The Reformer

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Romeo and Juliet. It’s not the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, but I’m growing an appreciation of your Mr. Shakespeare. This Mercutio. He’s a man I can like.” She laid down her trowel. “Do you know the play?”

  “Not well.” Her fear of being spotted grew with each passing second, but Mary didn’t dare glance back to assure herself she was safely unobserved. If she wasn’t, she’d have to go back inside. So long as she pretended ignorance, she could linger, even if only this once. She might not get another good look at this face and Mrs. Chin was an excellent subject for drawing. Everything about her was smooth and delicate. Her movements were small and perfect as a butterfly’s, and her English faultless. Mary wanted to ask when and how she’d learned, but supposed that would be impertinent.

  “I’ve never seen such small onions,” Mary said, moving closer for a better look at the shoes.

  “Not onions. These are narcissus. They’ll be flowers, come spring.” Mrs. Chin buried another and covered it with a pat of her trowel.

  “Like the red ones you had last year?” The beds bordering the glass house on Mrs. Chin’s terrace had been a froth of crimson last spring.

  “No, these are different.” Mrs. Chin looked past Mary to squint at the terrace of number fourteen. “Anything would help that garden.” Displeasure marred her face for a moment, then she looked again at Mary. “Now that I think of it, narcissus might be just the right plant for you. They’re hardy. Why don’t you have some? Benjamin, will you see to it?”

  He wasn’t hers, but Mary coloured as he stepped close and placed the brown-skinned bulbs in her open palms. Interpreting the gift as dismissal, Mary thanked Mrs. Chin and prepared to leave, but Mrs. Chin had some parting advice.

  “Plant them like this.” She demonstrated. “Today would be best, but if not now, soon.”

  “I will.” Thanking her again, Mary turned to go, her ears pricked for the next lines of Romeo and Juliet. So intent was she on Ben’s “I mean, sir, in delay; We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day,” she almost missed the newspaper lying out on the table behind Mr. Brown’s house.

  Mary stopped. It was the Times. She’d missed yesterday’s and neither she nor Annie were allowed out. She’d have no chance to get a copy for several days and here was one, waiting for her. No serpent was necessary to tempt her. She wanted that paper, yearned for it. Mary glanced at the windows, then at Mrs. Chin and Ben Pickett reading and sorting bulbs behind her. If she was quick…

  Five steps and she clutched the paper, accelerating to her own house.

  “I’m not done with that.”

  Two bulbs fell from Mary’s hands. She turned around, biting her lip when she saw Mr. Murray. Angry again, and this time, perhaps with good cause.

  “This garden belongs to all the houses,” Mary said loftily. “You shouldn’t leave rubbish lying around.”

  “It’s not rubbish. I want to finish reading first.”

  Her fingers closed tighter. Better to brazen it out than back down. “Next time, don’t abandon it.” She turned and sped for the safety of her father’s study.

  “No, you can’t really—really?” His footsteps pursued her. “Little thief,” he muttered. Mary went faster, up the steps, over the carpet of brown leaves. Nearly there. Yes—she heaved a sigh of relief as she closed the window behind her, safe in her father’s library. And jumped when she heard a tapping on the glass.

  Mary whirled around. Mr. Murray was there, his hand outstretched for the paper. Mary jerked it behind her back, and watched his eyebrows fuse together.

  “Look here—” he began, but Mary wasn’t having it. Lifting one shoulder, she sauntered into her father’s chair.

  The rapping on the glass sped even faster, a relentless beat that had her hunkering her shoulders behind the opened newspaper. Impossible to concentrate on the latest article by S. Brown.

  Really! Mary set the paper aside and stomped to the window, banishing Mr. Murray with a yank at the curtains. There. He could knock as much as he pleased now—at least she didn’t have to look at him. Arms folded, she waited for the noise to stop. It did. Mary counted to ten, then risked a peek. Instead of glowering eyes and an angry jaw, she saw Mr. Murray’s retreating back. He stooped, and stooped again, picking up the bulbs she’d dropped on her flight across the lawn. He pocketed them, four, five, six… Mary looked at the side table. Beside the crumpled news-sheet, she had a bare half-dozen left.

