The Reformer

by Jaima Fixsen

  “We should talk or this will get tedious,” Mrs. Chin said. “Are you always bored?”

  “I—”

  “What happened to your mother?” Mrs. Chin asked.

  “She died. Long ago. Before I can remember.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Pity made Mary uncomfortable. Losing a mother wasn’t uncommon, after all.

  In spite of Mrs. Chin’s exhortation to talk they worked in silence, soon depleting both the envelopes and the supply of bulbs. “What’s that?” Mary asked. It was hard to see beneath the scatter of envelopes remaining, but it looked like some kind of drawing.

  “This? Not one of my better ideas, I’m afraid.”

  “May I see?” Without waiting for an answer, Mary reached past Mrs. Chin and moved the envelopes aside, revealing an awkward sketch of the nearby fern.

  “I wanted to share this with a correspondent of mine in Ireland, but it didn’t turn out well,” Mrs. Chin explained.

  “I can draw,” Mary said. “Better than this, at any rate.” Which wasn’t saying much. Too late, she coloured. “I mean—is the drawing yours?”

  “No. I was much admired for my calligraphy, but I’m afraid I cannot reproduce life on paper. I don’t even try. This is Benjamin’s. It was good of him to make the attempt.” She frowned at it. “Not one of his strengths. He’s better with the Shakespeare, so I’ve got him working on that.”

  Perhaps she was a little mad, not merely eccentric. If Mary was counting oddities instead of bulbs, she’d have reached quite a number already. Mary filled another envelope, wondering if it was safe to ask if Mrs. Chin had succeeded at her previous appointment, and what the gentleman had said and done. Mrs. Chin was delicately sized; Mary didn’t like to think of her being berated by angry men with torn trousers. “The edges of the leaves are all wrong,” Mary said, deciding it was better not to pry. If she wanted Mrs. Chin’s friendship, she mustn’t be alarmed by her quirks. “But I could draw it for you.”

  “Do you draw much?” Mrs. Chin asked.

  Mary almost laughed. “Yes. I’ll show you. Let me run home for my sketchbook.” She untied her smock.

  In spite of her quiet tread, Aunt Yates heard Mary coming back down the stairs with the book under her arm. “I’m going out to the garden,” Mary said, forestalling any questions.

  “All right then. Bring a shawl.” Not waiting to see if Mary obeyed, Aunt Yates went back into the parlour, calling after her, “Did Annie sweep the carpet in the hall?”

  “Yes.” Yesterday. Grateful her aunt was happily consumed in the wrestle with rhyme and meter, Mary crept out of the house.

  Back with Mrs. Chin, Mary opened her sketchbook to a page showing a study of the street outside her window. A gap-toothed urchin danced clear of an oncoming carriage, her face the only interesting one among all the passersby. The rest looked down or forward, minding their own affairs. The subject wasn’t glamorous, but the drawing had life and motion. She could manage the simple duplication of leaves. “I can draw your fern,” she said.

  “But this is excellent.” Mrs. Chin went to turn the page.

  “You’ll let me try?” Mary reached for the book, suddenly uncomfortable. It was the repository of all her secrets: diary entries, scribblings, studies of her family veering from realistic to comical as she sharpened her satiric pen.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Chin deftly slid the book away and turned the page. “Mary! You never!” She laughed, her finger on a drawing of Mary’s father striding down the street with his doctor’s bag, his head in a fog of words: female hysteria, impudent jackanapes, blasted radicals, household waste. His foot was inches above a steaming pile of slops.

  “Just my private musings,” Mary said.

  “I see.” But she didn’t stop. “This is clever.” Mrs. Chin turned the page again. Smaller studies this time: Aunt Yates muffled in a mountain of shawls with only her nose poking out, and the Quakers that came to visit Mr. Brown drawn like a flock of ducks. Mary reached to stop her from turning another page, for the next sketch—she’d worked on it two days together—was a portrait of Samuel Brown.

  Too late. Mrs. Chin sighed and leaned away from the book, her hand smoothing the edge of the paper.

