower merchant stood a round man in a top hat that fell to his eyebrows, wearing a too-long frock coat and too-short trousers that left the tops of his boots visible for public inspection. The man pulled on his watch chain every ten seconds or so, tapping his foot in exaggerated impatience for whomever he waited for. As Edward watched the man he thought to call on Wellesley for a few peanut shells. He was certain he could hit his target with extraordinary precision even from that distance.

Drawn as though by the man’s impatience, Edward looked at the time. Nearly 11 a.m. No more dilly-dallying. He had to work. As he was turning from the window he saw her. At first he thought his eyes deceived him. Certainly, he only thought he saw her because she had been so much on his mind since the Earl of Staton’s funeral, but no, it was her.

Miss Daphne Meriwether stood near her father, whom Edward recognized from the funeral. Though she was still in full mourning, she was a vision, her pale skin set off by the crinkled black crepe that fell in ripples from her waist. Edward memorized every detail of her—her gold hair pulled back in a simple knot at the base of her neck, a few strands loose beneath her black bonnet. She wasn’t wearing a veil, and Edward was able to focus on the heart-shaped face with the same kind smile as her father, who wore his mourning as a black band around his arm. As Mr. and Miss Meriwether crossed the street, the cab drivers pulled their horses to a halt and doffed their hats in the young woman’s direction. Her father doffed his hat in return, and the Meriwethers crossed unmolested by man, vehicle, or beast, a near miracle on the busy London streets. As they walked, Mr. Meriwether gestured toward the building from where Edward watched them. Edward felt embarrassed suddenly. He wanted to hide, but where? Under his desk? Should he run up the stairs to the next floor? He couldn’t possibly let her see him. She would know at a glance that he had been thinking improperly about her—well, not improperly, perhaps, but not entirely properly either. But he didn’t run. His feet wouldn’t move. She was too lovely, after all, and who knew when he would see such a sight again.

As father and daughter were about to enter the building, a ruddy, plump-cheeked boy raced across the street, dodging vehicles, horses, and low-flying birds, causing shouts from annoyed pedestrians. The boy held a small bouquet of yellow calla lilies toward the golden-haired young woman, and Edward saw the ruddy, plump-cheeked flower vendor wiping his hands on his apron, laughing at his son. The boy stopped short, nearly running father and daughter over in his haste to get to them before they disappeared inside. The boy, shy suddenly and pulling his slouch cap over his eyes, grinned sheepishly as Miss Meriwether kneeled next to him, took the bouquet, inhaled deeply as though the flowers smelled of ambrosia, and kissed the boy’s cheek. The boy clasped his hand to his face as though he meant to keep the kiss forever. He looked back toward his father and beamed. He had won his prize. Mr. Meriwether reached into his coat pocket and handed a few coins to the boy, who was clearly in love. Edward leaned close to the open window and heard the boy say, “Oh, no, sir. My pa says the flowers are a gift for the pretty young lady in black. To cheer her from her sadness.”

“That is a most generous gesture,” Frederick Meriwether said. “Where is your father, young man?”

“Just there, sir.” The boy pointed to where his father waited by the flower barrow.

“How very kind,” Miss Meriwether said. “You see, Papa, people in London can be as considerate as people in New London.”

Edward watched as Mr. and Miss Meriwether walked the boy back to his father and Frederick Meriwether and the flower vendor began talking. The younger brother of the Earl of Staton speaking to a flower vendor in the street, where anyone could see? Edward wondered what Mr. Meriwether’s mother, the Countess of Staton, would have to say about that. He realized too late that Roberts and Wellesley were beside him.

“Whatever has your rapt attention, Ellis?” asked Roberts.

“Ahhh...” Wellesley pointed to where Mr. and Miss Meriwether still chatted with the flower vendor and his son, who was now partially hidden behind his father while he stared at the young woman as though she were the goddess Aphrodite come to earth.

“You have excellent taste, Ellis,” said Roberts. “The young woman is in mourning. Perhaps she needs a shoulder to cry on.”

As Mr. and Miss Meriwether left the flower vendor and his son, the rain picked up again. Suddenly, as though she sensed someone watching her, Miss Meriwether looked up and Edward knew he had been seen. Then she smiled. It wasn’t a perturbed smile, which Edward would have expected from a well-born young English woman, a “How dare that strange man have the indecency to notice me!” sort of aggravation. It was a friendly smile, an acknowledgement—hello, I see you—and it made Edward’s heart stammer. Then he did the unthinkable. He smiled back.

“I see you’re acquainted with the young woman,” said Wellesley.

“That’s Mr. Meriwether and his daughter,” Edward said.

Roberts looked toward the door. “Here they come.”

