The Reformer

by Jaima Fixsen

  Neil refused with a snort.

  “Trust a stubborn Scot,” Samuel said. “I’m knackered. Will you forgive me if I—”

  “Of course. Go on upstairs.”

  But Samuel couldn’t settle without rehashing the latest goings-on and his misgivings over the fate of the bill. Seeing his friend was in a desperate mood, Neil poured them each a brandy.

  “The bill might not pass,” Samuel lamented, staring into his glass.

  Neil was too tired to do more than shake his head, down his brandy, and steer his friend to the stairs. Then he went back to his book, but the words kept sidling into each other on the page.

  Someone stirred in the kitchen. Perhaps, if he asked nicely, the maid would relieve him for half an hour…

  Plink.

  Neil’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the mail slot. A cardboard folder dropped to the carpet. The artist. Neil surged to his feet and threw open the door. “Stop!”

  A girl, pale in the weak grisaille of pre-dawn light, cowered before him, her coal-dark pupils wide. Neil knew her at once. Seizing her arm, he dragged her inside. “You!” he finally managed, too angry for coherent speech. “Get out,” he hissed, forgetting his grasp and that he barred her way. “Leave my friend alone.”

  She gaped at something behind him. Someone was coming down the stairs. It was Samuel. He halted on the third step, frowning in bewilderment. “Miss Buchanan?” He glanced from the girl to Neil. “Do you—do you make a habit of this?”

  Dear God. He was still holding her arm. Samuel must think—

  Neil let go and took a step back, stooping to pick up the cardboard packet. He held it out to Samuel, waiting until comprehension cleared the frown off his forehead. “I grabbed her so she couldn’t get away,” Neil explained, just to make sure. “She’s your artist.”

  “Ah.” Samuel turned his face away and hid behind a cough. “Miss Buchanan, am I to understand that this”—he motioned with the folder—“is yours?”

  She said nothing, just glared and rubbed the arm Neil had grabbed.

  “Why deliver them in secret? And in the dead of night?” Samuel asked, descending the remaining steps.

  She swallowed. “I saw you had a visit from the police.”

  “They’re searching for a thief, not you,” Samuel said. “Though Neil and I have been doing our best to discover you. The drawings are wickedly clever.” He chuckled. “My editor wants to offer you a job. I hope very much you’ll take it, but what’s your father going to say to me this time?”

  “You aren’t going to tell him!” she gasped. She snatched the folder from his hands and brought it to her chest, which stopped Samuel’s attempt at recapture. His outstretched hand fell back to his side. Miss Buchanan raised her chin. “Papa won’t say a thing. He’s not going to know.”

  “Very well. May I have the drawing?”

  Someone must put a stop to this. “Barnes will never hire a lady,” Neil said. “You can’t—”

  Samuel frowned. “Barnes doesn’t need to meet her,” he decided. “Payment and any instructions will pass through me. That is, if Miss Buchanan is agreeable.”

  “How much will I be paid?” she asked.

  “Oh, the usual.” Samuel waved the question away. “I want to write about the Unionists. Can you draw a cartoon for that?”

  “Unionists?” Her brows knit together.

  “Listen to reason,” Neil began, but the girl interrupted him.

  “I could do a ship carried on the Tide of Progress,” she said. “And clouds with blowing faces, and you could choose words to put in the wind.”

  “Excellent.” Samuel grinned. “Then you agree?”

  “I do.” She flashed defiant eyes at Neil. He refused to retreat, though alarmed by the force of her glare.

  “This is improper,” Neil said, but Miss Buchanan ignored him and Samuel never heard. He was picking at the string, freeing the latest drawing.

  “Samuel. You can’t be serious.” Neil dropped his voice. “You can’t work alongside an unmarried girl.” In the corner of his eye, Neil saw said girl’s hands clench into fists.

  “Stop telling me what I may and may not do,” she said. “I care about reform.”

  Samuel looked from her to Neil. “It’s true. We have no right—and it is wrong, in any case—to forbid her from following her convictions.”

  Convictions? Didn’t he see the way she looked at him? “Miss Buchanan’s family—”

  “Mr. Murray.” She wasn’t going to fluster and run, not anymore. The girl from the glass house was gone. “You can have nothing to say in this matter. It’s not your concern.”

