The Reformer

by Jaima Fixsen

  “I beg your pardon?” Mary asked.

  He leaned closer and Wimpole Street disappeared. They were alone, deep in the cave of his umbrella. “Come with me,” he repeated. Perhaps it was the cold, or his eyes. Either way, Mary was too mesmerized to question the command. Still, he felt it necessary to explain. “I live next door.”

  He might have said Peru. “Thank you,” Mary breathed, setting her chill hand on his offered arm.

  He smiled. “Come along.”

  Sheltering her with his umbrella, he brought her to his own front door, safe in the lee of his arm. It didn’t feel like she was walking, but she must have, for they were here beside the brass plate bearing the number thirteen. He fumbled for his key. It took a moment to persuade the lock, but at last it turned; Mary had never heard such a beautiful sound. It seemed like they fell inside together.

  The hall was dark, silent. All she could see in the shadows were his hands as he turned up the lamp. “That’s better,” he said, his brown eyes softening like wax in the glow. “Now, what shall we do with you?”

  The most delicious fear ran through her. Mary shivered.

  “You look half-frozen,” he said.

  She didn’t feel that way. Yes, she’d lost connection with her fingers and toes, but really—with your brain in a froth and your heart whirring, who cared about trivialities?

  “Pardon?”

  She must have tried to speak. Must come at it again. “You’re very kind,” Mary managed. For the first time, she understood why ladies fainted. She would too, if she could manage it, just to swoon into those arms.

  He licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice crumbled like gravel. “It’s no day to be caught outside.” Some decision settled on him; he caught her fingers and began striding for the stairs. “What’s your name?” he asked without slowing.

  “Mary Buchanan.”

  He stopped at that, turning to look at her. “Buchanan?” He swallowed. “The doctor’s—daughter?”

  Mary nodded.

  She thought he swore under his breath. “Of course. I heard there was one. How stupid of me.” Changing direction he steered her through the nearest door with only his fingertips. Once she was there he stepped back, stranding her on the hearth rug while he bent to light the fire. “My name is Samuel Brown.” He didn’t look at her. Once the fire caught, he moved aside, motioning her to step forward. “You must make yourself warm before your nose drops off.” The admonition came with a kind smile.

  Mary frowned. This was different. He was different. The intense pull she’d felt was gone, smothered as if it had never been. Brisk now, he circled the room, lighting candles and turning up lamps. He even pulled back the curtains, not that either of them could see through the flow of water trickling down the panes. The drum of water on the roof and the clank of the beleaguered gutters were suddenly loud. Mary dropped her gaze to her fingers.

  “You thought I was a servant, I suppose.”

  He said nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter, I’m perfectly happy in the kitchen,” Mary said.

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t be alone with me,” he said.

  Her wet skirts felt impossibly heavy. “Well, I’m not going back outside!”

  “Of course not. Wait here. I’ll fetch my housekeeper.”

  He vanished before she could say anything, leaving her to stare at the closed door.

  God in heaven. What had happened back there? Samuel dispatched his housekeeper to the drawing room, then escaped up the stairs two at a time. He stopped in front of his dressing table, bracing his hands on the cool surface and avoiding the mirror. He couldn’t remember the last time lust like that had gripped him. Thank God he’d asked her name.

  He reached for a towel to blot his hair, wishing it would hide him. Any name, any name at all should have stopped him. He hoped it would have, but hated that he wasn’t sure. Lechery wasn’t even his usual vice. The toils of the flesh seldom troubled him, but then he wasn’t usually confronted so forcefully—the muslin of her gown turned grey as gossamer and the naked skin pale beneath. He’d wanted to bite the colour back into her blue lips and explore beyond that row of shiny teeth.

  Pig. He shucked his coat off and unwound his cravat, hastily armouring himself in fresh ones, precise with the knot and the buttons. He’d been caught unawares, but thankfully no harm was done. The girl thought he’d merely mistaken her for a servant. She seemed sufficiently innocent not to have picked up on anything else. She must be, else why had she fallen in with him so easily?

