CHAPTER
Three

Mr. Henley and Douglas were just pulling up to the door of Henley and Company when a portly man in a suit and bowler hat, apparently recognizing Henley’s carriage, raced across the street to meet them. In his haste, he misjudged where the carriage would stop and nearly got stepped on by the horse. Douglas recognized Mr. Sutherland, a proprietor at the banking house where their company kept its money.

Mr. Sutherland shook Henley’s hand as soon as they’d gotten down from the carriage. “I’ve been hoping to run into you today, Henley.”

“It’s a good thing we didn’t run into you!” Henley returned with a smile.

“Have you got a minute?”

“Of course.” He motioned toward the door.

“Thank you, but I can’t stay. I’ve got to be at the Royal Exchange for a meeting in a quarter of an hour. If we could just have a brief private word.”

He sent a pointed glance at Douglas as he said this. It was his first acknowledgment of Douglas’s presence. That was typical of Sutherland; he dealt only with anyone he thought was important. As an assistant to Mr. Henley, Douglas did not yet merit Sutherland’s notice. That will change one day, Douglas thought. He was rising in the world, and that knowledge kept him from becoming irritated at the bank manager’s dismissal of him.

Douglas could easily have removed himself by going into the building, but he thought it might be more useful to remain outside. That way he’d be within easy reach in case the men should decide to include him in the conversation after all. It would not be unusual for Mr. Henley to call him over, given that he was depending on Douglas more and more. In fact, that would be supremely satisfying. A sign to Sutherland that Douglas was trustworthy and astute enough to contribute to crucial business matters.

Tilting his head toward the building, Douglas said, “I might take a moment to enjoy a cigarette before going inside.”

Henley nodded, and Douglas walked away, pulling out his cigarette case as he went.

The two men were swiftly engaged in conversation. Douglas struck a match against the brick wall and lit his cigarette. After a minute or two, he judged from the posture of the men that his presence wasn’t likely to be requested. He was pretty good at reading his employer in these matters. He was tempted to be a little disappointed, but he shrugged it off. He knew where he stood in the company, even if Sutherland didn’t realize it yet. He also had to consider that the conversation might be about another matter altogether. It could be something to do with Henley’s personal affairs and have nothing to do with the company.

The day was hot—summer had arrived in earnest. Douglas took a few steps into the shade of the nearby pedestrian lane where it was cooler. He leaned against the wall and looked up. From here he could see the telegraph wires that ran across the buildings and into the offices of Henley and Company. He smiled as he contemplated the sight. Only large and prosperous companies could boast a private telegraph line. It was expensive—not only because of the annual access fee but also to keep a staff of telegraphers to send and receive the messages. Lots of people complained that the miles of wires running all over the city’s rooftops were ugly. In some places, there were so many that they blocked out the light in the narrower streets. More and more, telephone wires were being added as well. Although the wires were not aesthetically pleasing, they were beautiful to Douglas. The telegraph had been an electric lifeline, pulling him up from poverty and on to better things.

The office windows were open. They were just above his head, so he couldn’t see in, but Douglas knew he was standing near the window by the telegraphers’ desks. He listened for the sounder. It was quiet at the moment. He could hear voices, though. Without the slightest shame, he moved under the window in an effort to hear what they were saying. He was so accustomed to gathering information via his ears that this sort of thing never felt like eavesdropping.

“I’m so glad you decided to return. We were about to send out a search party.”

Douglas recognized the caustic voice of Archie Clapper. He shook his head in amusement. That man always sounded out of sorts. He was the type to see the downside to anything in life, no matter how good it was.

“I’m only two minutes late. You needn’t make a case out of it.”

This retort came from a woman. Douglas wasn’t familiar with her voice. He could only presume it belonged to Miss Alice McNeil, the new telegrapher. He knew she’d been recently hired, but he had yet to meet her in person. Her manner of speaking was crisp and straightforward. This fit with the view he’d formed of her during a few telegraphic transmissions he’d sent from the company’s Liverpool office after his ship had docked in that city yesterday. If she sounded more acrimonious than he’d expected, he would just put that down to the fact that she was, after all, speaking with Clapper. He would draw venomous words from a saint.

As the conversation continued, it devolved into something more akin to a battle of wits. This Alice McNeil was standing up for herself in a most interesting way. Douglas liked her already. He settled in and listened, the smile growing on his face as the conversation continued.

“I’m so glad you decided to return. We were about to send out a search party.”

Despite his sneer, Archie’s eyes lingered on Alice’s scarf for a few seconds. Perhaps Lucy was right when she’d pointed out how becoming the color was.

Alice dropped into her chair and quickly stowed her gloves and reticule in a drawer. “I’m only two minutes late. You needn’t make a case out of it.”

“Look at the work that has piled up.” Archie pointed to the basket that sat on the ledge between their two desks.