  Though tempted to run after him and wrest away the bulbs, the scold in the back of Mary’s mind kept her still.

  Thieving is thieving. If you can steal his paper, he can steal your bulbs.

  Well. That may be so, but she didn’t have to like it.

  Six

  Neil stalked back to Samuel’s library. Samuel didn’t look up. “Your minx next door stole my newspaper,” Neil burst out.

  Samuel dipped his pen in the inkwell. “I can’t imagine why. Her father’s as Ultra Tory as they come. Probably only reads The Caledonian Mercury between worshipping at the shrine of Peel and Wellington.”

  “I wasn’t finished with it,” Neil seethed. He’d been halfway through an article condemning the bridge’s slow progress and criticizing Rennie’s design. For once Neil wished Samuel would exert himself to convince his editor to relax his policy on so-called ‘factual reporting’ and take a softer line—at least where London Bridge was concerned.

  Ignoring Neil’s frustration, Samuel beckoned him over. “Here. You can read part of tomorrow’s paper instead. What’s another word for conflict?”

  “Strife.”

  “Excellent.” With a satisfied nod, Samuel resumed writing. Unable to keep still, Neil circled the desk, throttling his temper. The confrontation with Miss Buchanan was juvenile and absurd, practically out of the nursery. After all, it was only a newspaper. She’d worsted him though, and Neil wasn’t gracious in defeat. Half a dozen blighting retorts danced on his tongue, the curse of his red hair and ready temper. Tell it to the hallway mirror, his father would say.

  It usually helped, but if Neil did that here he was sure to draw strange looks from Samuel’s housekeeper.

  “How would you describe Brougham’s speech yesterday?” Samuel asked, interrupting Neil’s thoughts.

  “Long.” Neil couldn’t come up with a more docile answer. He was tired. Last night he’d accompanied Samuel to the gallery in the House of Commons and they hadn’t gotten out until half past two. Because of the late hour, Neil had put up at Samuel’s for what remained of the night and although he had slept well, he hadn’t slept enough. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the fall of Wellington’s government and the speculation over who would form Grey’s—he just didn’t care enough to go back for more speeches tonight until two or even three. Samuel, irritatingly, was cheerfully inexhaustible this morning.

  “I was thinking mellifluous.” Samuel brushed his lips with the tip of his quill.

  “Use both,” Neil said. It was still an apt and mercifully brief impression of the MP’s ninety-minute speech, laden with historical allusions. Worse than a lesson at school, Neil thought.

  “What are those?” Samuel demanded, focusing on Neil for the first time since he’d come in from the garden. Neil glanced down at his hands.

  “Some kind of bulbs. Tulip or narcissus.” There was some satisfaction in capturing these. Neil stuffed the bulbs in his jacket pockets, not caring if they spoilt the line of his clothes.

  “I didn’t know you were a gardener,” Samuel said.

  He wasn’t. Samuel knew perfectly well that had been Elspeth’s province. “I ought to complain to her father,” Neil muttered.

  “Whose father? Oh. The girl next door,” Samuel said. “Wouldn’t if I were you. Never met such a hot-tempered curmudgeon. I’ve enough trouble with him already. Have some breakfast.”

  “I’ve eaten.” Useless to suggest Samuel do the same. His coffee languished at his elbow, cold and forgotten, and he was back to writing again. Neil decided he might as well go
back for seconds. Someone had to do justice to the kedgeree.

  Alone at the dining table, Neil cleared his plate with too-large bites. Now he was calmer he could take stock of the situation. He’d underestimated her at his first sighting, but he was wiser after today. That Buchanan girl was trouble, as only a pretty, headstrong damsel of sixteen or seventeen could be. Worse, she had the bare-faced impudence you expected from an unruly six-year-old. Stealing his newspaper! Just what was she going to do with it? Grumbling internally, Neil set aside his empty cup. Samuel wouldn’t be ready for a jaunt to a coffee shop for at least an hour. He may as well go out and buy himself another copy of the paper. Donning his hat, Neil stepped out the front door into the street with a dark glance at the Buchanan house.