  The miniature of Elspeth looked up at him from the dressing table and his shoulders fell, his confidence crumbling. What would she have thought? His finger traced the edge of her frame.

  I’m not usually so unworthy. I just forgot, for the smallest moment.

  Of course, sometimes it only took a moment for the world to change. He knew that better than most.

  I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

  The apology helped, but couldn’t banish his feelings of guilt. Normally he was good at keeping focused on his work. Samuel pinched his mouth together. He would confide in Neil. That would cleanse his conscience.

  Easier now that he’d resolved to see his friend, Samuel put away thoughts of the mermaid from next door and reached for a notebook and pencil. He’d suffered a lapse, but nothing hard work couldn’t set right. He’d been eager to commit his impressions of Lord Althorp’s speech to paper before the girl diverted him. It had been a good speech with phrases he didn’t want to forget. His pencil scratched against the paper.

  He barely looked up when his housekeeper came upstairs for blankets and dry towels, and his thoughts stayed at his desk where they belonged. Writing always helped, no matter the discouragement or the distraction. These words, spreading willy-nilly on the page, reminded him what was important. George the IV was dead, so they must elect a new parliament. The new king, his brother, hadn’t dismissed the reform question. For the first time in decades, there was hope.

  Two

  After a half hour, Samuel put his writing away. He mustn’t be a coward. The girl was still here and something needed to be done. Keeping his face smooth and his steps soft, Samuel went back downstairs and listened at the door of the drawing room. The girl was there, making wooden conversation with Mrs. Wilkins, his housekeeper. She didn’t see him. Better that way, Samuel thought. He picked up his hat on his way through the hall and splashed through the rain to his neighbour's door. This time, the house had more lights.

  A frightened maid answered the door. In the midst of introducing himself, Samuel understood why. A man was shouting—bellowing, actually—at some unlucky soul.

  “Missing someone?” Samuel asked.

  Her cap was crooked, like she’d had to hurry to pin it on. It shook as she nodded.

  “No need for alarm. I found her. May I come in?”

  She brought him inside. “This way,” she whispered. She cleared her throat as they came in the room, but her employer didn’t hear. His face was bright as beetroot, and he was roundly abusing a woman Samuel took to be the cook. It was acutely uncomfortable to watch, but the situation improved when he saw the cook giving as good as she got.

  “I shall take my things and go.” She folded her arms.

  “You’ll have no reference!” the doctor roared.

  “Naturally not,” she said.

  “And you may not leave until you find my daughter! She should not be—”

  “It’s always been my understanding that Mrs. Yates is in charge of the young lady. This evening’s roast beef, now, that’s my concern. It will be a pity to see it burned to a crisp, but since I gather—”

  “Sir—” Best to interject now before the doctor went purple.

  The man seemed to choke a moment, taking in Samuel, then gathered himself. “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing in my house?”

  Someone needed to show this disgrace of a man that a gentleman kept his temper. “My name is Samuel Brown.” He did not bow
, and his accents were cold and clipped. “I have found your daughter.”

  Embarrassment made the man dismiss his cook. “You are not to leave, mind!” She marched out, saying she would consider it, while the doctor sculpted a more pleasing face and smoothed his waistcoat. “Forgive me. I’ve been most anxious.”

  “Out of your mind with it, I see,” Samuel said coolly.

  The doctor had a beard, apparently so he could bristle at every provocation, of which there were many. “And where is she now, Mr. Brown?”

  “Drying out in my drawing room. If she is such a care on you, I suggest you might provide her with a key. I found her forgotten, locked outside the house in the rain.”

  The doctor inhaled, adding a couple of inches. “She had no one’s permission to venture out.”

  “Then I suggest you teach her to mind you. She might have been subject to any sort of mischief out there alone.” His rising temper made him forget his own culpability. “Among my acquaintance, we are careful with our ladies.”

