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couldn't get her breath, and then she was angry--so angry that she wished little Johnny wasn't there so that she could tell Garrick Devlin off before she quit and went to inquire about the next stage back to Austin. But little Johnny was there, and his presence stiffened her resolve. She'd be damned if she was going to let the man bait her into leaving before she'd even started.
"You have a...unique way of informing me it's none of my concern, haven't you, Mr. Devlin?" she replied in a voice that was as unruffled as she could possibly make it, so that the little boy wouldn't notice the tension that thrummed between his father and her. "Very well. Perhaps you should tell me what your goals and philosophy are in regards to your newspaper."
He blinked at her composed response. Point for me, thought Maggie--but don't expect me to be so restrained when your child is elswhere. I haven't got red hair for nothing.
"My goals and philosophy?" He leaned back in his chair and made a tent of his fingers. "Well, I reckon my goal is to start a newspaper worthy of the name, a paper that will expose the villainy of the carpetbaggers who have polluted our fair Texas soil, and the cancer of the go-along scalawags who would sell Texas itself for the right price."
She felt herself flushing as she realized he was again attempting to goad her.
"In other words, Texas right or wrong, is that your creed?" she shot back, but sweetly.
"Precisely, Miss Harper. Johnny, you may not have pie until you have some peas," Devlin commanded his son, who had taken advantage of his father's inattention to try and cut an enormous slice of peach pie for himself.
Johnny looked sulky. "Does Miss Maggie have to eat 'em too?"
"Why, yes of course, Johnny," Maggie told him with a smile. "That's one vegetable we don't have where I come from, and I find I quite like them."
The boy appeared intrigued. "You don't have no blackeyed peas?" he asked, looking as if he thought she must come from the moon for that to be true.
"Johnny, finish your dinner and let Miss Harper and your papa talk, please," Devlin said. "Miss Harper, I intend for the motto on the Gazette's masthead to be `Forever the Truth for Texas.' What do you think of that?"
Didn't he ever give up? "Indeed, I think that the truth is all any newspaper should print, sir. And I'm curious--what did you use for startup capital, if you don't mind my asking?"
She watched as a guarded look swept over his face, and then a sardonic smile. "Do you mean, how did I ever manage to find two bits to rub together after the Yankees swept in and the taxes went through the roof? It wasn't easy, Miss Harper, in the face of that, but like all sneaky rebels, we had some silver buried in the back yard."
She couldn't be sure, but she thought he was being sarcastic again. "All right, but if I may ask, what are you using for operating capital?"
He blinked. "I beg your pardon, Miss Harper?"
"Operating capital," she repeated. "You know, the cost of running your newspaper? The money that buys your ink and paper and pays for any needed repairs to that printing press over there? I see you have enough supplies to start--" she nodded towards the Washington hand press, sitting in the middle of the floor behind the counter in its shiny black glory, a cabinet full of rows of type cases, cylinders of paper and bottles of ink behind it. Devlin had paid a pretty penny for that press, she imagined, and wondered where the money had come from. None of the former rebels seemed to have any money left after the war, and his clothes, though neat and clean, were far from new or fancy.
"Why, the sale of my paper will supply the operating capital," he said, as if surprised. "I suppose it might occasionally be necessary to sell an ad to the general store, or print a wanted poster for my brother the sheriff, or an election handbill when Mayor Long is up for re-election, but I wish to keep my paper above the influence of those who would purchase space in it, Miss Harper. It's far more important to devote the space to expose the evils existing in Texas presently--"
"Lofty ideals, Mr. Devlin, but as an experienced newspaperwoman, I can tell you that your paper will starve for lack of cash nourishment if you think you can run it on nothing more than what the townspeople will pay for it. What did you plan on charging, sir? A nickel? This is a small town, and even if everyone subscribes, you won't make enough to keep it going. No sir, in my opinion, you will have to plan on selling advertisement space regularly. Most papers run each one for at least six weeks, which is very easy with stereotypes, the pre-made woodcut-and-type blocks patent medicine makers furnish. And you will have to do job printing during the day if you hope to survive--the paper can always be printed at night."
He looked momentarily dazed by all the information she had just thrown at him, but then he recovered, and Maggie could see he was restraining himself with some difficulty.
"Opinions are one thing you don't seem to lack, Miss Harper," he said at last. "Very well, I shall sell advertisement space. I imagine the proprietor of the general store will be happy to buy an ad on a regular basis. And then there's the milliner, and the barber--and of course Doc Broughton is always peddling some nostrum or other. Yes, Johnny, you may have a piece of pie now that you've eaten your peas. Here, I'll cut you a piece."
Maggie decided she wouldn't smash all his optimism in one sitting.
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