“Yes,” Julianna said, aiming for mildness of tone despite the fact that the head embers were stirring, fanned back to life by Mr. Glanvil’s hot air.
He did this: took credit for her ideas. She told herself it didn’t matter. The result was the same—the story would run, and no one would know or care about the intellectual power struggle behindit.
“And this issue’s moral essay?” Mr. Glanvil asked.
Le Monde Jolihad not published a monthly moral essay before Glanvil Junior’s tenure as proprietor. It had occasionally printed pieces that grappled with specific ethical considerations—the notion of a sugar boycott, for example—but that was as far as it had gone. Julianna was of the opinion that between church and life under the thumbs of fathers and husbands, most ladies did not require additional moral instruction.
“‘Notes on Gluttony,’ I think I shall call it,” she said. Julianna’s little rebellion against the monthly moral essay was to give it a dull, too-literal title that, with any luck, inspired readers to skip it. It was an odd, unpleasant feeling, wanting peoplenotto read part of her magazine. “It has been commissioned but isn’t in yet.”
“Who is the author?”
“Mrs. Ann Smith, the wife of a rector in Penrith.” The rector of her Lake District correspondent’s parish, in fact. Julianna often found writers this way, by asking existing writers for ideas and introductions. Everyone thought editors sat at desks with ink-stained hands and stared at words all day, but much of her job was about managing people, making connections.
“Why can’t the rector write it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why the rector’s wife and not the rector himself? Musings on one of the cardinal sins would seem to mean more coming from him. He is closer to God, is he not?”
“I take the point, but I believe Mrs. Smith will be in a position to provide commentary from a uniquely womanly point of view.”
“Well, she may write it, but put her husband’s name on it.”
And that right there was why Julianna was content—nay, happy—being a spinster.
“As I have explained,” she said, as mildly as she could, “I prefer to have as many lady correspondents as possible. Female bylines resonate more with my readers.”
“You meanmyreaders.”
This was a problem. A real one. Had Mr. Glanvil merely been a self-regarding blunderbuss, a man who fancied he’d earned the status and wealth he had inherited, that would have been one thing. But when he put that “proprietor” nameplate out, hemeantit. The jovial manner in which he did so was an affectation. He owned the magazine. That was a regrettable truth. But beyond that, he seemed to think that meant he owned its readers. That he ownedJulianna.
Julianna had gone into Glanvil Junior’s tenure as proprietor thinking she could manage him, and for the most part, she had. But he had a streak of cruelty in him. She had learned that he had to win a certain amount in order for that cruelty to remain dormant. Hence the monthly moral essay, among other concessions.
“I shall do as you suggest.” She had to swallow a lump in her throat to get the sentence out. The embers in her head had been doused with water, leaving only a sodden pile of ash.
That was the worst part of all this. She detested the fact that he could make her feel this way: melancholy, and a little bit scared. She preferred the immolating effects of the ire he usually inspired. She tried, in her dealings with Mr. Glanvil, to stay angry. But sometimes, as today, she left his office feeling . . . small.
But she would not cry. Julianna did not cry.
As she emerged into the sunshine and bustle of the Strand, she clutched her reticule to her chest to ward off pickpockets and ordered herself to be cheered. Nothing lifted her spirits like a trip to the printing house. Even after all these years, seeing the pages of her magazine—hermagazine—printed and drying never failed to give her a thrill. A magazine was a little miracle. That Mr. Gutenberg’s innovation, the words and art of so many talented people, and her own editorial acumen if she did say so herself, could come together and produce a tome that was at once uplifting and informative, and do it every month, was a wonder. Nothing had ever or would ever make her prouder.
Nothing was more important to her. If she had to make sacrifices, “Notes on Gluttony” among them, to keep the magazine alive, that was what she would do.
She turned her face toward the uncharacteristically warm September sun. Effie had once said that feeling the sun on one’s skin was like being agreeably prickled by the tiny fingernails of benevolent fairies, and Julianna thought of that every time she had occasion to be outside in the sunshine, which wasn’t often. She worked long hours in the office, and at home she tried to make herself unobtrusive. The former helped with the latter. Julianna lived with her younger sister. Amy and her husband, Arthur, had four children and very busy lives. They were kind to Julianna, but she was exquisitely aware that she was a charity case—which was ironic because she worked days as long in duration and as many in number as did Arthur.
The point was, Julianna didn’t spend a great deal of time out of doors. She rarely felt the agreeable prickling of tiny fingernails on her cheeks.
By the time she reached Grub Street, her disposition had improved. She was done with Mr. Glanvil for a week, and she was about to have her first look at October.
The bell on the door heralded her arrival, an arrangement that had always struck her as futile, for if the presses were going, they drowned out the bell—and the presses were always going.
She made her way to the back of the shop. As much as she’d enjoyed the sun on her skin, she liked this better. The dim light, the smell of ink, the thudding of ink balls being mashed over plates: there was nothing better.
She looked around for her pages. They ought to be hanging by now. All she saw was what appeared to be the middle pages of a newspaper. She squinted at them. It was theWeekly Star, a middling publication.
“Ah, Miss Evans.”
“Mr. Cabot.” She dipped an abbreviated curtsy as the proprietor approached. “How is October?”