  Yet again Mary had tried to capture the bone-melting sensation of their first meeting. This time she thought she’d gotten close, but it was a drawing meant for her alone. No eye but an adoring one could capture the fall of hair over his forehead, or recreate the fervour and shine of his eyes. She’d been pleased with the drawing, but her secret was tawdry and embarrassing now, displayed for Mrs. Chin.

  “People are different than plants.” Mary scooped up the book and closed it. “But I think I will be able to manage your botanical drawings.”

  “Not so different,” Mrs. Chin murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “You are an artist. Please let me see.” She plucked the book from Mary’s numb fingers and opened it at the beginning, studying each page, turning past an old, infatuated drawing of Ben Pickett, past the bedraggled Mary and rain-drenched street. It was worse than having her father listen at her chest.

  “Did you draw this from life?” Mrs. Chin paused at a rough drawing of MPs walking into Westminster.

  “In a way.” She’d quickly memorized the scene last week from behind the carriage window on her way back from shopping with Aunt Yates.

  “I didn’t know you had an interest in politics.” Mrs. Chin paged over clipped articles and impudent cartoons.

  “Just since meeting Mr. Brown,” Mary said weakly.

  “Yes, I see.” She stopped and chortled at a bullfrog version of Mary’s father. “I like this one.” She tapped her finger against the page. “I think you’ll manage botanical drawings very well,” Mrs. Chin said. “I have a number I’d like done, but it will require a substantial portion of your time. More than the occasional call permits. I’m willing to pay you, but what of your family? I don’t expect they will like you helping me.”

  “They won’t know,” Mary said.

  Mrs. Chin studied her. Mary couldn’t tell what she concluded, only that some decision was made. “I love a good intrigue.” Mrs. Chin smiled. “Come, let me show you the first one. I’m quite fond of it, and it’s a beautiful specimen.”

  Ten

  London, 8 February 1831

  Dear Joseph,

  It’s been too long since I’ve penned a letter to my father-in-law. Forgive me. Too often it seems as if there are only sad things to say. Elspeth is often in my mind, along with the uncomfortable truth that she would still be with us if the world were different. Know that I am doing all I can to make it so. I miss her. You raised a wonderful daughter.

  I have a white hibiscus on my desk. You’ll remember her fondness for these flowers. It’s as lovely as she was, and when I am low it makes the world seem brighter. Like her, again.

  Last week I met a delegation of Reformers from Edinburgh—stout men, and determined. One told me there are groups of up to two dozen labourers who subscribe together to the Times! A single copy is passed round again and again, they are so hungry for news. It is a great responsibility to report the doings of the king and his ministers to them, but I am encouraged. With allies like these we must prevail, though I would sleep better if someone muzzled General Gascoyne. He is vociferous in his opposition to the Reform Bill and I fear gaining influence with some other MPs. The margins may prove slim, but if we can get it past the second reading, we are that much closer.

  I am seeing a lot of Neil. You’ll laugh to hear what a gadabout he’s become. Every night we go to some meeting or political party. I wonder if he’s at last thinking of settling down? A wife would be good for him. If he shows signs of attachment to any lady in particular, I will send you word express.

  Give my best to the others.

  Yours fondly,

  Samuel

  Eleven

  Dinners at the Crown and Anchor tavern, a popular gathering spot for reformers, always ended late. Too
much talk. Neil smothered a yawn and donned his greatcoat while Samuel made lengthy goodbyes. In spite of himself, Neil had enjoyed the evening. With Samuel for company he could listen, not talk. It didn’t hurt that the wine was excellent.

  When the ruddy-faced gentleman and Samuel had said all they wanted to, twice—they had all drunk rather heavily—Neil and Samuel stepped out of the tavern into the night.

  “A hackney?” Samuel asked.

  “Whatever you please.” Neil stumbled a little, righting himself with a conveniently placed iron railing.

  “Perhaps we should walk.” Samuel took his arm. “You’re a trifle bosky. The air might help and even if we drive, I’m too tired to see you home to your place tonight.”

  “Nonshense. I’m perfectly fine.” One word sounded wrong, but Neil pretended not to notice. He was quite capable of—

  “This way.” Samuel steered him to the right.

  Perhaps it was better to go along with Samuel. “If you insist. Good speech tonight.” With extra care, he managed the s sounds perfectly.

