Читать книгу Maggie And The Maverick - Laurie Grant - Страница 15

His sarcasm left Maggie feeling as if she’d just been slapped. For a moment she couldn’t get her breath, and then she was angry—so angry that she wished little Johnny wasn’t there so she could tell Garrick Devlin off before she quit and went to inquire about the next stage back to Austin. But little Johnny was there, and his presence stiffened her resolve. She’d be damned if she was going to let the man bait her into leaving before she’d even started.

“You have a.unique way of informing me it’s none of my concern, haven’t you, Mr. Devlin?” she replied in a voice that was as unruffled as she could possibly make it, so that the little boy wouldn’t notice the tension that thrummed between the adults. “Very well. Perhaps you should tell me what your goals and philosophy are in regards to your newspaper.”

He blinked at her composed response. Point for me, thought Maggie, but don’t expect me to be so restrained when your child is elsewhere. I haven’t got red hair for nothing.

“My goals and philosophy?” He leaned back in his chair and made a tent of his fingers. “Well, I reckon my goal is to start a newspaper worthy of the name, a paper that will expose the villainy of the carpetbaggers who have polluted our fair Texas soil, and the cancer of the scalawags who would sell Texas itself for the right price.”

She felt herself flushing as she realized he was again attempting to goad her.

“In other words, Texas right or wrong, is that your creed?” she retorted sweetly.

“Precisely, Miss Harper. Johnny, you may not have pie until you have some peas,” Devlin commanded his son, who’d taken advantage of his father’s inattention to try and cut an enormous slice of peach pie for himself.

Johnny looked sulky. “Does Miss Maggie have to eat ‘em, too?”

“Why, yes of course, Johnny,” Maggie told him with a smile. “That’s one vegetable we don’t have where I come from, and I find I quite like them.”

The boy appeared intrigued. “You don’t have no black-eyed peas?” he asked, looking as if he thought she must come from the moon for that to be true.

“Johnny, finish your dinner and let Miss Harper and your papa talk, please,” Devlin said. “Miss Harper, I intend for the motto on the Gazette’s masthead to be Forever The Truth For Texas. What do you think of that?”

Didn’t he ever give up? “Indeed, I think that the truth is all any newspaper should print, sir. And I’m curiouswhat did you use for start-up capital, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She watched as a guarded look swept over his face, and then a sardonic smile. “Do you mean how did I ever manage to find two bits to rub together after the Yankees moved in and the taxes went through the roof? It wasn’t easy, Miss Harper, in the face of that, but like all sneaky rebels, we had some silver buried in the backyard.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was being sarcastic again. “All right, but if I may ask, what are you using for operating capital?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon, Miss Harper?”

“Operating capital,” she repeated. “You know, the cost of running your newspaper? The money that buys your ink and paper and pays for any needed repairs to that printing press over there? I see you have enough supplies to start.” She nodded toward the Washington handpress, sitting behind the counter in all its shiny black glory, toward a cabinet full of rows of type cases, cylinders of paper and bottles of ink behind it. Devlin had paid a pretty penny for that press, she imagined, and wondered where the money had come from. None of the former rebels seemed to have any money left after the war, and his clothes, though neat and clean, were far from new or fancy.

“Why, the sale of my paper will supply the operating capital,” he said, as if surprised. “I suppose it might occasionally be necessary to sell an ad to the general store, or print a Wanted poster for my brother the sheriff, or a handbill when Mayor Long is up for reelection, but I wish to keep my paper above the influence of those who would purchase space in it, Miss Harper. It’s far more important to devote the columns to exposing the evils presently existing in Texas—”

“Lofty ideals, Mr. Devlin, but as an experienced newspaperwoman, I can tell you that your paper will starve for lack of cash nourishment if you think you can run it on nothing more than what the townspeople will pay for it. What did you plan on charging, sir? A nickel? This is a small town, and even if everyone subscribes, you won’t make enough to keep it going. No sir, in my opinion, you will have to plan on selling advertisement space regularly. Most papers run each ad for at least six weeks, which is very easy with stereotypes, the woodcut-and-type blocks patent medicine makers furnish. And you will have to do away with job printing during the day if you hope to survive—the paper can always be printed at night.”