  Dr. Buchanan went an ugly shade of puce. “Among your acquaintance! Pray, what other customs prevail among vandals and revolutionaries? Chopping off heads and bringing down governments? We are fortunate to have your singular example to follow here on Wimpole Street. I expect you’ve taught Mary ‘La Marseillaise’ and—”

  “I have treated Miss Buchanan with nothing but the utmost respect,” Samuel said, but the memory of his reaction to her wet skin brought a flush to his cheeks. Dr. Buchanan’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’d rather hear it from Mary.”

  “You shall,” Samuel said, furious now. The doctor’s suspicions were no less insulting for being very nearly right. Anger at her, the weather, her beast of a father, and particularly himself scorched his skin. He felt brittle enough to snap. “If you’ll come and fetch her, I shall be greatly relieved.” The doctor followed him outside and into his own house, marching into the drawing room where they found Mary, swathed in blankets, holding a half-finished cup of tea. As she stood, the blanket slipped. She was clad only in his dressing gown. Her dress and stockings and underthings hung steaming before the fire. Samuel froze. He hadn’t expected this.

  “Put on your clothes at once!” Dr. Buchanan ordered.

  The girl shrank, grappling for her wet things. In her haste, the gathered edges of his dressing gown slithered apart, treating them to a glimpse of sloping breast and firm calves. It was not erotic in the least. The poor child was terrified. “No need for alarm,” Mrs. Wilkins said, stepping forward to shield the girl. “I brought Miss Buchanan some dry things and got her warm, and she’s been kind enough to tell me about the neighbourhood.” She might have been speaking of a girl of seven, but Dr. Buchanan showed no signs of being mollified. Apparently he’d have preferred to find her blue-lipped and shivering in her own sodden clothes.

  “This is the height of impropriety, coming alone to a bachelor establishment, consorting with rebels in a state of undress!” He stormed past Mrs. Wilkins and reached for the girl’s arm.

  “Please don’t drag me outside in Mr. Brown’s dressing gown.” Her quiet voice stopped her father, as he realized the scandalous picture that would present. He gathered himself with a breath.

  “Of course. You must have time to change.”

  “Let me help you, my dear.” Mrs. Wilkins gathered the remaining shift and stockings and bundled Mary out the door.

  Samuel stood across the room from Dr. Buchanan, counting seconds. Neither of them had anything to say.

  Away from the fire, chill gripped Mary again. She struggled into her damp clothes, unable to look past the shield of her lank hair. Mrs. Wilkins made soothing noises, but Mary was too wounded for sympathy. Mere seconds ago she’d been happy, picking seed cake apart with her fingers and trying to imagine what would happen when Mr. Brown returned. Once he got over the embarrassment of his mistake, things could be right between them. Those first moments had held such promise! She’d been excited, expecting something wonderful, replaying the scene of her rescue in her mind until it became like the meeting of Ivanhoe and Rebecca, that place in her smuggled copy of the book that opened almost on its own, she’d read it so often.

  Instead he’d reappeared with her father. Papa was furious, convinced it had been sordid. It wasn’t, not in the least, but she was mortified that he’d cheapened what she identified as the thrill of romance. He’d shouted at her in front of Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Brown. It was as bad as if he’d beaten her. Then he’d blamed her for being locked out in the wet and the cold, when in truth, the household had forgotten her. Shamed and made to feel ridiculous, Mary fumbled a button and bit down on her trembling lip.

  “It isn’t your fault.” Mrs. Wilkins squeezed Mary’s shoulder. “Remember that.”

  “Won’t make any difference,” Mary said, and hiccupped.

  “It makes a world of difference. You can hold up your chin knowing you’ve done nothing shameful, while your father disgraces himself with that temper—” She drew a breath and paused to lace Mary up the back. “It’s not my place, I know, but I’ve rarely seen something so ugly. You aren’t to blame simply because he chooses not to rule himself.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins.” She felt a little better, working her arms into the damp sleeves.

  Mrs. Wilkins fastened her up. “Are you ready to face them? We can take a moment longer if you like.”

  Mary smiled weakly. “I think it’s best not to delay.” She could scarcely think of Papa without quaking.