  “Thank you. Mind the gutter.”

  Neil kept on, heedless of the sudden drop. Samuel saved him from a fall, tugging him upright, with a laugh and a slap on the back. Neil laughed too and wiped his eyes. This was just like being back in school again: drinking too much, staying out too late, and stumbling home with heavy heads in the cold dark. He’d never have lasted at Shrewsbury if not for Samuel and without Samuel and Shrewsbury he’d just be a closed-mouthed fellow with a head for numbers, which would be a pity. He liked his work building things that changed the world.

  “See that roof? The pitch? Got to be hammer—” Neil tried to point it out, but Samuel nudged him on. “No, you don’t understand.” Neil waved his hands, trying to explain the beauty of strength and symmetry in roof trusses.

  “Daylight. Save it for daylight. I might have a chance of understanding then.”

  By the time they staggered through Samuel’s door, Neil was onto Reflections on the Motive Power of Fire and how there’d never be another engineer to match Sadi Carnot. Rennie’s sons were good, but Carnot—“He’s brilliant,” Neil mumbled. All the good ones died too young. Carnot. That poet his father liked. His younger sister.

  “You can tell me all about it in the morning. Go to sleep.” Samuel propelled him through the guest bedroom door, leaving him to dream a way out of his cravat.

  Neil woke facedown in the pillow, still in his trousers, with his eyes full of grit. Samuel, bless him, must have stopped in earlier to leave him a fresh neckcloth and shirt. Cautiously, Neil made his way to the washstand. After a good scrub he felt sufficiently alert to dress and make his way downstairs. As usual, Samuel was working at his desk, ignoring the trays of breakfast. Neil, unfortunately, didn’t feel equal to more than coffee and toast. A fine example of a coddled egg tempted him, but just a sniff and his stomach threatened revolt.

  Leaving off even the butter, Neil chewed a triangle of bread. A magnificent white hibiscus bloomed in a pot on Samuel’s desk. “Nice flowers. Where’d you get them?” It was hard to find such fine flowers any time of year, let alone in March.

  “Gift from my neighbour. Lovely, isn’t it? I’ve missed them. The scent is quite refreshing.”

  Neil frowned. There always used to be flowers on Samuel’s desk, back in Kent when Elspeth was alive, and more often than not she chose hibiscus. But according to Elspeth they weren’t a scented flower, which was why she liked them for Samuel’s desk. “Pretty, and they won’t distract him,” she’d said.

  But it wasn’t Elspeth’s birthday, or the anniversary of her and Samuel’s marriage. She’d died in the month of September. Neil thought rapidly. What had he forgotten? It wasn’t like Samuel to display mementoes like this. Watching his friend carefully, Neil leaned in to inspect the flowers. These ones had a scent, if a faint one, and though the blooms were white, they were smaller than Elspeth’s variety.

  “Which neighbour?” Neil kept his voice even, but inside he was livid that the girl next door would use something like this to inveigle her way to Samuel. Samuel’s reply, however, wasn’t what he expected.

  “Mrs. Chin.”

  “Pardon?”

  “She’s an Oriental. Lives in the house on the corner. You can see her conservatory from the garden.”

  Neil’s forehead cleared, but Samuel wasn’t done speaking.

  “I’ve been meaning to pay a call. I should do that today. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”

  “I really ought—”

  “It’s Sunday. Nothing’s happening with that bridge of yours. Besides, it would be a kindness to her, and there’s few enough I can offer. I gather she hasn’t a large acquaintance.” Samuel smiled, and Neil knew he was relenting already.

  “You’ll like her,” Samuel promised.

  Mrs. Chin’s house was easily the grandest on the block. Her door was red with a flower-shaped knocker.

  “Is Mrs. Chin at home?” Samuel offered his card to the impeccable footman.

  “She’s occupied at present, but if you care to wait it shouldn’t be long.” Before he finished relieving them of their coats, a bell rang and a distant door opened. “I believe that’s her now, sir,” the footman said.

  It was. Following the sound of voices, Neil spied her coming down the stairs, a slight, elegant woman of uncertain age. She had white teeth and a warm smile that widened when she saw them.

