Laurie Grant - Maggie And The Maverick

“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.

Garrick peered at his pocket watch, willed to him as the eldest Devlin son by his father. It was 3:00 a.m.

“One hundred copies,” he murmured as Margaret Harper pulled the last one off of the press. “I believe that will be enough for our first edition, Miss Harper, so I’ll bid you good-night.”

She stared back at him as if dazed, her green eyes dull with fatigue, her shoulders slumping slightly, and he knew a moment’s shame for having worked her so hard on the same day she had arrived on the stage. As soon as he’d finished writing the copy, he’d helped with as much of the work as he could, and bad been shocked by how heavy the typeset pages were once the tin letters were locked together. Why, they must weigh a good thirty pounds each, and Miss Harper hadn’t even mentioned it, let alone batted her eyelashes at him and praised his manly strength the way Cecilia used to do when she wanted something heavy toted for her.

Then, after some quick instruction by Miss Harper, he’d done the tedious “pulling of the devil’s tail” and run off copies of the Gazette while she belatedly ate her supper. His right shoulder throbbed as a result, and he marveled that she, of much slighter build, had yet to utter a first complaint.

Perhaps the Yankees were built of sterner stuff than he’d imagined. “You’ve worked very hard today, Miss Harper. That is to be commended,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for that story, of course, we needn’t have been in such a hurry, but this information can’t wait. Naturally I shan’t expect such a frantic pace out of you normally.”

He saw her chin go up again, the shoulders straighten and the light of battle rekindle those green eyes.

“Nonsense, Mr. Devlin,” she said briskly. “Every good newspaperman—or woman—thrives on the excitement of getting such a big story to its readers. Don’t fear you have to spare me just because I’m a woman. I’m used to working as hard as any man.”

He knew a grudging admiration for her stubbornness. Fine—if she wouldn’t complain, he’d be damned if he’d let on how much he hurt.

“Well and good, Miss Harper, but surely you had better retire for the night. It will be morning before you know it, and we’ll need to start planning the next edition.”

“Oh…oh, of course,” she murmured, as she turned and walked toward the stairs. “Good night, sir.”

She hesitated as she passed the remains of their hurried supper lying on the table, the grease-stained brown paper wrapping and a piece of crust from a steak sandwich. “I-I’ll just clean this up before I go upstairs, Mr. Devlin.”

“Never mind, Miss Harper, I’ll dispose of it,” he said firmly.

“Very well. Good night, then, Mr. Devlin.” He heard her trudge up the stairs, pull the creaky door open—he’d have to oil that hinge, he thought—and shut the door quietly behind her. A moment later an audible click announced that she’d locked the door from the inside.

He turned and surveyed the pristine black-and-white stack of papers. The ink still gleamed wetly on the top copy. Each one was a big sheet of paper folded in half, forming four pages filled top to bottom with his eloquent reporting of the story from Austin and his opinions about it. In just hours the townspeople would eagerly snatch copies from that stack, and his career as the respected editor of the Gillespie Springs Gazette would officially begin.