Edward stood. He cursed the fact that bright colors had gone out of fashion because he suddenly thought his black frock coat and brown waistcoat were too dreary. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it first to the right, then to the left, then away from his face, then to the right again. He sat at his desk, crossing his right leg languidly over the left. He leaned back as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world. He was at work where he belonged and it was a daily occurrence for beautiful young women to visit there. Why shouldn’t it be?

Roberts grinned. “You’re prettying yourself up for the daughter of the brother of the Earl of Staton?”

“I am not prettying myself up.”

The door opened and there were Mr. and Miss Meriwether. The office went silent. Mr. Meriwether smiled in a fatherly manner at the scrutinizing faces, though the young men brightened considerably when they noticed Miss Meriwether. Randall Tewson hurried from his desk as quickly as his short legs would carry him and he nearly prostrated himself in front of the new editor as though Mr. Meriwether were the Duke of Somewhereorother. In Mr. Meriwether Edward saw a tall, straight-backed man with the upright stature of an aristocrat and the manner of a friend. Mr. Meriwether’s chestnut-colored hair was graying at the temples, and he was clean-shaven, as Edward was—a contrast to the style of the day since only men and very old women could grow beards properly. Though on another man his small blue eyes and refined features might look cold, Mr. Meriwether didn’t appear disagreeable at all. With introductions led by Tewson, Mr. Meriwether made his way around meeting the men who would work for him. Edward noticed the way Mr. Meriwether looked everyone in the eye and asked everyone’s name and their responsibilities at the paper. Yes, he spoke in the swanky tones of the aristocracy, but otherwise he could have been anyone from anywhere. If Edward didn’t know better he would never have guessed that Mr. Meriwether was reared in the ancient halls of Hembry Castle. Then Frederick Meriwether stood before Edward as Tewson introduced them.

“I can’t believe we haven’t met before, all things considered,” Mr. Meriwether said. Edward struggled to keep his eyes on the father, and he succeeded in looking at the daughter only twice. “I believe you know Mitchell Chattaway?”

“I do,” Edward said. “I worked for him at the beginning of my career.”

“He’s a good man to know if you’re in the newspaper business. My daughter and I dined with Chattaway and his family when we first arrived in England. Allow me to introduce my daughter. Daphne, this is Edward Ellis, the young man I’ve heard so much about. Mr. Ellis, my daughter Miss Meriwether. I’ve been telling everyone in my family about you, young man. Mr. Barden told me of your talents as a reporter as well as an editor, and he showed me some of the short pieces you’ve had published. I must admit, I’m rather impressed.”

Miss Meriwether smiled, and Edward forgot why he was standing there. Mr. Meriwether had just said something nice about him—he was sure of it—but he couldn’t say what and he couldn’t guess how to respond. He nodded until Miss Meriwether rescued him.

“Is it true you’re the fastest shorthand transcriber here? And the most accurate?”

“That’s what Mr. Barden has been saying about him,” said Mr. Meriwether. “Mr. Ellis, you’ll be running this place before long if I have anything to say about it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meriwether.”

Frederick allowed Tewson to escort him to the men he hadn’t been introduced to yet. With Mr. Meriwether gone, Edward was at a loss. He tried to look everywhere but at Miss Meriwether, though he could feel her watching him. She wasn’t being indiscreet, staring like a coquette at men she didn’t know. She was curious, and she was, after all, American. No well-born young English woman would dare be caught in a place where people performed work. To be associated with a trade? Never! Yet here was Miss Meriwether, unembarrassed, curious, and her father didn’t appear concerned with exposing her to something as common as a newspaper office.

When Edward could no longer ignore the fact that Miss Meriwether’s full attention was on him, he had to resist the urge to hide in the supply closet. Though his left foot was turned toward the door, his right foot stayed stubbornly in place. He realized, after some thought, that he needed to either stay where he was or trip over himself in his haste to get away, looking even more ridiculous in Miss Meriwether’s eyes than he was sure he already did. He decided to stand strong, so he scanned himself—trousers fastened, boots on the correct feet, waistcoat right side out. Was his hair a mess? He wanted to run a hand through it again, but he didn’t want to seem vain so he resisted.

“I saw you looking out the window,” Miss Meriwether said.

“I saw the flower boy give you that bouquet.” Edward gestured to the yellow calla lilies she held in her black-gloved hand. Her eyes were so blue they appeared violet, and those violet eyes watched him like two amethysts.

“He was a sweet little boy.” Miss Meriwether watched her father speaking to several men across the room. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Ellis. You’re in good hands with my father. You won’t find a fairer employer anywhere, and he already thinks you’re so talented.”

“That’s good to know.” Edward wanted to say something bright, something witty to make her laugh, but, as it always happens in moments when you most want to sound impressive, his grasp of the English language eluded him. Finally, seeing her mourning dress, complete sentences formed and he even managed to speak them aloud.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather. I’ve had the privilege of meeting him on more than one occasion, and I know he was a kind man, a magnanimous man, respected by everyone who knew him. I was at his funeral, covering it for the paper. That’s where I saw you the first time.” Edward pictured himself with his pen running a delete line through that last sentence.