  “If you say so.” Mrs. Wilkins smoothed the wet and weedy hair back behind Mary’s ear, bolstering her courage with a smile. Mary was grateful, especially once they returned to the drawing room and she saw her father, still rigid with mortification. Both he and Mr. Brown might have been made of iron. They didn’t look like they hadn’t exchanged a single word. More tentative now, Mary advanced into the room.

  “Thank you, sir, for your kind help,” Mary told Mr. Brown, ignoring her father’s lowering eyebrows. She had to say something. He couldn’t wish her to be as ill-mannered as that.

  “It was my pleasure,” Mr. Brown said, in accents denoting anything but. Mary’s eyes flew up beseechingly, but he stared past her and the gilded dream she’d scarcely begun tarnished. How could he avoid being offended after such insults from Papa?

  Her father managed something between a bow and a nod. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. We won’t trespass any longer.” He took her elbow and hurried her out the door, his stride lengthening so she had to scurry to keep up. The front door closed behind them with awful finality. Mary flinched. Even once he brought her inside, she was afraid to look up at him.

  “How much laudanum did you give your aunt?”

  “A spoonful. Only a spoonful.” Mary’s chin dropped lower.

  “I’ll have to dilute the syrup again. She—” He gave an exasperated sigh. It was better than shouting. “Do you know what kind of danger you were in?”

  “He was polite.” Mary frowned at her fingers.

  “A man might seem that way—” he broke off. “You are not so young as you were. Men are not harmless, least of all one like that. Do not speak to him again.”

  Mary nodded. It was the only thing to do, but she hated herself for it.

  “There will be no more gadding about. Is that clear?”

  Another nod. She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t come home, why no one had been there to receive her, but knew if she tried she’d start crying. She’d had all the indignity she could stomach.

  Alone in her room, Mary towelled off her hair, removed her heavy clothes and draped them once more in front of the fire. Cook had come up, apologizing for going out. Her brother had been in an accident, and she’d scarcely had time to think when her young nephew summoned her. Her brother would live, said his doctor, but a broken leg would keep him a long time in bed and there were his children to consider.

  “I was out of my head with worry. When your papa lit into me, I was ready to pack up and go.”

&
nbsp; “You aren’t leaving?” Mary clutched Cook’s arm. If she lost her, after everything else…

  Cook shook her head. “No. Saved by the roast. He’s got a squalling kind of temper, but forgets once it blows away. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to face the inconvenience of replacing me. Don’t you worry, I shall owe your father a good many fine suppers, but all will be well. I won’t be leaving. With my brother unable to work, his family will need all the help I can give them.”

  Mary stuffed her arms into the nightdress Cook held out to her. “I’m sorry I got you into trouble. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  Cook smiled. “Don’t you be parting with your pocket money. It’s little enough.” She left Mary with a tray: chocolate and warm bread and butter on a pretty china plate. It helped, but couldn’t comfort her.

  Three

  A letter to Neil Murray, care of the offices of England’s notable engineers, Rennie and Sons, left Samuel Brown’s house with the rest of Wednesday’s morning post. By mid-afternoon it lay on Neil’s desk, but was soon hidden by bills of lading, reports, and detailed drawings of the New London Bridge, accumulating higher and higher like layers of sediment. When Neil Murray himself arrived and dropped into the leather chair he was too weary to excavate the letter, even if he had known of it.

  With a sigh of resignation, Neil worked his fingertips into his temples, then opened his eyes to discover the foreman, Gerald Tyler, hovering at the door.

  “Is your crew done for the day?” Neil asked.

  Mr. Tyler shrugged. “We’re stalled for now. Did you refuse that load of stone?” As the foreman moved, Neil caught a glimpse of the patterned muslin gown belonging to his sister. Miss Tyler must have come again to collect her brother. She was pretty, her cheeks round and rosy, but she hid from his view.

  “It took three-quarters of an hour, but once I explained we can’t build a bridge with flawed stone, and that I’d take up the matter with their employers, they took it away.” Thank God. Scarcely a block of it was sound and he had no space for useless material.