direction.
“The newspaper is going to do nothing to acknowledge the maharajah?”
“You could amend your article and refer to rumours that he had a secret horde of diamonds. Yes...” He nodded to himself. “That could be quite helpful for circulation.”
Lucy frowned. “I hope the British Crown, even if it took a hundred years, would show humility and admit to the wrongs done to him, his people, and the Punjab.”
“How dare you be so unpatriotic? I’ll not have anything critical of the Crown or the British Empire in my newspaper!” In his anger, a fleck of snot fell from his now-beetroot-red nose.
Lucy didn’t want to be deferential, but she had to find a way to satisfy his ego. “Queen Victoria always maintained great affection for the maharajah. Do you think she would be delighted if she heard reports that the Sandsend Road was to be renamed in his honour…because of action taken by the editor of The Whitby Herald? ”
Sollett rose from his chair and paced up and down the office. He gazed at the large painting hanging behind his desk of Queen Victoria and went over to remove a speck of dust on its surface. He stepped back, adjusting the frame on the hook to make it level. “I will give some thought on this matter but can’t promise anything,” he muttered with his back to her.
She wanted to jump in the air in satisfaction, convinced he was deciding where to place such a letter of praise from the Queen. Lucy guessed it would be mounted in a gold leaf frame and placed inches away from his painting. She fought to suppress a smug smile as Sollett turned round and fixed her with an icy stare.
“I am grateful,” she said. She didn’t care if he took all the credit for the campaign. It was still a rare victory in her career as a reporter.
“Don’t be too presumptuous, Lucy. You don’t seem capable of holding gainful employment for very long, whether it is that of a schoolteacher or reporter in Canterbury and now Whitby.”
She repressed her temper and said, “I want to cover other stories. Not just about new babies born in the area, flower shows, and the latest fashions from London and Paris.” She hoped he would take the hint. He didn’t.
“Your father owns a newspaper in Sheffield. Why don’t you work for him?”
“I want to make my own way in journalism.”
Sollett maintained his icy stare. “How long will you be at The Whitby Herald until you run away?”
Lucy thought it was best not to reply. He had a point. She was a wealthy, young woman in her own right. Instead, she placed the folder on the editor’s desk and watched as he inspected its contents.
“We cannot use the photograph,” he said. “It does not reveal anything. Have a messenger return it to the studio.”
Suddenly, the memory of the photographer at the castle came to her. If he’d not grabbed her arm, she would have fallen and been injured—or killed. Lucy shuddered.
“Your draft article is fine. We will keep it nice and brief and put it near the back of the newspaper. The last thing we want to do is give free publicity to Hood. Perhaps you do have the makings of a good reporter in time.”
“Have you reached a decision on whether I can do an article on Frank Hawk, Whitby’s favourite children’s entertainer?”
“Yes, you can proceed.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, the meeting was over.
His closing remarks brought her a little cheer. She returned to her desk in a better frame of mind. But she had a strange sensation when the photographer grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. As her body rested against him, she got an odd, tingling feeling. She couldn’t help but notice his warm and inviting brown eyes when she pulled away from him.
Lucy chastised herself for her foolishness. If she wanted any man in her life, he had to have high moral principles, not a man who associated with a fraud like Hood.
She looked into her journal at the newsworthy events of 1894. In January, she wrote about the problem
“The newspaper is going to do nothing to acknowledge the maharajah?”
“You could amend your article and refer to rumours that he had a secret horde of diamonds. Yes...” He nodded to himself. “That could be quite helpful for circulation.”
Lucy frowned. “I hope the British Crown, even if it took a hundred years, would show humility and admit to the wrongs done to him, his people, and the Punjab.”
“How dare you be so unpatriotic? I’ll not have anything critical of the Crown or the British Empire in my newspaper!” In his anger, a fleck of snot fell from his now-beetroot-red nose.
Lucy didn’t want to be deferential, but she had to find a way to satisfy his ego. “Queen Victoria always maintained great affection for the maharajah. Do you think she would be delighted if she heard reports that the Sandsend Road was to be renamed in his honour…because of action taken by the editor of The Whitby Herald? ”
Sollett rose from his chair and paced up and down the office. He gazed at the large painting hanging behind his desk of Queen Victoria and went over to remove a speck of dust on its surface. He stepped back, adjusting the frame on the hook to make it level. “I will give some thought on this matter but can’t promise anything,” he muttered with his back to her.
She wanted to jump in the air in satisfaction, convinced he was deciding where to place such a letter of praise from the Queen. Lucy guessed it would be mounted in a gold leaf frame and placed inches away from his painting. She fought to suppress a smug smile as Sollett turned round and fixed her with an icy stare.
“I am grateful,” she said. She didn’t care if he took all the credit for the campaign. It was still a rare victory in her career as a reporter.
“Don’t be too presumptuous, Lucy. You don’t seem capable of holding gainful employment for very long, whether it is that of a schoolteacher or reporter in Canterbury and now Whitby.”
She repressed her temper and said, “I want to cover other stories. Not just about new babies born in the area, flower shows, and the latest fashions from London and Paris.” She hoped he would take the hint. He didn’t.
“Your father owns a newspaper in Sheffield. Why don’t you work for him?”
“I want to make my own way in journalism.”
Sollett maintained his icy stare. “How long will you be at The Whitby Herald until you run away?”
Lucy thought it was best not to reply. He had a point. She was a wealthy, young woman in her own right. Instead, she placed the folder on the editor’s desk and watched as he inspected its contents.
“We cannot use the photograph,” he said. “It does not reveal anything. Have a messenger return it to the studio.”
Suddenly, the memory of the photographer at the castle came to her. If he’d not grabbed her arm, she would have fallen and been injured—or killed. Lucy shuddered.
“Your draft article is fine. We will keep it nice and brief and put it near the back of the newspaper. The last thing we want to do is give free publicity to Hood. Perhaps you do have the makings of a good reporter in time.”
“Have you reached a decision on whether I can do an article on Frank Hawk, Whitby’s favourite children’s entertainer?”
“Yes, you can proceed.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, the meeting was over.
His closing remarks brought her a little cheer. She returned to her desk in a better frame of mind. But she had a strange sensation when the photographer grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. As her body rested against him, she got an odd, tingling feeling. She couldn’t help but notice his warm and inviting brown eyes when she pulled away from him.
Lucy chastised herself for her foolishness. If she wanted any man in her life, he had to have high moral principles, not a man who associated with a fraud like Hood.
She looked into her journal at the newsworthy events of 1894. In January, she wrote about the problem
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