Miss Meriwether was about to respond when Mr. Meriwether called her to join him and Mr. Tewson at his desk. Edward tried to work for the third time that day, but now his thoughts were consumed by wishes for a glimpse of the golden-haired, violet-eyed beauty. Whenever he looked in her direction all he saw was the backside of Randall Tewson.

“Look!” cried Wellesley. “He keeps looking in Miss Meriwether’s direction. Ellis is in love.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Edward. “I’m thinking of my article and how little time I have to finish it.”

“And longing for a glimpse of the radiant Miss Meriwether.”

Edward grimaced at Wellesley before fastening his eyes onto the notes with the dots and doodles. He picked up his quill, filled it with ink, and began working. All around him were the manic scrapes of feather tips on paper as others scrambled to meet their deadlines. Edward thought of the beautiful young woman on the other side of the room as he translated those dots and doodles into English.

Finally, as Edward readied his copy, he heard snickering. He was about to say something rude to Wellesley and Roberts, but he realized Mr. Meriwether was standing near his desk and caught himself in time.

“Is your piece ready to go?” Mr. Meriwether asked. Edward handed the editor his work, which somehow he managed to finish. Mr. Meriwether scanned the piece. “This looks quite good.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meriwether.”

“Your attention to detail was so highly praised by Mr. Barden I was afraid he was going to try to carry you off to Spain. Did I mention I had a chance to read the pieces you’ve had published?” Edward nodded. “You have quite a grasp for storytelling, young man. I’d even go as far as saying you’re the next Mr. Dickens.”

“Exactly what our Ellis is longing to hear,” said Roberts with a wink.

Edward pretended he didn’t hear. “You’re very kind, Mr. Meriwether.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Your stories are moments in time—humorous, perceptive, they make people think differently—and that’s no small task, young man. As a matter of fact, I’d like you to write a few original pieces for this paper, that is, if you’re interested.”

“Yes, Mr. Meriwether, I’m interested.”

“And you’ll be able to write the stories while keeping up with your other duties?”

“I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“So I’ve heard.” Mr. Meriwether looked at his daughter. “A young man with talent and ambition. Those qualities are not so easy to find these days. I’m happy to have you on my staff, Edward Ellis. I know your grandparents are very proud.”

“I hope so.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve had a death in the family.”

“I’m very sorry about your father.”

“Thank you, yes, it was very sudden. None of us were quite prepared, though I dare say one is never prepared for such a thing. I should be home at Hembry now, but I felt I needed to come and meet everyone before I start messing things about. I’ve left Mr. Tewson with instructions about how to help things run a tad more efficiently, and I know from Mr. Barden that he can be trusted. My daughter and I are returning to Hembry today, and I’ll be there for a while. I’d like you to join us for luncheon so we can discuss those original pieces you’ll be writing for us. I know your grandparents will be happy to see you.”

“What about the Earl?”

“My brother would be happy to have you as our guest at Hembry, as would I.”

“Even though…”

“Even though.”

“Then yes, I would like very much to come for luncheon.”

“Excellent. We’ll settle the date soon.”

Mr. Meriwether gathered Edward’s work and went into the office that held the long wooden editor’s table where the pieces of the newspaper were laid out like a jigsaw puzzle. When Mr. Meriwether closed the door, the tittering began. Wellesley poked Edward in the back.

“What did he say?”

“He invited me to Hembry Castle for luncheon.”

“They’re having you for luncheon?” Roberts exclaimed.

“They invited me to luncheon, to eat it, you fool, not to be luncheon.”

Wellesley pointed at Edward. “Why do you get to go to Hembry Castle? I’ve been here longer than you. I’ve covered Parliament longer than you, and I wasn’t invited.”

Roberts sat on Edward’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest, a disapproving expression on his face. “And what about Miss Chattaway? What would she think of your dining at Hembry Castle, casting lovelorn glances at the beautiful Miss Meriwether?”

Edward cringed. Miss Chattaway. In the month since he had laid eyes on Miss Meriwether he had not once thought of Christina. He had certainly not been to visit her, and there were her unanswered letters waiting less patiently by the day. Whenever he glanced at the unopened envelopes laying in a haphazard pile on his desk at his lodgings, he felt them tapping their fingers, stamping their feet, demanding acknowledgement.

“There’s nothing she needs to think about,” Edward said. “I work for Mr. Meriwether. He wants to discuss some original pieces he wants me to write for the paper. He invited me to Hembry Castle so we can eat luncheon while we have the discussion. That’s all.”

“And Mr. Meriwether’s beautiful daughter will be there too,” said Wellesley. “That’s all.”

Yes, Edward thought. That’s all.