“I’m changing the name of the newspaper,” she said. “Well, not just the name, but the emphasis as well. The new name is going to be the ‘Edinburgh Women’s Gazette.’ We’re going to feature stories that would be of interest primarily to women. Even the columns will be slanted for women.”
She looked at each face, noted Fenella’s and Ellice’s interest. She hesitated a moment before looking at Robert, but when she saw his eyes flatten to two brown stones, she wasn’t surprised.
“It will not cost that much,” she said, breaking a rule and discussing finances at the dinner table. “I have Macrath’s blessing.”
“What will happen to the current subscribers?” Fenella asked.
She’d already thought about that.
“They’ll be given an opportunity to continue their subscription. If they object, then they will be taken off the roll.”
“You’ll have to refund the money,” Robert said.
“Only on a pro rata basis,” she said. “Thankfully, most of our subscriptions have come at different times throughout the year. We won’t feel an immediate financial hardship if they all discontinue at once.”
She smiled determinedly. “But I won’t give them the opportunity to cancel,” she said. “They’ll be so impressed by the new paper that they’ll not only renew, but convince their friends and neighbors to subscribe as well.”
Robert abruptly stood, said good-night to Fenella while once more welcoming Ellice to the household. Pointedly ignoring Mairi, he made his way to the stairs. They could hear him stomping to his room.
“We don’t feel the same, miss,” Abigail said, gathering up the dishes on the sideboard. “As Mr. Robert, I mean.”
She glanced at the maid.
“It’s proud we are of you, all of us.”
“Thank you, Abigail,” she said, feeling a surge of warmth at the girl’s words.
If she had to fight this battle in her own household, how much worse was it going to be among the citizens of Edinburgh?
Why did it suddenly seem more than she could accomplish?
Chapter 26
To Mairi’s dismay, sleep wasn’t easier in her own room than it had been at Drumvagen. Instead, she lay staring up at the ceiling illuminated by the bluish white glare of moonlight. She could hear Fenella and Ellice giggling down the hall, but gradually even the sounds of amusement faded, leaving only the sigh of the wind against the windows as company.
The hole in her chest expanded, growing larger and larger until she could envision a giant black space in the middle of the mattress encompassing everything, even her.
She missed him.
There, a confession she should have been too wise to utter even to herself.
He was close. Close enough for her to walk to his house if she was thoroughly foolhardy. In her imagination, she dressed and donned her cloak and her gloves, roused James from his room above the stable. She would caution him to secrecy, knowing that it meant nothing because he would tell Macrath. Now she simply didn’t care. She would laugh at his threats and race to the carriage, waiting impatiently.
She wouldn’t bother to explain herself to Logan’s majordomo or Mrs. Landers. Instead, she would run up the stairs to Logan’s room, throwing off her cloak and her clothes.
He would rise in his bed, surprised at her appearance.
Wicked and wanton, she would mount him, keep his head still for a kiss.
She’d take advantage of him, stroke her hands over his arms and chest, let her fingers dance along his skin, and incite shivers where she touched him. She’d inhale his moans and kiss him until he was senseless. Only then would she take him into her body and hold him there until the pleasure was so great she had to have her release.
The thought of being so abandoned was hardly restful or conducive to sleep.
After a while she sat on the edge of her bed, then went to her secretary, placing her hands flat on the surface where she’d written the broadside about him. If she wrote another about the Lord Provost, what would she say? What would she accuse him of? Stealing her sleep, perhaps. Infusing her mind with all sorts of wicked images, none of which she could easily banish.
She sat, laid her head down on her folded arms and sighed, thinking that she was sad sight indeed, a woman in thrall to a man.
Surely, though, men felt the same way. She would discount Calvin for the moment. He wasn’t the epitome of all things good about men, being as disloyal as he’d been. Did Allan feel that way about Fenella? Perhaps one day, if she had enough courage, she would ask him.
Her father had loved her mother long after she died in childbirth. He spoke of her often, and whenever he did, it was with a smile.
Perhaps, in her reporting, she could ask the men with whom she conversed how they felt about their wives. She would use the information for a future column of the Gazette. Surely women would be interested to hear what opinion husbands held.
She picked up her pen and jotted that idea down, along with another. She would ask Fenella her thoughts about love. What did it feel like? Was it a general ache in the body? Was it a burning sensation in the stomach? Was it a cacophony of thoughts that flew about in the mind like bats escaping from a cave? Was it the sudden inability to form a cogent thought?
Or was she ailing in some way?
Going to Drumvagen had not been the least bit relaxing. She’d been miserable there, and even more unhappy after Logan left.
Now, despite her plans for the Gazette, she wasn’t as enthused as she should have been. Why wasn’t the paper enough? Why was she so jealous of Fenella? Why did she feel so ancient when Ellice looked at her with admiration in her eyes?
Something must be done. She couldn’t allow this malaise to continue.