  “For which I thank God daily,” Neil retorted. “You are, however, a concern to your family. They will find out.”

  “If they do or not, why should you care?”

  Samuel turned up the lamp. “Could we go back to the Unionist cartoon? I think a ship is a marvellous idea,” he said blandly.

  Retracting her claws, she beamed at Samuel. Her sharp elbow, finding Neil’s kidney as she moved past him to Samuel’s side, was startlingly eloquent. “I’ll start work on it today. When do you want it?”

  Samuel thought. “A schedule. It would be best if we had a schedule.”

  “Clandestine assignations? Rendezvous?” Neil interjected, now he’d recovered his breath.

  “Well, it’s important to respect Miss Buchanan’s privacy. And her reputation,” Samuel said. “Once a week will work, but twice would be better.”

  “I agree.” The girl nodded. “There’s an empty birdhouse at the end of our terrace. I’ll leave the drawings there. It will attract less notice than your front door.”

  Samuel nodded. “I will leave you my notes there. And your money.”

  “Just what is she supposed to do with it?” Neil demanded. “Her father will notice if she starts spending pounds and pounds.”

  Their faces turned to him, mirror images of dismay. “If I hide it in the house, my aunt may find it,” she said, worried for the first time.

  “We’ll put it in a bank,” Samuel said. He turned to Neil. “You can open an account for her. Sometime in the next few days. I’d do it myself,” he said, with an apologetic shrug to Miss Buchanan, “but the House is sitting.”

  “I am occasionally required by my employers.” Neil’s voice was tense as a string about to snap.

  Unfortunately, Samuel hadn’t forgotten his earlier excuses. “Just a few hours ago, you said they could spare you now and again.”

  “Very well,” Neil said, thinking quickly. If he couldn’t prevent this, taking her himself would at least keep her from making the errand with Samuel. A defeat, but at least he’d limp away to fight again. “I’ll do it. But not until next week.”

  “Next week will be fine.” She was awfully sniffy for a dawn intruder.

  They agreed on a day and she left, adjured by Samuel to be careful lest she were caught. “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she promised. Neil held in a groan. The look she gave Samuel made it plain she already was, up to her eyebrows. Neil prayed Samuel wouldn’t notice. A foolish hope. She was a taking little thing, even at this unholy hour of the morning. Something about the set of her chin and the plumpness of that defiant bottom lip. He wouldn’t mind bickering with her if it didn’t involve Samuel. Of course, without Samuel, she’d never waste words on him.

  Mary practically skipped up the stairs all the way to her bedroom. Money of her own and a partnership with Samuel Brown. The sun wasn’t up yet, but already the day was beautiful.

  Annie was tidying the bed and singing. Mary greeted her with a smile, no longer the least bit jealous. If she weren’t afraid of drawing suspicion, she might sing along. Instead, she contented herself imagining Samuel at work on his terrace and breaking off to look up at the window for her. They might meet in the garden, brushing fingers together as they exchanged papers. He would tell her about Parliament and she would comfort him when he looked weary
and tired. The drawings were a start, but eventually he’d need more from her.

  How delicious that already he’d overruled all Mr. Murray’s protests. Another ten years and that man would be as cranky as Papa. Well, perhaps twenty. He couldn’t be more than thirty now, and Papa was almost sixty. Of course, Mr. Murray’s temperament must be worse to be at this stage already. He was strong, though. In that moment, held fast by his arm…

  He probably frightens children, Mary told herself. It was strange he and Samuel were such friends. Maybe Samuel felt sorry for him. Mary thought again of his praise for her drawings and felt herself turn warm.

  “What are you smiling about?” Annie teased.

  “I’m going to call on Mrs. Chin this afternoon,” she told Annie. “Would you like me to bring Ben a letter?”

  Sixteen

  “You’re out of your mind,” Neil told Samuel. “It’s impossible.” They were still arguing, even after breakfast.

  “I admit the circumstances are awkward,” Samuel said, ignoring a sarcastic hoot from Neil. “I’m going to have to give up insulting the good doctor every time I see him, and I have the best one ready.”

