The Reformer

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Quite a bargain,” the shop assistant assured her, tying up this last parcel.

  Mary nodded in blissful agreement. He’d let her try the ink, and it washed beautifully. Mr. Murray held the door, and Mary exited the shop, careful of her parcels.

  “I’d thought you’d get lost in gloves and ribbons.” He smiled. “My mistake.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind those either,” Mary said. The gloves she wore were embarrassing, but she hadn’t thought of them once until now. “I couldn’t help it. Everything was so wonderful.”

  “You’re a true Scot, though. Didn’t spend all your money.”

  Mary smiled. “I did think, if there was time—”

  “There isn’t.” His eyes had a nice crinkle at the corners when he wasn’t scowling. “It’s nearly four. Didn’t you know?”

  “It can’t be!”

  “Afraid it is.”

  Mary looked to Mrs. Wilkins, who nodded apologetically, hiding a yawn.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Mary said, stricken. “I’d no idea I was taking so long.”

  “I didn’t mind. Reminded me of watching my sister. I used to bring her there. She was almost as long making her purchases as you.”

  Mary blushed, but Mr. Murray pretended not to notice. “Don’t worry about gloves and ribbons, Mary—forgive me, Miss Buchanan. I only meant to say that in your case, flourishes are superfluous.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but his ears were turning pink.

  “Well, I am sorry to have kept you this long,” Mary said, trying to cover her surprise. “I hope I haven’t exhausted you, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  “Not at all,” the lady assured her, yet within minutes the motion of the carriage had put her to sleep.

  “Don’t feel dreadful,” Neil whispered. “I’m sure she meant it when she said she didn’t mind.”

  “It was thoughtless of me,” Mary said.

  “No great sin. Drawing must mean a great deal to you.”

  Mary shrugged. It would sound pretentious to admit drawing was her life. “Why did you tell Mr. Reed at the bank that I’m a writer?” She’d wondered at the time, but clearly at the bank it hadn’t been her role to speak.

  Mr. Murray lifted one shoulder. “More conventional. Don’t you know what people will think if they learn you draw cartoons?” The question was idly curious, and he answered it himself. “Probably not, if you aren’t allowed in the museum because of the statuary.” He leaned forward in the opposite seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “A great many cartoons have salacious subjects, you know.”

  “I haven’t made any like that,” Mary said, stung. But she’d seen others. One, decades old but popular enough to reappear in a print shop window, showing Napoleon farting a great wind over Europe. And another, one her father had actually snatched from her hands when it was printed in The Morning Gazette. She’d wondered at the time what was so objectionable in a close-up drawing of two pairs of feet—obviously of people reclining, with the lady’s slippered feet closely flanking a man’s giant buckled shoes. The caption read something about a duchess’s little shoe yielding to the duke’s enormous foot.

  “What is supposed to be amusing about a duke’s feet? Have you seen that one?”

  “I have. Didn’t expect you would.” He sobered, his lips pressing together. “It’s a brand of humour I suggest you not attempt. You’re not equipped for it.”

  Mary’s throat tightened. “Why not?”

  “Certain things are not likely to be understood by unmarried ladies,” he said with exaggerated patience.

  Mary studied her parcels, blushing with partial comprehension. Here it was again, the Great Unknown, that thing so grossly improper Aunt Yates was incapable of explaining. Ignorance made Mary feel ridiculous, and the humiliation was worse after an afternoon of what she’d taken from him as kindliness. Now he reverted to his usual condescending form. She shouldn’t have been fooled.

  “Not by virtuous ones at least.” Mr. Murray took his time gauging her blush, then leaned back in his seat. “I take it you understand my point, if not the cartoon. No matter what Samuel says, this isn’t suitable. I expect that makes me sound as old as Methuselah, but—”

  Mary stopped listening and stared at her knuckles, except for infrequent glances at the street. As soon as they were within walking distance, she knocked on the coach. “Let me out here. I’ll go home alone.”

  “I’m not—”

  “It’s two minutes from my front door. Please.” She almost choked on it.