  She was a troublesome miss, but he would send her to the right-about. There were any number of beautiful ladies among Samuel’s acquaintance. Now Samuel was settled in the new house, it would be easy to convince him that a few select dinner parties would further the cause of reform. Samuel might even notice a lady he liked. A suitable, safe one. Neil’s younger sister had always said the best way to fix a loose end was by tying a knot.

  He’d see how Miss Buchanan enjoyed watching that from behind her windows.

  Seven

  Edinburgh, 15 November 1830

  Dear Neil,

  Thank you for your letter and the sketch of New London Bridge. I’m much impressed with the spans; men will gasp to see it. Makes me smile to think. We’re all so proud of you.

  No surprise to hear Samuel is working too hard—I expect you are as well, but you’ll pay me no mind. Do try to remember you needn’t take the weight of the world on your shoulders, Son. If Samuel finds a lass he loves, that’s a fine thing and I’ll be glad for him. None of us is well pleased he’s alone. Don’t be fretting over him. Samuel’s a grown man and can look after himself.

  We’ll miss seeing you for Christmas. Come when you can, before this newest grandbaby of mine gets to walking. She’s already sprouting teeth. Your older sister is none too pleased. Been bit twice, so they’re feeding her pap now.

  This Miss Buchanan you mentioned—I take it she’s pretty?

  Write again soon,

  Your loving Father

  Eight

  Even without a stolen copy of the Times, it was easy to learn why Mary’s father was so furious over the fall of Wellington’s government. He talked of nothing else, simmering for days. It was the end of Order and Civilization.

  There’d been riots. Fires in Bristol. But though the violence was decried in subsequent issues of the Times, purchased after much pleading to Annie and smuggled into the house, reports were optimistic and filled with hope. It was, according to the latest article by S. Brown, ‘the changing of the tides.’

  Samuel certainly looked jaunty, walking to and fro, scribbling behind his windows, setting out with pencils and writing tablets to observe debates at the House. It was like sharing a secret, watching him depart and reading his reports of the debate in the next issue of the newspaper. He seemed terrifically busy and was seldom at home, unless he was entertaining.

  There was, in fact, a great deal of entertaining going on at number thirteen. Mary watched avidly, and then with growing desperation as dozens upon dozens passed through his doors: Quakers, gentlemen in the old Whig uniform of buff trousers and blue coats (a piece of trivia gathered from her illicit reading), merchantmen, and—her heart trembled—ladies. Mary noted their figures, fine gowns, and coiffures as minutely as Aunt Yates tallied her household inventory, suspicious and nearly sick with envy. They were, without exception, beautiful.

  They were older, most of them, and probably spinsters, for they couldn’t all be married to the gentlemen at their elbows, many of whom were quite old. Spinsters, Mary told herself, but the word didn’t comfort her. If these ladies were spinsters, they made the state look so glamorous it all but amounted to blasphemy. They smiled and sparkled, walking to his front steps. At night they spilled into the garden escaping the heat of the crowded, candlelit rooms into the cold winter air. They laughed and argued, drank champagne and smoked as if they were men! And Mary had to admit, catching snatches of conversation as she shivered by her open window, that they sounded every bit as clever. Certainly cleverer than she. It hurt, hearing their voices mingle: Samuel’s, bold and jesting, the wittiest of them all, accompanied by a sparkling counterpoint from the curled and bejewelled ladies. He was handsome, even when he had ink stains on his cuffs and his fingers, and the ladies’ eyes followed him as if they were falcons and he was the lure. With a sick feeling, Mary realized she did too, but it was worse since she watched unseen. What would a man like Samuel want with her, a little brown house sparrow?

  That day in the rain. How he must have laughed.

  But the way he looked at you. Remember?

  She remembered. It was hard to think, watching him with his guests, that he would ever notice her again.

  Mary heard a bass rumble and frowned, rearranging her cold feet under her blanket. He was always there, that angry one, Mr. Murray. No one was with Samuel Brown more often than he, but his voice was low and seldom heard above the rest. He didn’t like her. Just as well, for she had no liking for him. He was a watcher, too.