One way or another, she had to revert to her normal self. The Mairi Sinclair who was enthusiastic about each day, who knew exactly where she was going in life, who fretted about her restrictions but found a way around them nevertheless.
She removed her nightgown and began to dress, irritated with herself, Logan Harrison, and life in general. James was not going to be happy, but like it or not, he was going to have to drive her to the newspaper.
“I’ll not leave you,” James said, opening the carriage door.
“Allan is here. You don’t have to stay.”
“It’s the middle of the night. I’ll not leave you.”
“Very well,” she said, “but you’re not going to sit out here. It’s too cold. Come with me.”
After she unlocked the door, he followed her inside, where she led him to her father’s office.
“You can stay here,” she said. “It’s warmer than sitting outside in the carriage.”
He nodded and settled behind her father’s desk.
Work had always been a panacea. She’d always found comfort in the pressroom, being able to immerse herself in a story, a broadsheet, or reading through the submissions to the paper.
Tonight, however, she roamed through the room, feeling the cold of the night that even the lit brazier in the corner couldn’t dispel.
She loved the look of the Edinburgh Gazette. She loved that it had been founded thirty years earlier, that it bore the Sinclair name on its masthead. It was created from thoughts converted to words, and printed using metal on paper. Each issue took her breath away.
Somehow, however, the paper wasn’t enough. When had that happened? When a certain tall and broad man had crossed her path, grinning at her until her heart stuttered?
She missed him.
Dear God, she missed arguing with him, touching him, anticipating his kiss, his comments, his stubbornness.
What was she going to do?
Work—that was all she had left.
Allan slept above. Could he hear her? Would he come to see what the noise was and why the lamps had been lit?
Perhaps he would keep James company.
Still clad in her cloak, she removed her gloves, wandering from the shelves along the walls to the massive
press in the middle of the room. Allan had taken advantage of her absence and cleaned the plates and the mechanism. Her fingers trailed along the metal, feeling no trace of oil or ink.
She would need to talk to him in the morning, ensure that he knew she welcomed him into the family, another person to whom she owed an apology or an explanation.
She should just print an announcement and distribute it like a broadside:
To the whole of Edinburgh, I’m sorry.
For daring to be more than just a woman. For wanting to be treated like a man, or at least with the same respect. For having dreams beyond my sex and my station. For being rash and improvident. For allowing a charming smile to lull me into being fascinated by a man.
She should concentrate on the next issue of the paper. From her pocket she withdrew those submissions she’d read at home. There were enough to fill six columns, at least. She’d let other writers talk for her during this edition, and next edition she’d make the announcement about the Gazette.
Would she lose all their subscribers?
Her sources might disappear completely. Would they be as reluctant to talk to her as they’d been after her broadside about Logan?
Perhaps she should tell them that she’d been with him one night, his mistress for an evening, his paramour for a certain number of hours. Knowing the high esteem in which the inhabitants of Edinburgh held their provost, perhaps it would elevate her standing.
After removing her cloak, she hung it on a peg near the door. Walking to the typesetting area, she stared at the rows of letters and phrases. These, too, had been cleaned. She placed the papers where she could read them, began with the first column, the movements of her fingers learned from when she was a girl, standing in front of her father and taught how to see the type in reverse.
The first article was one on the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and how each Scot should become involved in their campaigns.
She saw something out of the corner of her eye and glanced in that direction, thinking it might be James or a querulous Allan, coming to ask why she was at the paper in the middle of the night. Neither man appeared.
Turning back to her typesetting, she focused on her task, but not for long. The light in the hall was too bright to be a lamp. She smelled it before her conscious mind could accept its presence: fire.
Fire was their greatest enemy. Not only did they store newsprint on the second floor, but vats of ether used to clean the type were kept in the back along with other chemicals needed to run the press.
James was in the room closest to the storeroom.
She threw down the type and ran toward him, only to barrel into him as he was coming out of the office.
“Allan’s upstairs!”
James thrust her in the direction of the building entrance and raced up the stairs.
She stood there for a moment, then ran into the pressroom, grabbing the buckets of sand they kept there for just this purpose. One she emptied in the hall before the pressroom. A second she poured around the press, hoping it might keep the fire from it. The press and type were the most valuable items in the whole building.
She could hear the fire now. How strange that she’d never realized fire had a voice. It grumbled like a querulous Robert, creeping ever closer.
Logan hadn’t told his driver to go past the paper on his way home. But he hadn’t told the man to go straight home, either, so he was amused to note that they were nearing the Sinclair Printing Company. Evidently, his behavior of the last week had formed a habit.
He wasn’t certain he wanted to see the building.
She hadn’t yet returned, and her absence was eating at him. Mairi had never struck him as a coward, however. Sooner or later she would have to return to Edinburgh, and when she did, he was going to start courting her in earnest.
As they passed the building, Logan pushed the grate aside, calling for his driver to halt the carriage. A flickering yellow light beyond the windows confused him. Just as he realized what he was seeing, the sound of a woman’s shout skittered down his spine.