  They rolled to a stop. She didn’t bid him goodbye, but it hardly mattered. He was distracted, frowning out the window. Afraid he’ll get caught, Mary thought, affronted.

  The day was ruined. Clutching her parcels, now shorn of their loveliness, Mary hurried home.

  Neil nudged Mrs. Wilkins awake when they swayed to a stop in front of Samuel’s house. She awoke, blushing and full of apologies that Neil waved aside as he helped her down from the coach. He didn’t turn to look, but knew Miss Buchanan was behind him, letting herself inside number fourteen. At least now they’d provided the child with a key.

  He brought Mrs. Wilkins inside and thanked her for her chaperonage of Miss Buchanan.

  “I didn’t mind. She’s a charming minx.”

  Neil couldn’t agree. Back outside, he dismissed the hired carriage. He needed to walk and think. The errand was done, but he felt horrible about it.

  She’s not signing the cartoons, he told himself. No reason anyone would connect this young miss with the devastating political cartoons next to Samuel’s articles. Thank God. There was something particularly awful warning someone with demure ringlets and such a puzzled frown against randy humour. Especially considering the unanswered letter in his coat pocket.

  It was from his father, in response to Neil’s frustration after discovering Mary was Samuel’s anonymous artist. She was young, stubborn and scheming, and working with Samuel for the Times would be a disaster. His father’s response, delivered just this morning, was startlingly brief.

  You never answered my earlier question, but you’re being unfair to the poor girl, so I must assume she’s pretty.

  Why his father should conclude that, Neil couldn’t say. He had no prejudice against pretty women. Quite the contrary. He liked them exceedingly well, just had no ability to earn the regard of any. The inference stung, and Neil was tempted to dash off a hasty reply telling his father Miss Buchanan was not only plain, but spotted, with thin, lustreless hair and close-set eyes. That would be lying, and Neil couldn’t bring himself to do it. Miss Buchanan was pretty, that was the trouble. Even the faults of her personality didn’t—

  Neil stopped himself. He wasn’t being fair. She was young, but couldn’t help that, and at least half of the complaints he’d poured out to his father were exaggerated. Yes, she was good with inks and watercolours but unlike Elspeth knew nothing about oils, and her talent was such that she couldn’t have developed it in response to a gleaned tidbit about Samuel’s late wife. Her behaviour today in the shop made it clear she loved drawing for its own sake, not just as a way to scrape an acquaintance with Samuel.

  Neil crossed a busy street to walk along the edge of the park where workmen were repairing the iron rail fences. Demonstrators had ripped them out in a clash with police back in February. He shouldn’t worry so much about one young girl when there was plenty else to trouble him.

  Eighteen

  That night Mary was silent at dinner. She had her own bank account holding twelve pounds, three shillings, but the glory of this secret knowledge was gone. Mr. Murray had spoiled it. She picked at her chicken, feeding her grievance instead.

  “You’ve ignored the buttered cauliflower,” Aunt Yates said. Last week she’d read about the Pythagorean diet in a magazine. It was the perfect thing for her nerves, and as a result, they no longer ate legumes.

  Mary, no lover of cauliflower, ladled a helping onto her plate while her father recommenced his monologue on the virtues of Toryism as exemplifi
ed by Sir Robert Peel. He was in the middle of a sentence when Mary laid down her fork.

  “Have you any books on botany?” Mary asked. Behind Papa, at her station by the sideboard, Annie gave Mary a startled glance.

  “Pardon?” her father asked.

  “Forgive me for interrupting. I’m just having trouble with my nasturtiums.” She wasn’t, thanks to Mrs. Chin, but Papa wouldn’t know that. “I thought it might be because I planted them next to those ferns—” She paused. “Might I have a look in your library?”

  It took Papa a moment to recover. “I believe you may find one or two excellent texts. You have my permission.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Mary meekly returned to her cauliflower. Too amazed to recover the thread of his lonely discourse, her father took a second helping of the unpopular vegetable. Mary finished hers and waited through dessert.