“Piled up in the last two minutes?” Alice raised an eyebrow. “Or am I now to be admonished simply for taking lunch?” She picked up the stack and riffled through it. There were perhaps a dozen missives, none terribly long. “Why, there must be nearly three hundred words here, all total.” Alice was hard-pressed to keep from rolling her eyes as she spoke. As an accomplished telegrapher, she could send over forty words per minute. Getting through this stack would take no time at all.

“Mr. Henley left those before going out. I had no time to send them, as there was a lot of incoming.” Archie pointed an ink-stained finger toward Mavis Waller’s desk on the other side of the office. It did indeed have a pile of papers on it. Mavis’s task, among other things, was to type up incoming telegrams, decoding them as she went.

Alice sent Mavis a questioning look, wanting to confirm Archie’s assertion that they’d been busy. But Mavis kept her eyes down and continued typing as though oblivious to the conversation. Alice knew she was cowed by Archie, perhaps even afraid of him. Though how anyone could be afraid of that slothful lump of obstinacy was beyond Alice’s comprehension.

“There will be more to come, now that the Americans are finally getting to their offices.” Archie’s deprecating tone suggested that the Americans were unforgivably lazy for keeping to their own working hours, given that eight o’clock in the morning in New York was one o’clock in London. Alice suspected that was why Archie preferred to take the later of the two lunch hours. There was always a flurry of messages from the Baltimore office first thing. By taking lunch at that hour, Archie was leaving one of the busier times for Alice to handle.

Sure enough, the sounder began to click the opening salvo that someone was on the line. Alice sent back the reply Ready and picked up her pen. This message wasn’t coming from overseas, however. Alice recognized the sender’s initials, as well as his sending style: it was Jimmy Smith from the Liverpool office. He was a particular friend of Archie’s, and they were often in cahoots. Alice had survived a hazing from Jimmy on her first day on the job. Also known as rushing, it was an attempt to show her up by sending the message so fast that she couldn’t keep up and would have to “break” and ask him to repeat. But she had triumphed and been doubly rewarded by Archie’s dumbfounded amazement.

“Of course, if you feel the incoming messages are too much for you to handle, I am happy to stay.” Archie would have heard the initials of the sender as well and known it was Jimmy. He looked at Alice as though daring her to accept his offer.

He should have known better. “Thank you, but you needn’t bother. Please don’t let me keep you from going out. We could use more air in here.”

Archie’s face hardened. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” As he grabbed his hat, his lips twisted into a weird position that might almost represent a smile—if he had known how to accomplish that facial expression. Alice knew that look; he was up to something.

He went to Mavis, motioning with his hat toward the stack of papers on her desk. “Those are important messages from Liverpool. Mr. Henley will be back any minute, and he wants those waiting in his office when he arrives.” He made as if to leave but then paused. It was obviously entirely for effect. “Oh, and by the way—be sure you get the decoding right. Moustache means there is no commission at port of shipment. Movement means there is a full five percent commission at port of shipment.”

This was a reference to an error Mavis had made last month. It had nearly cost the company a lot of money. Even though they had gotten the matter straightened out, Archie wouldn’t let her forget it.

Looking chagrined, Mavis nodded and kept typing.

Alice sent her a sympathetic glance. There was no time to do anything else, as Jimmy was sending the message full clip over the wire. The sounder was loud and insistent. Jimmy always sent messages speedily, but today he was transmitting faster than usual. Even after that first week, when she had proven her mettle, there were still times when Jimmy—usually goaded on by Archie—would see if he could best her. Most of the time Alice enjoyed rising to the challenge. Today, however, she would have preferred not to have to deal with this.

“Of all the days,” she muttered under her breath. But she was determined not to break.

Several drops of sweat tickled down her neck. The room was hot even though she had persuaded Archie that they should keep the windows open.

With one ear, she heard Archie greet someone he apparently met coming in. “Good day, sirs.” He only used that obsequious tone of voice around one person: Mr. Henley. He must be returning with Mr. Shaw. Alice would have turned around to greet them, but the incoming transmission was too fast.

She could hear Mr. Henley and Mr. Shaw speaking to Mavis behind her. Mavis had been with the company for over a year. Her voice changed to a shy warmth as she spoke with Mr. Shaw. Evidently he didn’t intimidate her the way Archie did. Alice kept to her task. That was aggravating, because she had been keenly wanting to meet Mr. Shaw in person. They’d had a few exchanges yesterday when Mr. Shaw had sent some messages himself from Liverpool—in a much cleaner and friendlier style than Jimmy Smith was currently using. Alice was intrigued by this man who had risen from a telegrapher to the second in authority to the owner. Archie said Mr. Shaw was self-absorbed and full of himself, but Alice knew to take anything Archie said with a very large grain of salt. Besides, coming from Archie, it was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.