He opened the carriage door and began to run.
Chapter 27
“Allan! James!”
Mairi shouted for both of them but no one answered.
She headed for the stairs, only to encounter a wall. A living, breathing wall in the form of Logan Harrison.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, a question he didn’t answer.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her arm.
She jerked away, prepared to argue with him. She never got the chance. The High and Mighty Lord Provost simply picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, leaving the newspaper offices and depositing her on the opposite side of the street.
She pulled away from him, staring at his face, limned in the light from the fire.
“Allan and James are inside,” she said. “I can’t just leave them.”
“I’ll go and find them,” he said. He took off his greatcoat and wrapped it around her. It settled heavily on her shoulders, smelling of his scent, something about it reminding her of forests and winter.
Since the coat swamped her, she grabbed at it with both hands.
“You stay here,” he said.
She had never liked being given orders, and tonight was no exception. As if he could hear her thoughts, he bent down and pressed his lips against her forehead.
“Please, Mairi.”
“Allan lives above the paper,” she said. “And James went to find him.”
“I’ll go look, but you need to stay here where I know you’ll be safe,” he said.
The fire made him a god, a living embodiment of all those Highlanders of old. His eyes hardened, his mouth firmed, and there was something in his expression that silenced her.
He didn’t stand on a barren hillside, looking out over a glen of battle hardened men. Yet even though this was the nineteenth century, not the middle ages, and the setting was different, it didn’t matter.
Anyone who fought him would lose.
Reluctantly, she nodded.
He left her in the next moment, heading back to the building.
Had she been distracted? Had she erred in lighting the lamps? Had something been too close to one of the globes?
Had her coming to the paper caused the deaths of two men? Please, God, no.
The wind carried a billowing cloud of smoke to her and she began to cough.
She went to the carriage, released the brake, and led the restless horses down the street. She soothed them as best she could, but they were still afraid of the fire. James could have calmed them with his voice. Had he escaped? And Allan?
What about Logan? Why hadn’t he returned?
The bells of the fire brigade were another sound added to the noise of the fire. She didn’t know how they had gotten word so quickly, but she was grateful nonetheless.
She walked slowly back to the corner, staying on the other side of the street, watching as the crowd gathered. Although this was not a residential area and there were few houses nearby, some proprietors made their homes above their shops, like the Sinclair family had for generations. People came out, dressed in their nightclothes, standing on the street to watch the fire brigade. With any luck, the fire wouldn’t spread. If they were really fortunate, some of the building would be salvageable.
From what she saw now, however, they would not be visited by any luck at all. Flames licked out of the third floor windows, smoke pouring from the attic. Because of the combustible nature of the products stored there, the fire had been fed well.
So many people were watching, all of them speaking in low tones as if in deference to the largest blaze they’d ever seen in this part of Edinburgh.
The fire was spectacular.
Billowing clouds of black tarry smoke puffed up from the roof. She clutched Logan’s coat around her as the wind made her eyes water and fueled the fire even higher. The smoke was tinged with a curious nutty odor as bits of cha
rred paper floated to the grounds like black snowflakes.
Her heart constricted to a painful ball pressing against her lungs.
Anxiety, guilt, and worry swelled inside her until she could barely breathe. Tears were just below the surface, threatening to flood her.
Her lungs heated and her eyes watered from the smoke. She pressed her face into the collar of Logan’s coat, praying for the men inside.
Flames licked from inside the building to beyond the windows and doors, as if the fire had outgrown its cage, stretching its arms outward in a bid for freedom.
The other buildings were in danger now.
Where were the men?
The wind blew her hair off her neck, reminding her that once again she was without a bonnet.
Moving back still farther, she stood with the others on the street. At first, hearing their excited talk, she wanted to correct them, but that was the reporter in her. The woman remained silent, letting them speculate that an act of carelessness had caused the fire, that someone working late had overturned a lamp or a spark had escaped from a pipe.
The building abruptly shuddered. Flames shot through the roof like the hand of God had speared upward through the brick, flexing fiery fingers.
Mairi took another step back, the street trembling beneath her feet as a second explosion followed the first.
Where were the men?
The stench of the fire made Logan cover his nose with his arm. He knew the layout of the building a little from his visits in the past week but not the upper floors. He searched those smoke-filled rooms he passed on the way to the pressroom. There, however, the fire had gained way, so he stepped back from the inferno.
A narrow hallway led to the back. If he went in that direction, would he get trapped? Did the hall lead to the stairs?
Mairi had said that Allan lived above the paper, but where? Did he sleep on the second or the third floor?
He heard shouting above the noise of the fire and left the room, heading down the hall. At the end of it, almost like an afterthought, was a set of stairs. He climbed slowly, the heat level rising as he did. He heard another shout and raced to the top, where he found two men grappling in the shadows.
The Witch Of Clan Sinclair Page 24