  He spotted her the following week while he walked by with Mr. Brown. Mary peeked at them from the drawing room window, her sketchbook forgotten on her lap. Mr. Brown walked swiftly, talking with his hands, and didn’t see her, but Mr. Murray’s sharp eyes found her own. Mary flinched, remembering the stolen newspaper and the six remaining bulbs tucked away in her stocking drawer. It was February now and probably too late to plant them.

  “Is it too late to plant narcissus?” she asked, leaving the window and turning around to Aunt Yates.

  “I don’t know, dear.” Aunt Yates was paging through Roget’s Thesaurus, hunting superior words. Something better than ‘grief,’ for the change in government had inspired her to write a dirge. “You could ask your father.”

  Mary knew better. Papa’s appointment book was full today and he’d been out most of the night before treating a case of pleurisy. Lord Althorp, the Whig leader in the House, had just given a speech to much acclaim. It was certain to set Papa off. Mary had been cautious all day since learning of it, hoping her father would take dinner at his club, sparing her and Aunt Yates his mechanical chewing interspersed with prophecies of doom. No, she wouldn’t trouble Papa with such a matter. It was bound to make him suspicious. Mary went down to the kitchen.

  “Is it too late to plant narcissus?”

  Cook kept herbs in pots in the windowsills, but she wasn’t sure about flowers.

  “Try it,” suggested Annie. “What’s the worst that can happen? They’ve no chance of growing if you don’t put them in the ground.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Mary smiled gratefully and sat down to help Annie black the boots. “Will you see Ben today?” Mary asked, though the answer was fairly certain. Annie glowed.

  “Perhaps.” Annie’s smile was prim, her cheeks pink. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Now the theatres are open again he says he’d like to take me.”

  Mary’s eyebrows rose. Annie was given afternoons, but never evenings off.

  “I told him it’s too much. Come summer, I’m happy to go to Bartholomew Fair.”

  Mary felt a pang of jealousy that Annie could be so confident of Ben, so certain, come summer, he’d still want to take her. Of all the admiring housemaids for streets around—and it wasn’t just housemaids, Mary admitted to herself—Ben’s eye had fallen on Annie with her freckled nose, saucy smile, and flyaway hair. Lucky Annie.

  Mary wished she were bold enough to ask what kissing was like. Instead she nudged Annie with her knee. “Summer? You two are making plans, then?”

  “Maybe.” Annie’s chin rose at the teasing, and Cook leaned into the bread dough on the table with unusual vehemence.

  “Go back to talking about flowers,” Cook said.

  Unfort
unately, two afternoons of searching failed to unearth the garden tools Aunt Yates claimed had once been on the second shelf in the cellar. This sparked furious muttering and a need to revisit the household inventory, but it spared Mary from having to explain why she wanted them and where she’d obtained the bulbs. When the inventory was at last updated to Aunt Yates's satisfaction, Mary prepared to venture into the garden with her bulbs and an old spoon Cook had kindly provided.

  “Don’t lose it now,” she said and winked.

  “I won’t.” Cook might smile, but it was no joke to Mary when things went missing. She must have spent hours going up and down the stairs. “Thank you for the apron,” Mary said, though she wouldn’t count spoiling this particular gown as a loss. Aunt Yates was so drearily practical. Normally Mary didn’t mind terribly, but when she’d spent so many evenings watching ladies exit carriages in front of number thirteen in plum silks and turquoise velvet, she yearned for long gloves that wrinkled attractively at the wrists, or jewels winking in the dark.

  At the long window Mary stopped, all thoughts of fashion forgotten, her fingers resting on the latch. It was hard to see through the laurels guarding their terrace, but—yes, it was Mr. Brown. Mary’s fingers tightened round the handle of the spoon.

  Just go outside. It’s not as if he’ll notice you, whatever you’re wearing.

  She bit her lip and patted the curls around her ears. The dress couldn’t be helped, but she could lose the apron. Fumbling with the ties, she dropped it at her feet. She could come out from the bushes and pretend to be surprised. She could wish him good morning. Papa was in his consulting rooms, Aunt Yates working at her writing desk upstairs. Even if he only grunted in acknowledgement no one would see. And—and they’d been introduced, after a fashion. It was permissible to speak to him. If she asked him what he was writing…