Murder at Marble House(49)

“I . . . but . . .” Turning back to him, I struck my fists on the desktop, making Mr. Millford flinch. “How could you? That is my article—my headline. How can you just hand it to Ed like that, as if feeding him with a silver spoon?”

His brown eyes regarded me coolly. “I’ve told you before, Emma. You do fine work. You’d make a fine investigative reporter. . . if you were a man. But you are not a man, Emma. And people don’t want to read stories of violence and mayhem written by a woman. Not unless we’re talking about fiction, and even then . . .” Trailing off, he turned his attention to an open ledger book in front of him. He picked up a pen and made a quick notation while I stood on the other side of his desk, thunderstruck and doing my utmost to prevent my stinging tears from falling.

He glanced up at me briefly before returning his gaze to the figures in his book. “That will be all for now, Emma. Sorry to have brought you all the way into town for nothing.”

Even then, I didn’t leave. I couldn’t move. Surely that couldn’t be all. Surely I couldn’t be dismissed as easily as that. In my heart, I felt the spirit of my aunt Sadie give a nudge. I could all but hear her demanding justice, and prompting me to stand up—speak up—for myself.

But my throat constricted around the words, and my jaws ached from clenching my teeth. I knew if I attempted to push out so much as a whimper, those humiliating, bitter tears would spill over. Yet all the same, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

Mr. Millford finally looked up again. This time he set down his pen and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Emma, this is the world we live in. Women simply don’t report on heinous crimes like murder. I’m sorry. I’d change it if I could.”

“Would you?” I managed, my voice rasping like pebbles over sand.

“I gave you a job, didn’t I?” He attempted a placating smile.

I said nothing.

“And it’s a job you’re good at. Your Fancies and Fashions column is wildly popular.”

Still, I remained silent. It had suddenly occurred to me that the less I spoke, the more conciliatory Mr. Millford seemed to become. I wondered where it might lead....

He tapped his fingertips against his leather blotter. “How about if I start sending your society write-ups to the Providence papers? I bet they’d love to run them. Surely Rhode Island readers would eat up your accounts of Newport’s social season. You know, the insider’s view and all that. I’ll bet none of the Providence papers has someone like you working for them.”

Did he really think to placate me by expanding the circulation of my society page? I folded my arms and compressed my lips.

Mr. Millford snapped his ledger book shut. “All right, Emma. Ed gets this headline. But if you can crack this case—either prove or disprove Anthony Dobbs’s and Clara Parker’s guilt—that headline will be yours.”

Bracing my hands on the desk, I leaned over and across, bringing my face close to his. “Do you swear?”

His eyebrow went up; I’d clearly taken him by surprise. “I . . . I suppose so.”

“No, don’t suppose. If I can do the job—get the information and write you one spectacular story—you will run the headline with my name beneath it?”

“How would you feel about a pseudonym?”

“My name, Mr. Millford.” My hand closed around the nearest object, a heavy, brass-framed magnifying glass. I gripped the long handle as if the piece were a hammer and tapped it twice against the desktop. “My headline, my name. It’s no more than I deserve.”

Considering I’d been close to tears only moments ago, where on earth had this gumption come from? Silently I thanked Aunt Sadie while I continued to hold Mr. Millford’s baffled, startled gaze with my own.

“All right, Emma. Yes. Your headline, your name. But only if your story is truly front-page worthy.”

“Promise me.”

“Fine. I promise.”

I straightened and very nearly let out a whoop of triumph. Then his hand went up, the flat of his palm like a policeman’s warning to halt. “I want a promise, too, Emma. That you won’t go doing anything foolhardy or dangerous in order to get the story.”

That gave me pause, but only for an instant. “Fine. I promise I won’t do anything foolhardy.”

He didn’t seem to notice that I left out the word dangerous from my promise, or that we hadn’t settled on the meaning of foolhardy. Certainly I would proceed carefully and logically, just as I had when I had previously sought to clear my brother’s name of murder. If my careful and logical plan put me in danger . . . well . . . as I said, I had omitted that word from my promise.