  “Visitors. I am fortunate today.”

  She bid her other caller farewell, pressing her hand. “Trust me, Miss Douglas. All will be well.” Miss Douglas, too timid to risk a glance at unfamiliar gentlemen, thanked Mrs. Chin with a quivering nod, looking like a white mouse clutching a reticule with pink-gloved paws.

  “This way.” Mrs. Chin beckoned them along the corridor as the footman showed Miss Douglas out.

  “Allow me to present my friend, Neil Murray,” Samuel said. “Unlike me, he knows a thing or two about plants.”

  “Only vicariously,” Neil said. They’d never been his hobby.

  “I’m charmed to make your acquaintance.” She offered her hand, as perfect as her décor: beautiful, correct, and expensive, with pearl drops of enormous size dancing beneath her ears. “I’m sorry you caught me while I was otherwise engaged.”

  “I hope our call didn’t shorten your other visit,” Neil said.

  “Oh no. Miss Douglas came to consult me in my professional capacity.”

  Neil cocked his head, but she didn’t elaborate. What did she do? Tell fortunes? Read tea leaves? Spiritualism was increasingly fashionable. Perhaps she was a medium of some kind. He hoped not. He wanted to like her.

  “Let me show you the glass house.”

  On his guard now, Neil furtively inspected the house as she led them along. He didn’t see anything questionable. Everything was expensive, and as far as he could tell, in excellent taste. Samuel was quite at his ease with her and laughed as he followed her through the long windows at the back. Neil came after and stopped, wondering if his shoes had crossed leagues in a single stride. This little kingdom was too lush and fragrant to exist without some kind of magic.

  His sudden halt drew their eyes. Neil collected himself with a longish breath. For a moment he’d forgotten air was a necessity. “I’m enchanted. This is lovely.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’d like your opinion on—oh, forgive me. I didn’t mention I had Miss Buchanan here.”

  Neil spun. Behind a tall easel he saw the familiar grey of her gowns. His neck prickled.

  “She’s been doing some drawings for me,” Mrs. Chin explained. “Specimens I wish to present to the Horticultural Society. We won’t disturb you,” she said to Miss Buchanan, who was already rising and setting aside her brush. “Well, if you are willing to forgive the interruption, you might entertain Mr. Murray for me? I shan’t be long. I’d like Mr. Brown to see the orange tree I brought into the drawing room. We’ll rejoin you in a moment.” She and Samuel vanished in a twinkling.


  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She spoke defensively and walked toward him like she was on stilts. Neil waited for her to choose a chair. He took the one opposite, setting his hands on the carved arms, his fingers closing over the heads of dragons. He’d felt relief discovering the hibiscus was the work of Mrs. Chin. Now he wasn’t so sure. This girl was sufficiently artful she could be behind it all.

  “I’m sorry to surprise you,” he said. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

  It felt good to make her flinch. He was rude, but she had started it. Neil counted pots of violets and she studied her hands until they were interrupted by the footman bringing a tray.

  “Madam says she’ll be with you shortly, but to please go ahead and pour.”

  Miss Buchanan scooted forward in her chair with a sigh.

  “Do you take sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” Usually he did, two lumps at a time.

  She passed him his cup.

  “Thank you.” He sipped the bitter brew. “You’re here to draw?” It was unreasonable for the talent to increase his dislike for her, but Neil was half afraid that next he would discover she sang alto and kept a kitten. These were Elspeth’s qualities, and he didn’t like her stealing them.

  “Yes. I’m just finishing the orchis italica.”

  “Funny looking ones, aren’t they?—no, I’m not a gardener,” he said, answering the question in her eyes.

  “But Mr. Brown’s wife was? He said she used to grow him hibiscus.”

  “She did.” To stifle her inquiries, Neil took another sip from his cup. It was a wasted effort.

  “What else?”

  “Roses.” Geraniums too, but the flowers were merely an adjunct to her other passion, painting.

  “Your friend must miss her.”

  Neil set aside his biscuit, unwilling to take any more of this. “I don’t know what you think you know about her, but you aren’t her, understand? So it’s no use trying to be. Leave Samuel alone.”

  “I—”