  “I’m pleased to see you taking an interest in gardening,” her father said, as they rose from the table.

  “It’s an excellent outlet for youthful energy,” Aunt Yates said, like it had been her idea.

  With downcast eyes, Mary thanked them for the gardening tools, the seeds, and for permission to use the library. As she left the dining room the doctor gave a satisfied nod. “She’s got her colour back.”

  Mary stood on the library threshold, candle in hand. She’d come for enlightenment, to discover the Great Unknown. She suspected it was vaguely medical, and while Papa might have a volume or two on plants, he had medical texts in abundance.

  Once, her twelve-year-old self had asked Aunt Yates why it was that Cook told Sarah, their then housemaid, she’d get in trouble if she slept with the coachman from next door. The question, seemingly innocuous, had drained the blood from Aunt Yates's face.

  “Mary Gabriella Buchanan! I never!” was all the answer she got.

  Sarah was dismissed and afterwards Cook was more careful with the words she dropped round Mary. Lately Cook had some telling glances for Annie, but any spoken advice was saved for moments when the two were alone. Mary had listened outside the kitchen door on several occasions, but failed to glean any useful information.

  She had never supposed this mystery would have anything to do with feet, but clearly the cartoon was connected somehow. At any rate, she was done with ignorance. Since no one would tell her, she’d find out for herself.

  Mary set her candle on the desk and fetched a stool. If Papa thought it necessary to snatch away questionable cartoons, the books she wanted would be on the highest shelves. At first glance, those books didn’t seem more interesting than the ones below. Mary couldn’t think of any reason why The Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus Exhibited in Figures couldn’t be shelved lower down with a three-volume treatise on Miasma and Disease. Mary’s fingers walked the shelves, past a French volume that had something to do with surgery to a tall book in Italian. Her facility with the language was limited, but the size and faded gold lettering on the spine was appealing. Mary brought the book down and laid it open on the carpet.

  The print was crowded. Even in English, it would have been difficult reading. Mary didn’t mind. She’d chosen the right book. It was full of pictures: stunning, grotesque, impossibly detailed engravings of hands stripped of their skin, of a snail-like structure connected to an ear, bones, skulls of men compared to those of animals, and a fully fleshed man wearing only his skin. Mary considered him. The apparatus between his legs seemed more remarkable than his feet, which were nothing unusual. She turned the page, looking for an accompanying woman, but found much more.

  It was frightening. Appalled by graphic diagrams, Mary resorted to an Italian dictionary. She must be mistaken.

  She was not. If anything, the lilting Italian translated painstakingly, word for word, was even more horrifying than her assumptions: a gruesome act of rapporti sessuali with swelling organs, torn flesh, and uncontrollable shuddering. She’d seen such a thing from street dogs, an awful jerking of animal hindquarters that made her turn away in disgust. One might expect such things from lawless, vagrant animals, but men and women?

  Unthinkable. Yet here it was, painstakingly illustrated on page after page. Mary rifled deeper into the book until she stopped, sick. She wanted to believe it afflicted only the low-born: labourers, factory workers, servants, people who couldn’t be expected to know any better. But that horrifying cartoon was clear now. Those nestling feet belonged to a couple in coitus, a duchess and a duke, who, unlike the subjects in her book, hadn’t even troubled to remove their clothes. They might be rapporting on the drawing room carpet. The disgusting practice was endemic, Mary realized with a shudder. She slammed the book, creasing the rice-paper protecting a particularly jarring colour-plate.

  Someone should have told her. To be ignorant of this conspiracy was almost more than she could bear. How Mr. Murray must have laughed at her! And Samuel—that day in his house, when he’d brought her in from the rain. Did he—had he—

  Mary squeezed her eyes shut, willing the goose prickles to stop spreading up her arms. Perhaps not everyone was wracked with desire for rapporti sessuali. She couldn’t imagine it of her father or Aunt Yates. And yet, in Papa’s case, her own existence was the proof of it. Mary squirmed inside her skin. And what of the curate, who seemed like such a pleasant, rational man? He had seven children! And—and what of Annie and Ben?