“This is Miss McNeil, our new telegrapher,” she heard Mr. Henley say. “Miss McNeil—”

Alice held up a hand to indicate she could not talk at this moment. She could tell this message was nearing its conclusion, and she wasn’t going to allow the thread to drop.

“Miss McNeil and I have communicated over the wire.” Mr. Shaw’s voice was smooth, like butter—if butter had a sound. It was also brimming with self-assurance. Or was that a touch of ego she was hearing? Maybe Archie had been right about him.

Alice steeled herself to keep up with the sounder. This was no time to get distracted by a voice. She was a master at keeping up with any incoming message, no matter what might be going on around her. It was a point of pride with her.

But Mr. Henley would keep talking. “Miss McNeil has only been with us a few months, yet she has very nearly mastered that codebook and our other protocols for sending messages. For speed, she is as fast as Mr. Clapper. Quite astounding. Oh, but that’s right, you learned Morse code as a child, didn’t you?”

That last part was directed at her, but Alice didn’t answer. She bit her lip and kept transcribing the message, pushing her attention to stay with the sounder. Finally, the message ended. She sent back the short confirmation just as rapidly, almost slamming the key on the last stroke. Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. That would teach that lizard Jimmy Smith not to try to show her up.

“Bravo, Miss McNeil,” Mr. Shaw said. “Whoever was on the other end must have been sending better than forty words per minute. Yet you did not break.”

Collecting herself, Alice turned.

And beheld the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Alice almost fell out of her chair. Not because she had turned too quickly and gotten unbalanced, but because she was shocked that this ridiculous observation about a man’s looks had intruded itself on her brain. She carefully closed her mouth, which had somehow fallen open. She blinked a few times, as though by getting a clearer look at him she would realize that her first impression—that no man could really be the most perfect specimen since Adam—had been caused by a mere trick of the light.

It was a vain hope. He was still devastatingly handsome. Tall, with square shoulders, and dark hair and eyes. Neatly trimmed side whiskers. A clean-shaven face revealing a nicely formed chin. Nose, brows, forehead—everything in flawless proportion.

He was smiling at her. He had just said something. What was it? It really was too warm in this office. Maybe her brain was frazzled by the heat.

“I said, what you did was quite impressive,” Mr. Shaw supplied, as though he could read her addled thoughts. His voice was pleasant, his accent hinting at Scottish origins.

Alice rose. Her legs were shaky—but that must be because she’d just spent a very tense few minutes keeping up with a racing telegrapher.

She breathed in, accepting his compliment and straightening with pride. She realized that since he was a telegrapher himself, he would know exactly what she’d just accomplished.

“How do you do?” Alice held out a hand to offer a handshake. After all, they were greeting each other as colleagues, even if his position in the company was higher than hers.

He looked momentarily surprised but didn’t hesitate to respond. He grasped her hand with a warm grip that was neither too firm nor too weak, but which somehow made her legs wobbly again. “We’ve already had a few conversations, haven’t we, Miss McNeil? Via the wire, I mean.”

His eyes were as warm as his smile. His gaze lingered for a moment on her new scarf, but he seemed more intent on her face. As though he were trying to get to know her by studying its contours. Not that there was much to see, Alice thought. Lucy always told her she was too thin, and Alice was well aware that her angular face and straight nose were not the least bit interesting. Perhaps he’d noticed how the scarf highlighted her eyes?

Alice McNeil, do not go down that path, she told herself sternly. She was not about to become one of those vain and frivolous women who cared about such things. “Yes. The, er, wire.”

It really shouldn’t be this hard to breathe. Alice swallowed and tried to find air.

Mr. Shaw released her hand, and Alice turned, reaching for the paper on which she’d scrawled the telegram from Liverpool, intending to hand the missive to Mavis.

She was stopped by Mr. Shaw, who extended a hand toward the paper. “May I?”

Did he plan to check her work? He would have to know that, as a first-class telegrapher, she would find that insulting. But she wasn’t in a position to object. “You already know what it says, I’ll wager,” she hedged.

He winked. “You’re right.”

Mr. Henley motioned for Alice to hand Mr. Shaw the paper, so she reluctantly did so.

Mr. Shaw read it over. “I see you filled in a few places where the sender dropped a letter in his hurry to send this. This E and that T, for example.” He leaned closer to show her the words he was referring to. He was a good two inches taller than she was. There was a vague smoky scent coming from him, as though he’d spent his recent train ride in the smoking car. “Not to mention the terrible gaps he put between the words. As you noted, he meant ‘to the train’ although to my ear it sounded like ‘tot he train.’”

“It was sloppy of him,” Alice agreed, impressed at how much he had caught, especially as Mr. Henley had been talking the entire time. “You have good ears.”