He looked momentarily dazed by all the information she had just thrown at him, but then he recovered, and Maggie could see he was restraining himself with some difficulty.

“Opinions are one thing you don’t seem to lack, Miss Harper,” he said at last. “Very well, I shall sell advertisement space. I imagine the proprietor of the general store will be happy to buy an ad on a regular basis. And then there’s the milliner, and the barber—and of course Doc Broughton is always peddling some nostrum or other. Yes, Johnny, you may have a piece of pie now that you’ve eaten your peas. Here, I’ll cut you a slice.”

Maggie decided she wouldn’t smash all his optimism in one sitting. She hadn’t met the businessmen of Gillespie Springs, of course, but from what she’d seen, a small-town merchant was notoriously reluctant to see the need to advertise when he had the only store of its kind for miles.

She was about to ask another question when Devlin began to speak again.

“Today is Tuesday,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “If we succeed in putting out our first edition tomorrow, we’ll plan on putting the paper out every Wednesday.”

She nodded, pleased that they were now on a more businesslike footing. “In your letter, you mentioned that there was a room upstairs that would be my living quarters-does that staircase in the corner of the room lead to it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you were a female then,” Devlin reminded her. “It’s out of the question for you to live upstairs now, of course. But you can rent a room at the boardinghouse over on North Street.”

Now it was Maggie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Why ever shouldn’t I live here? My board was part of the deal you offered, Mr. Devlin, and I doubt I can afford to pay board on the salary we agreed upon,” she informed him frankly. “As it is, I will have to buy my meals. And while you are not paying me the fifty cents an hour a male pressman could earn at any newspaper back East, I would like to be able to save some of my money. All Yankees are not born rich, despite what you may think.”

“But you can’t stay up there, a woman alone!” he sputtered. “It wouldn’t be proper!”

“Nonsense, sir. The door can be locked, can’t it? Having upstairs quarters will be very handy when we put the paper to bed late at night, as we will probably be doing tonight,” she said, then was amused to see him blush at the phrase.

“Miss Harper, perhaps all Yankee women speak as you do, but I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue around my son,” he snapped, though Johnny had finished his pie and was once more pursuing a fly on the window glass.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Mr. Devlin, that’s a perfectly usual term in the newspaper business,” she said, “not a lewd phrase at all. It means finishing that particular edition, and shutting down the press, and—”

“I can guess that,” he interrupted. “Just watch how you talk, if you please. Ah, there you are, Sweeney,” he said, as the telegrapher rushed in. “Were you able to get an answer from your source in Austin?”

“Yeah, I got lots a’ details for ya, Mr. Devlin,” said Sweeney, beaming with importance. “It’s sure ‘nough gonna set the folks in town on the boil, that’s fer dang sure!” Then he realized Maggie and the child were sitting there, and he clapped his bony hand over his mouth. “Oh, pardon me, miss.”

Maggie could tell her employer longed to inform Sweeney that her language could be much coarser than his “dang,” but he restrained himself. “Think nothing of it,” she murmured, and then the bell over the door tinkled again, announcing Jovita’s return.

“Eet ees time to come weeth me, niño,” the Mexican woman told Johnny as she entered, holding out her hand to the boy. “After your nap you can help me figure out what to make for supper for your papa, yes?”

“That won’t be necessary, Jovita. I won’t be home for supper tonight In fact, I may be very late.”

“But you must eat, señor, you and the señorita.”

“You fuss like a mother hen, Jovita, but I promise I won’t forget to feed Miss Harper. I’ll fetch us sandwiches from the hotel or something. Now go on home with Johnny. I have a paper to get out”

Maggie could see he was fairly fidgeting with impatience to get started. Well, for all his faults, at least Garrick Devlin was an eager newspaperman, and she could forgive a lot in the face of that. She remembered when the stories she’d been writing for her father’s newspaper had been allimportant to her, too. That had been before Richard, of course. Could she possibly regain her enthusiasm, working for a man who obviously hadn’t yet finished fighting the Civil War?

