She wasn’t surprised to find the well-hidden door locked either, to keep trouble out, so she knocked and waited as excitement fizzed.
“Who is it?” The voice inside sounded wary.
She took a second to straighten her shoulders, pull herself to her full height, and enjoy the significance of this moment because it had been a long time coming. “Miss Portia Kendall. Your new assistant editor.” An achievement she was beyond proud of, because now her words would travel the length and breadth of the country every single week—the assistant editor ofEquitasalways, always, always wrote the opinion piece that sat at the very top of the newspaper.
What sounded like twenty bolts shifted before the door was flung open to reveal a smiling man with thick spectacles and a mane of curling gray hair. “You drew the short straw, did you? My condolences.” He beckoned her across the threshold. “But you are very welcome nonetheless. For my sins, I am William Stowe.” He held out his hand and she smiled, a little in awe, as she shook it. “Editor in chief of this scandalous and seditious rag.”
“I know who you are, Sir William. I’ve been reading your articles and essays for years.” Sir William Stowe was up there with Mary Wollstonecraft, as far as Portia was concerned, and one of the main reasons she had done everything in her power, including some unbecoming begging, to be here so fast.
Academic.
Lawyer.
Orator and writer extraordinaire. This eccentric-looking old man was an unwavering, unapologetic legend of the reform movement. “And I didn’t draw the short straw, sir—I volunteered.” The chance to work alongside one of her idols and soak up some of his genius, albeit temporarily, was too good an opportunity to miss.
“Ah… the folly of youth.” He chuckled as he bolted the door behind her. “Did nobody ever tell you to never volunteer for anything as it is invariably a mistake that you will live to regret? I take it you are full of vim and vigor and principles and as keen to get cracking as I have been assured that you are?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I am an admirer of your articles too, by the way. That one you wrote for us last month on the willful ignorance of the aristocracy to the plight of the poor on their doorsteps in the capital was eye-opening and very well researched. It certainly made me think.”
“Thank you, Sir William.” If she died and went to heaven right this second, she would go happily. Being praised for one of her essays by the great Sir William Stowe was a magnificent achievement in itself. She would have been cock-a-hoop with just the knowledge that he had read one!
“Call me William,” he said as he disappeared through another door, expecting her to follow. “It’s only a matter of time before the powers that be take that silly knighthood away, and we don’t do airs and graces here atEquitasbecause we are all in this together.” A throwaway comment that was music to her ears. He was every bit as wonderful and egalitarian in person as he was in print. A true man of the people. “Let me show you around.”
Portia followed him into the most disorganized shambles she had ever seen in her life. She tried not to judge, but this was not how she pictured the flagship newspaper of the reform movement to look. There were piles of discarded correspondence and books tossed hither and thither; stacks of paper lined the crumbling walls and blocked the gangways, the lack of order making her head spin. The only area that wasn’t filled with clutter was occupied by a giant printing press that looked so old it might have come off the ark.
“This is where all the magic happens.” He swept his arm to encompass the chaos. “My apologies for the mess, but we had to move premises in a bit of a hurry to thwart a raid last month after your predecessor—that idiot firebrand Reynolds—got himself arrested. Although I knew that was only a matter of time the first moment I met him.”
“Why?” Back in London, the recently imprisoned Matthew Reynolds was being heralded as a martyr to the cause. They wereeven going to send a brilliant but expensive London lawyer all the way to Bristol to defend him at his trial, so it was interesting that Sir William thought so ill of him.
“Because the fool forgot the first golden rule of life—the pen is always mightier than the sword!” Portia nodded like a woodpecker. “In his limited wisdom,” continued her idol, “he thought violence would work more effectively than logic. Rather than use words to make people think differently, the fool tired ofEquitasand abandoned us almost immediately to raise his own little army of like-minded troublemakers and then did his utmost to whip them into a frenzy.” Sir William—just William—shook his head with disgust. “Even if our local member of Parliament is an arse—which he very much is—taking that mob to his house and threatening him with a gun is not the least bit acceptable.”