It was the usual compliment offered by telegraphers to someone who was adept at translating incoming messages by sound rather than by waiting for the Morse code to be printed onto paper by the machine. Why, then, did she find her eyes straying to his ears? Although partially obscured by his hair, she couldn’t help but notice that they were perfectly shaped and lay at just the right angle to his head, neither too close nor sticking out too far. Of course.

“I’ve been doing this for nearly fifteen years,” he replied. “And you?”

Was he really asking a lady to give a hint of her age? She narrowed her eyes at him, but he was smiling and seemed genuinely interested.

“As Mr. Henley mentioned, I learned it as a child. My father is a telegrapher. He worked for many years at the railway station in Ancaster. I spent a lot of time with him there.” She paused, embarrassed that she had given out so much information without his even asking for it.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He merely nodded. “That would go a long way toward explaining why you are so good.”

He handed the paper to Mavis, who received it as if it were a special love note just for her. The stars in her eyes were so obvious that Alice was tempted to roll her own in response. It instantly brought her back to herself. She would never get foggy brained over a man. She could respect his talent and admire his drive to get on in the world, but neither of those things should be leaving her breathless.

The sounder picked up with another message. “Excuse me,” she said, relieved for the excuse to turn away from his smiling gaze.

She took her place again at the telegraph. This message was coming from London’s Central Telegraph Office. It was delivered in a smooth, competent hand that wasn’t racing. As Alice worked, the two men went into Mr. Henley’s office and shut the door behind them.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Mavis said as soon as Alice had finished receiving the message and was at liberty to talk again. “He’s such a nice man. And so handsome, too.” She leaned eagerly toward Alice over her typewriter. “Didn’t I tell you he was handsome?”

She had. Many times. So had Archie—although in his case it had been in the context of insinuating that Mr. Shaw had risen in the company solely on account of his good looks and his ability to flatter potential clients. But the fact that Mr. Shaw had caught those specific details about the missing letters simply by ear and while talking with someone else at the same time, was extraordinary. A talent for telegraphy didn’t necessarily mean he had business acumen, but it did indicate a sharp mind.

And there was no doubt that he was easy on the eyes. . . .

Alice cleared her throat and marshaled her thoughts. “I look forward to working with him,” she said, putting no more emphasis on it than she would if discussing any other work colleague.

She wasn’t going to say any more. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny she was glad that Mr. Shaw was so pleasant and competent. Mr. Henley could be terse and bark out orders, and Archie was, well, Archie. Mr. Shaw’s presence could only improve the atmosphere here.

As for his being handsome, that was more likely to be a distraction than a help. It was best she got used to it as soon as possible so that Alice could keep her mind where it belonged—on her work.

“That can’t be right.” Mr. Henley looked up from his desk, where he was making notes as Douglas relayed details about his trip that had not yet been typed up for the official report.

Douglas stopped midsentence. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said, ‘Two hundred bales of cotton from Ancaster.’”

Startled, Douglas shook his head. “Did I? I meant to say Alabama, of course. Two hundred bales of cotton from Alabama at four dollars per bale, in addition to the shipment from Georgia, twice the amount at the same price per bale. Shipping fees add twenty-five cents per bale. All total, I put the sum after conversion at sixty-four pounds, three shillings, and nine pence. We should easily make a profit by selling the cotton at the standard rate here in England, or perhaps even a little lower if we want to leverage our advantage over our competitors.” For some reason this information came out unusually rapid. So rapid that he felt a touch breathless as he finished.

Henley studied him for a moment, his mouth quirking up in an expression Douglas couldn’t decipher. He nodded and began scratching the numbers on the paper, totaling the sums himself to ensure they matched the totals Douglas had given him. Henley always did this. It wasn’t that he distrusted Douglas’s tallies; it was simply that he always double-checked the financial sums for everything in the business.

As he worked, Douglas thought over his verbal gaffe. Ancaster. That was where Alice McNeil said she was from. Somehow that tidbit had lodged in his mind. In one sense, that wasn’t surprising. Douglas’s memory was excellent. He retained a wide range of information from many sources. However, he was usually better at compartmentalizing it. How had Ancaster slipped into his discussion of business in America? He supposed it wasn’t unusual that she would be on his mind. He had just met her, after all, and he’d been impressed by her ability to focus on the incoming message despite the distractions. He’d also enjoyed that taste of her sense of humor while eavesdropping on her conversation with Clapper. What other interesting things might he learn about her?

He smiled as he recalled the way she had given Clapper a dose of his own medicine—something that was greatly needed. Miss McNeil’s predecessor was a mediocre telegrapher who tended to make mistakes under pressure. That had been bad for the company, if good for Clapper’s sense of superiority. Clapper would have to work hard to prove himself better than Alice McNeil. From what Douglas had seen today, their competition was already underway.

It was a prospect Douglas was greatly looking forward to.