“All right, señor,” Jovita said. “Well, if Papa must be late tonight, Johnny, what would you theenk of going to visit your tio Cal and tia Livy?”

“Sí Jovita! See, Papa, she’s teachin’ me Mexican!” Johnny boasted.

“So I hear,” Garrick said approvingly. “I’ll see you later, son,” he added, but his wave was distracted as he snatched the paper, with its dots and dashes and the telegrapher’s transcription above it, from Sweeney. “Thanks, Sweeney. Remember to keep this quiet, will you?”

“You bet, Mr. Devlin. Nice meeting you, Miss Harper,” said the telegrapher as he backed out the door.

“Nice meeting you, too, Mr. Sweeney. Thank you for your quick work,” she added, and saw the man’s face light up as he exited.

And then she was alone with Devlin.

“Well, now you have two males in your thrall, my son and Sweeney,” commented Devlin sourly behind her. “Stop batting your eyelashes and take your bags on upstairs, if you’re still determined to room there. Change into something you won’t be afraid to get ink on, Miss Harper.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Devlin,” she retorted with some spirit. “But never mind—I promise never to bat my eyelashes in your direction. Give me five minutes to change my clothes and I’ll be back, ready to work,” she said. Picking up her two heavy carpetbags, she headed for the stairs. She hoped five minutes would be long enough to cool both their tempers so that they could get some work done!

The room was small, and sparsely furnished with a bedstead, a chest of drawers, holding a washbasin and pitcher, and a table with a single, rickety-legged chair. A cloudy mirror hung above the chest. There was one window, which looked out over a back street lined with small houses, some of which were little more than rude shacks. Not exactly a scenic view, she thought. She would need to fashion some curtains for privacy at night. And no doubt the room, which was now delightfully airy with the spring breeze blowing through the open window, would be hot as Hades come summer, but at least it was hers alone.

Latching the door behind her, Maggie set her bags down on the bed and pulled out her workday clothes, a skirt and waist of a navy blue so dark it looked black except in bright sunlight. It had been washed and re-dyed many times, but ink stains hardly showed on it. Then, staying away from the window, she stripped off her traveling clothes and hung them on pegs on the back of the door. There would be time later to arrange her garments in the chest of drawers.

Some thoughtful soul—impossible to think it could have been Devlin—had put water into the pitcher, and she poured some onto a towel and used it to wash her face. Feeling refreshed, she combed out her hair and braided the fiery, curly strands.

Garrick Devlin could hardly be more different from the kindly, middle-aged man she had imagined, Maggie thought as she coiled the braid at the nape of her neck with a few hairpins. She had been expecting someone like her father, she realized, someone with James Harper’s gentle mien if not his looks.

She estimated Garrick Devlin to be anywhere from his mid-thirties to forty years of age, judging by the lines engraved around his eyes and mouth and the silver mixed into his dark hair. But his cynical, touchy disposition might make him seem older than he truly was. His face was a lean, hawkish one, with high cheekbones, a long, wellshaped nose and narrow eyes of that piercing blue that seemed an echo of the Texas skies. There was an impossibly arrogant set to his mouth that belied the weakness suggested by the cane he kept at his side.

All told, it was a stubborn, disagreeable face, at least when he looked at her—and yet she had seen that face change when he talked to Johnny. She had seen that he could smile, and that his smile transformed the rest of his tense features, relaxing them and making him look years younger and much more approachable—even handsome! she was surprised to realize.

Well, she had no further use for handsome, that was cer tain. All she hoped for was to be able to work with this difficult man to produce a newspaper they could both be proud of. She could teach him much, if he would let her. If only his stiff-necked pride didn’t get in the way! It wouldn’t be easy, since he despised what she was and everything she stood for, but she could at least try.

Goodness, she’d better stop pondering over her employer and get back downstairs! It was surely more like ten or fifteen minutes since she’d come up here!

“Took you long enough,” groused Devlin, barely glancing up as she reached the bottom of the stairs. He was hunched over the table, a stubby pencil grasped in his right hand, and as she approached, she saw that he’d already covered nearly a full page with his untidy scrawl. She saw him stop and glance at the telegraph transcription, and then his pencil began to race over the paper again.

