“Thank you, Mr. Dankworth,” I said, sparing him the discomfort of shaking another hand and offering a small tilt of my head instead. He appeared relieved. “I’ve learned a great deal from you.” Now he was confused. “I’m sorry I didn’t always show gratitude.”

Mr. Sweatman tried to hide his grin. He coughed and returned to his place at the sorting table. The others peeled away. I tried to hold Mr. Dankworth’s gaze, but he focused just beyond my right shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Miss Nicoll.” Then he turned and left the Scriptorium.

Soon after, Gareth arrived. He handed Dr. Murray some proofs he’d been waiting for, acknowledged Da and Mr. Sweatman, then made his way to me.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Mr. Hart chose this afternoon to remind us all about the rules.”

“The rules in his booklet?”

Gareth laughed. “They’re only the tip of the iceberg, Es. Every room in the Press has its own rules—surely you’ve seen them on the wall as you come in?”

I shrugged apologetically.

“Well, the Controller thinks we’ve all been blind to them and made sure every one of us read them aloud before leaving this afternoon.” He smiled. “As the new manager, I had to go last.”

“Manager? Oh, Gareth, congratulations.” Without a thought, I jumped up and hugged him.

“If I’d known this would be your reaction, I would have asked for a promotion sooner,” Gareth said.

Da and Mr. Sweatman turned to see what the excitement was about, and I pulled away before Gareth’s arms could encircle me.

Flustered, I gathered my bag and fastened my hat. I went over to Da and kissed him on the head. “I might be home late tonight, Da. Mrs. Murray said it could be a long meeting.”

“I won’t wait up, if that’s all right, Essy,” he said. “But I trust Gareth will see you home safe.” His smile nudged fatigue aside.

As we walked down the Banbury Road, I told Gareth about my own promotion.

“Well, not a promotion really—I’m still hovering on the bottom rung with Rosfrith—but it’s an acknowledgement.”

“And well deserved,” he said.

“Why do you think men come along to these meetings?” I asked.

“Because the organisers of the Oxford Women’s Suffrage Society have invited them.”

“Besides that.”

“Different reasons, I suspect. Some want what their wives and sisters want. Others have been told to be supportive, or else.”

“Which are you?”

He smiled. “The first, of course.” Then his expression sobered. “My ma had a hard life, Es. Too hard. And no say over any of it. I go to these meetings for her.”

It was after midnight when the meeting ended. We walked in a tired and comfortable silence back to Observatory Street.