  Her fingers tightened, clutching handfuls of skirt. She got to her feet, hefted the book back onto the shelf, and started for the door, then remembered she ought to return the footstool. For good measure she found a book on botany and pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf than its fellows. There. No one would suspect, unless her newfound knowledge was written on her face, as she feared it might be.

  She nearly ran into her father on her flight up the stairs, but stammered that she’d found what she needed. He looked puzzled, but more words were beyond her. The only thing to do was retreat.

  Alone in her room she took special care cleaning her teeth, combing out her hair, and braiding it in a neat plait down her back. It didn’t scrub what she knew from her mind or put her thoughts in any better order.

  Late, at a preposterous hour, it dawned on Mary that Annie couldn’t possibly know. Her happy serenity was unthinkable otherwise. Suppose Ben was trying to lure her in? Mary rolled over and rearranged her pillows. She must warn her.

  Mary plotted how best to broach the thorny subject until dawn, when she rose and washed, knotted her laces, and fixed her pins. When at last she was ready, she went down to the parlour.

  “Breakfast isn’t for another hour,” said Aunt Yates, stationed in her chair by the window.

  “Where’s Annie?”

  If the blunt rejoinder surprised Aunt Yates, she gave no sign, answering with no more than her usual acerbity. “Laying the table, I expect.” She set down her volume of poetry. “Don’t think you can wander down early and eat something now. We keep regular hours in this house.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Mary told her, and she truly wasn’t. She left the room, almost stumbling over Annie in the hall.

  “I have to speak to you,” Mary said, steadying the teacups on Annie’s heavily laden tray. She dropped her voice. “It’s of vital importance.”

  Annie paled, her freckles turning green against her skin. Cutlery began to slide. “Is it Ben?”

  “No. Yes! Maybe.” Mary took the tray. “Come back into the dining room,” she said. Furtive as thieves, they ducked behind the door.

  “Well?”

  Mary could almost hear the beat of Annie’s heart. “You’re in danger,” she said. “You must be careful of Ben.” All at once, Mary’s carefully planned words deserted her.

  “Miss, what’s happened to trouble you?”

  Mary gulped. “I—do you know—have you been warned about—about sexual intercourse?”

  “Miss!” In spite of herself, Annie glanced at the door. Taking Mary by the arm, she brought them deeper into the room, away from the walls.

  “Do you know?”
Mary repeated stubbornly.

  “Shhh!” She patted Mary’s hand. “Is that all that’s upsetting you? Course I know. But your aunt will give me the boot if she thinks I told you. How’d you find out?” Annie’s brow darkened. “Is it that man next door? Did he—”

  “No!” Never mind how Annie knew about Mr. Brown. “There was a book in my father’s library.” Saying more was impossible.

  Annie dimpled. “Does it have pictures? You’ll have to show me.”

  “Annie! Are you aware that—that Ben may be harbouring designs against your person?” For a whisper, her voice was very shrill.

  “Course he does. He’s not made of stone.” Yet Annie seemed unruffled.

  “Aren’t you afraid? Suppose he lost control?” It made Mary sick just to think of it.

  Annie gave her a stern look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s terribly cautious. I’m more likely to lead us into trouble than he is.”

  Mary took a step back.

  “Just what did you read, miss?” Annie asked.

  Mary swallowed. How could she repeat such obscenity? “The book—the book said…” Mary faltered and dropped her eyes, parroting the sentences branded in her brain.

  “No wonder you’re so upset.” Annie looked like she might put her arm around her. Mary wished she would.

  “Is it not true, then?” Mary asked hopefully.

  “Well, the facts are all there,” Annie said, and Mary’s heart sank. “But—well, I don’t know because I’m not a slattern and even if sometimes I think I might like Ben to tickle me early, I’ll wait until we’re wed. Too risky otherwise,” she concluded gloomily.