“I’m sorry, sir, I—”

“Here,” he said, thrusting the now-filled sheet of paper at her. “You can start setting the type for this page.”

The first thing she was going to have to learn how to do was read his writing, Maggie thought with dismay as she peered at the slanting scrawl. It was nothing like the neat copperplate of his letter to “M. L. Harper.” Had he gotten the local schoolmarm to write that letter for him?

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, peering at her and letting the pencil fall with a soft clatter to the desk. “Are you disagreeing with my headline story already? I didn’t employ you to pass judgment on my opinions, Miss Harper, I pay you to run the press,” he growled.

“No, Mr. Devlin,” she began, “that is, I don’t know if I disagree. I—I’m not used to your writing as yet. But just give me a minute or two, and let me study it. I’ll ask you if I can’t decipher a particular word,” she promised, evad ing the hand that would have snatched the paper back from her.

Sure enough, once read in the light of the window, the individual letters began to sort themselves out and form into words and phrases, though it was particularly tough to tell one vowel from another, for they all appeared to be the same indistinct near-loop shape. Hopefully the arrangement of his flamboyantly slanted consonants would give her the clues she needed.

She turned her attention to the California type cases, the trays of metal letters of various sizes and fonts. At least the standard nine-point type she’d need for the newspaper was arranged alphabetically, she discovered. When she had more time she would arrange it the way compositors traditionally did—capital letters alphabetically in cases on the right, and small-case letters on the left, with the most frequently used ones in the handiest spaces.

She began setting up the rows of type that would become the opening lines of the infant newspaper: the masthead, with the large Gothic capitals proudly proclaiming the name of the paper as the Gillespie Springs Gazette; the motto Forever The Truth For Texas right underneath; and then the date April 4, 1869, followed by the words Premier Edition and Garrick Devlin, Editor And Owner.

That portion completed, she laid out the very first headline: Radical Republicans Choose E. J. Davis As Their Gubernatorial Candidate, Former Union Brigadier General Is Certain Victor With General Reynolds As Ally.

Afternoon drifted into evening as she painstakingly set in rows of metal and wood type the words Garrick Devlin was feverishly scribbling at his desk. Every so often he would hand her another page and ask her how she was coming, and if she thought she was going to be able to finish tonight. Naturally, she could not lay out the pages as fast as he could write, but she kept working, ignoring the ache in her back and the throbbing of her head.

“Well, are you going to tell me we shall have to put off publication for another day?” Garrick Devlin inquired some time much later, coming to stand next to where she was working on the second page.

Maggie looked up in surprise. “Why, no, sir,” she said, glancing at the watch she’d pinned to her bodice. Seven o’clock, and she was only half done! “No, I promised you this would be ready by morning, and it will be, even if I have to stay up all night, just as I said.”

Was that approval that had flashed so briefly in those cold blue eyes? No, surely she had imagined it!

“Well, Miss Harper, I am all done with the writing, and my stomach is growling.”

“Go ahead, go have something to eat,” she said without looking up. “I’m not hungry after that big midday dinner,” she lied. And then, to her mortification, her own stomach protested, too, loudly enough that Garrick Devlin heard it.

“Why, Miss Harper, I believe you are prevaricating,” Devlin mocked, a small smile playing about that arrogant mouth.

“Well, perhaps a little,” she admitted, “but I really am eager to get this done, just as I promised. Perhaps I will eat something before we start running off copies.” She’d need some nourishment before lifting those heavy trays of type and repeatedly pulling back the devil’s tail—the lever that rolled the bed of type under the platen.

“Then I shall have to go over to the hotel and purchase something for both of us to eat, or no doubt I’d return to find you swooned on top of the press,” he taunted her in that molasses drawl of his.

“It’s not necessary.”

“Certainly it is. I promised Jovita I would feed you, and so I shall. I, Miss Harper, do not prevaricate. I’ll return in a few minutes.” With that, he made his way to the door and went out.