  Neil didn’t smile. He’d witnessed them sparring in the street more than once and thought it funny then. It wasn’t anymore.

  “We couldn’t be more perfectly situated.” Samuel poured himself another cup of coffee. “Our work is entirely complementary and she’s right next door. No one will suspect. I could signal her from the window if I had to.”

  Neil blanched. She’d love that. No doubt she’d come to the window like Rapunzel, ready to unravel that mass of straw-coloured hair. It was almost an engineering marvel that she could support that lot with what appeared to be a few puny pins.

  “You can’t justify it,” Neil said. “It’s just not right. You’ve got to tell her father. If he gives permission—”

  Samuel shook his head. “You don’t understand. Beast of a man, and I doubt the aunt is any better. Think of the drawings. She’s got a mind, Neil, and there’s no room for it in that mausoleum of a house.” His eyes turned pleading. “I know you think I’m being selfish, but I’m not just thinking of my work.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Neil straightened his abandoned cutlery. “I’m thinking about what you told me of your first meeting with her. That you were tempted to—to kiss her.”

  “I don’t—”

  Protestations weren’t enough. Neil laid his hands flat on the table. “She’s barely in long skirts and you’re unmarried. Leave her alone.” Surely Samuel knew it was cruel to encourage her when she’d lost her heart to him.

  “Don’t let it trouble you,” Samuel said. “I was drawn to her but only for a moment. Even when I felt the impulse, I did nothing. A young lady her age won’t suspect—or she’d have dismissed it by now. It’s irregular, I know, but I swear I won’t allow anything untoward to happen.

  “That’s why it ought to be you who takes her to the bank,” Samuel went on. “She is young, dreadfully so, and I know young ladies occasionally turn foolish over me.”

  What a blind way to put it. Neil hated talking about Elspeth in these oblique terms, but reminded himself she wasn’t the only one, just the most stubborn of the lot, though Mary—Miss Buchanan, he silently corrected—was clearly a contender for the title.

  “It’s safer, more respectable, with both of us in on the scheme—”

  “Marginally, perhaps,” Neil interrupted. If Samuel didn’t know how far gone she already was for him, Neil wasn’t going to enlighten him. It would just make matters worse. “It’s still highly irregular.”

  “Now you sound like an old Tory, wedded to a way of life simply because that’s how it’s been before. These are new times, Neil. You’re always touting the possibilities of rail and steam. Progress isn’t pure mechanics—it ought to happen for people and society too.

  “I’ll tell Barnes I’ve found the artist, and that he’s a young relative of yours. We can even let him suspect it’s really a female because then he won’t pry. I’ll ask him to write up a bank draft and you can take it with Mary.” Samuel flashed Neil a smile. “Don’t eat her. She’s a little afraid of you. Can’t say I blame her, the way you were scowling. You might try to be a little more agreeable. Who knows? She might fall in love with you.”

  Neil grunted. “We’re friends, but I’m not making that kind of sacrifice.” Sharper words than he’d intended, but true for all that.

  Neil wasn’t any happier with the situation a week later, on the appointed day, when he met Miss Buchanan in the mews. It was a fine April day, but she was dressed in grey stuff as heavy as her frown. Their greetings were unintelligible and perfunctory.

  “Did anyone see you get away?” Neil asked.

  “No. I don’t understand why I must go with you instead of Mr. Brown.”

  “Because he’d rather be penned in like a pig, breathing smoke and scribbling down words till his hand seizes. He’s on his way to the House of Commons.”

  The insult failed. She smoothed her gloves, mollified.

  “I’ve a carriage waiting two streets over, but I’d rather not be seen together so near your house,” Neil explained. “Follow me, but not too close.”

  It wasn’t difficult. She acted like he was oozing contagion. Neil led the way to the carriage, motioning that it was safe for her to close the distance between them. He offered his hand to help her inside, which she accepted after a cool glance.

  “Oh.” She paused on the steps.

  “Mrs. Wilkins is to accompany us,” Neil explained.

  Within the carriage, Mrs. Wilkins smiled. “Mr. Murray suggested I join you as chaperone.”

  “Thank you.” Mary took her seat.