“What on earth did he hope to achieve doing that?” Despite her revolutionary ideals, Portia had always believed that violence was the absolute last straw. But then her pen had always been her weapon of choice, as the perennial ink stains on her fingers were testament. The power of a well-chosen word was infinite. It could soothe, it could educate, it could banish indecision, it could highlight an injustice, it could elicit a smile or a laugh or a tear—and it could wound.
William shrugged. “Infamy is my best guess. He fancied himself a sort of George Washington character, without the common sense and intelligence necessary, of course, who would personally lead the revolution.”
“That is not the narrative we heard at headquarters.”
“I am not the least bit surprised.” William huffed in exasperation. “The only thing Reynolds truly excelled at was twisting the facts to suit his purpose and blowing his own trumpet. I should imagine he has painted himself some sort of plaster saint in his frequent dispatches to London. Which, to be frank, was the only work he ever did here on the few occasions he graced us with his presence. The man was a waste of space and caused us more trouble than he was worth.”He gestured to the chaotic office. “Thanks to him, we were almost shut down for good so, in my less charitable moments, I am relieved that he is no longerEquitas’s problem.”
William then raised a finger in the air as if addressing a crowd. “If we are ever going to create a fairer country for all, those in power need to see us as their intellectual equals with valid arguments that are worthy of consideration—not rampaging marauders. Nobody is going to willingly give the vote to a man wielding a pitchfork with murder in his eyes.” He pinned Portia with his stare, his narrowed eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his spectacles. “You are not a pitchfork wielder, are you, Portia? Because I expressly requested that they send me an editor with some common sense and the ability to see reason this time.”
“I’m a teacher by trade, not a marauder.” Her revolutionary ideals had mellowed a great deal since the age of sixteen, thanks to a combination of education and maturity, so she was now of the firm belief that everyone would be better off if reform occurred without the need for a revolution. And certainly not the sort of bloody, arbitrary, and vengeful revolution like they had had across the Channel in France. Not everything here in Britain was broken, and throwing out the baby with the bathwater was never the answer. “I want equality and change to come from enlightenment and not down the threatening barrel of a gun.”
“Excellent! We should get on famously then. Tea?”
She already held Sir William Stowe in the highest esteem, but he went up in her estimation by several notches when he didn’t expect her to make that tea. Better still, he continued to make no mention of the fact that she was a woman at all. Nor did he make any concession for it as he explained what her role entailed over that tea. A role so complicated, Portia had to pull out her notebook to list all of it down.
“For obvious reasons, we are very cautious about security here,” he said as he handed her a key. “The worst of the local constables has always had it in for us, but even more so since the Reynolds incidentand the thwarted raid. So be sure to always come here by the most convoluted route possible and frequently check that you aren’t being followed.”
“I became quite adept at that in London.” Being a reformer nowadays was as much about smoke and mirrors as it was about reforming. “Especially during daylight hours.”
“Indeed. It is always easier to be clandestine at night.” William toasted her with his teacup. “On that subject, we don’t tend to keep regular hours here unless it’s a Sunday when we go to print—then, of course, it is all hands on deck, so you’ve got a few days to unpack and get your bearings after your long journey. I take it you’ve already found lodging?”
“It’s on my list of things to do, but for now I’m staying at an inn in town.” One that, because this was Bath, was costing her an arm and a leg, but it had still seemed the more prudent option than staying at her mother’s. As much as they loved one another, her mother absolutely did not approve of Portia’s political endeavors at all. It had always been a sore topic that led to arguments, and so she was best avoided in the short term. Portia would only tell her the news that she was back home when she had proved herself worthy enough as the temporary assistant editor ofEquitasto be made permanent.
“An inn here doesn’t come cheap during the season,” he said as if he read her mind.
