Beanie’s eyes flicked once toward Maisie, but she went on reading.
“We know the media baron is not such a new thing. We know of Mr. Hearst in America. But newspapers sponsored by corporations and corporations supporting political movements that seek to upend cherished liberties, all for the sake of greater profits? This is, we think, something of which the public should be aware and be wary. The BBC is, we hope, able to speak to the whole of society and present every point of view, however unpalatable, all so the public can further understand the world around them and think critically, so that each listener can be a well-informed citizen and thus the best possible Briton. The BBC is itself objective, but it will always be a strong proponent of the greatest freedom of the press and is sure the public is strongly in agreement thereof. Thus we feel it our duty to reveal this very well-planned attempt to undermine that freedom. You may be sure that these documents will be printed in full in all the newspapers—yes, the independent newspapers—for citizens to read thoroughly and determine their own opinion. That is, after all, what a democracy allows. Thank you, and we now return to our scheduled programming.”
Billy cut the mike and Beanie leaned back and grinned.
“Well. That was a jolly good show, I’d say.”
TWENTY-TWO
“You two are looking a bit all in. Stay a moment and collect yourselves.” Billy was shockingly courteous. Maisie didn’t need to be asked twice. Her head dropped straight onto the desk. Hilda patted her back.
Someone had passed on the word that the broadcast had been heard by Reith at his club, and he returned, breathing fire, only to be met by Beanie, who insisted that the whole affair was primarily her doing. “I’m well aware of what a number of my so-called compatriots have been involved with, and I don’t like it,” she said, and tendered her resignation. Which, as she said, was the perfect Act Three finale.
Maisie was gutted. “But you love your job, and you’re so good at it!”
“It was about to happen anyway,” Beanie said with a shrug. “The chickens have come home to roost and roost I must. I’m getting married, tra-la!” She wiggled her long fingers, showing off a new diamond.
“Oh,” said Maisie. “Congratulations. But . . . but look at Miss Somerville. You’re a producer. You can carry on working so long as you want, even if you have a baby.”
“Goodness, you are modern. But no, not for my sort. The fun has been had. The real work begins, as Mama says. Duty calls. I cannot shirk!”
“The BBC will be the lesser without you here. And so will we.”
For a moment, again, there was a twitch in Beanie’s eye. But she was too well trained to show regret, and she laughed her musical laugh and seized Maisie’s hand.
“We’ll have the most marvelous weekend house parties, and I’ll invite any number of interesting people. You will have to attend! Everyone will love to hear your stories. And of course we can have luncheons and things when I’m in London. So we’ll still see absolutely loads of each other and be great friends.”
“We will. That all sounds copacetic.”
When she was alone, Maisie wiped her eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if she never saw Beanie again. But it would be nice to be wrong.
There was a certain amount of amusement, kept silent, at Reith’s contorted efforts to hide his blind rage, because not only did the newspapers treat the story as an epic Christmas gift, but each one was also quick to credit the obvious brilliance of the BBC. Everywhere Reith turned, he was thwarted in his desire to punish. Two days later, the Listener ran a long article “by Maisie Musgrave” as a companion piece to the story, with extra details and so much wit, papers said: “It’s almost as if the author were part of the action.” An editorial in the Telegraph congratulating Reith on his selection of excellent staff forced him to retract his outstretched claw.
“I’m glad. The place wouldn’t have been the same without you,” Cyril told Maisie. “And you can really write, too. I mean, you’re really very good. You should keep it up, but you’ll stay here, too, won’t you?”
“I hope so. I’ve got a lot of stories to tell, you know.”
He nodded. The conversation seemed finished, and Maisie grabbed a notebook to go attend a rehearsal.
“Miss Musgrave!”
“Hm?”
“I just wanted to say, also, you don’t need any powder.”
“Er, what?”
Cyril turned bright red. “That Brock-Morland . . . when I delivered that letter for you. He said you needed powder. But you don’t. You look really . . . swell . . . without it. Just as you are.”