  “How long is it safe for you to be away?” Neil sat down and rapped on the roof of the coach, signalling the driver they were ready to go. He’d budgeted two hours, so he’d have plenty of time to look over the day’s progress on the bridge once they were done, and drink a pint with the foreman who was supervising in his absence.

  “I won’t be missed before four. Papa’s making house calls and my aunt is gone out to the museum. It’s because of Keats. She’s looking at the Grecian urns.”

  “You didn’t go with her? Won’t she think that odd?” He’d offered three possible days and told her to pick a time when they’d be unlikely to rouse suspicion.

  She thinned her lips. “I’m not allowed. On account of the statuary.”

  In spite of himself Neil laughed. Miss Buchanan’s eyebrows dropped another fraction. “I was hoping to use the time to do some shopping. It’s not required, is it, to leave all my money with the bank?”

  Neil opened his mouth to tell her although he didn’t object to her withdrawing a reasonable sum, he’d be damned before taking her shopping. Important work waited for him, and he wasn’t going to waste his time squiring her about while she debated the merits of different ribbons. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wilkins spoke first.

  “What a fine idea. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  Neil didn’t mind locking horns with Miss Buchanan, but wouldn’t dream of disrupting Mrs. Wilkins’ placidity. It was a curst waste of time, but he’d done more than his share of shopping over the years. A lifetime of sisters had at least prepared him for the inevitable.

  Seventeen

  Mary had never been to a bank and didn’t know any lady who had. Unfortunately, the square edifice of Hoare’s was profoundly disappointing. Once inside, they were shown to a perfectly ordinary room where a man in ordinary clothes showed her to a chair. Mr. Murray took the one beside her, Mrs. Wilkins was given an armchair by the window, and the banker took his post behind the desk. His name, almost lost in the flurry of introductions, was Reed. He listened as Mr. Murray explained that his young cousin, Miss Buchanan, was making an extended stay in London.

  “She publishes under a pseudonym of course, but we’re very proud of her literary talents,” he lied.

  The banker smiled. “Rest assured, Miss
Buchanan isn’t our only client in such circumstances. We are most discreet.”

  “I knew you would be.”

  Their complicit smiles made Mary feel superfluous. She might as well have been mute. The money was deposited in three percents, the papers put in Mr. Murray’s hands, and the three pounds withdrawn on her behalf were handed to her to put away in her reticule.

  “Thank you for helping Miss Buchanan manage her affairs,” an untroubled Mrs. Wilkins said as they re-entered the carriage.

  “Yes, thank you.” In spite of her irritation, Mary was eager to explore the shops, not least because Mr. Murray seemed annoyed at the idea. If it was so onerous, he was welcome to leave. She and Mrs. Wilkins would manage very well together. Mary had her arguments at attention, ready to march, but never got to deploy them.

  “Where shall we take you?” Mr. Murray asked.

  Too disarmed to conceal her object, Mary asked to go to the stationer.

  “The little shop on the next street?”

  She didn’t know why he should look so surprised. Obviously she would continue to need paper.

  “The selection there is good.” He hesitated. “You might prefer going to a larger place.” He named a shop several streets over.

  In spite of her decision to maintain a chilly reserve, Mary’s eyes widened. “Yes, I would.” Since it was on Bond Street and carried only the finest in diaries, pens and pencils, Aunt Yates had decreed it was profligate to shop there. Moreover, it was at least a ten-minute drive further than the shops closer to home. With Mr. Murray so grudging with his time, she hadn’t considered asking to go so far. It would be foolish to refuse the offer.

  Mary was predisposed to like the shop after the disappointment of the bank; even so, it was better than she could have imagined. The trouble was deciding what to buy: an ivory paper folder or raspberry ink? Jasmine scented paper or a cunning pencil in a silver filigree holder shaped like a lily? There were writing tablets thick enough to draft the most complicated bill, rolls of vellum, packets of gold leaf, brushes, sanders, and an impossible assortment of pens. If she couldn’t examine them all, she would at least get a decent sampling. Mary was in heaven and left with a new sketchbook diary in red Moroccan leather embossed with gold, a new tablet of vermillion watercolour paint, and an ordinary bottle of India ink.