The Reformer Page 12

  Mary narrowed her eyes. Marriage was a chancy prospect between footmen and housemaids, but that wasn’t the key point. “You don’t object to it?” she demanded.

  Annie blushed. “What your father’s book left out is how it feels. I like kissing, and my mum says if the deed’s done right, I’ll like that a hundred times better.”

  With effort Mary relaxed her hands against her skirts. “It sounds very undignified,” she said at last.

  Annie didn’t laugh, but she looked like she wanted to. The dimple was back, dancing in the corner of her mouth. “You sound like your aunt.”

  Mary shot back, “Nothing about it sounds normal. It’s ugly and unrefined and—and how am I supposed to know it isn’t terrifying if nobody tells me! I’ve never kissed anyone!” She probably never would. Newfound distaste aside, the thought was still depressing, which showed what a dupe she was. All those novels!

  “You will,” Annie assured her, which somehow made it worse. “Perhaps one day Mr. Brown—”

  “Don’t.”

  “I meant it in fun,” Annie said.

  “Well it isn’t. You’re always hotfooting it to the mews to see Ben, and I—” Clearly there was no hope for her. Even if Mr. Brown should fall in love with her, her own repugnance—

  “Don’t come to conclusions before you’ve even kissed a man,” Annie said. “What brought this on?”

  “A cartoon of feet.”

  This answer necessitated a rather long explanation: how she’d begun drawing cartoons and been discovered by Mr. Brown. With Annie owl-eyed with disbelief, it was a simple matter to edit out the presence of Neil Murray.

  “I can’t believe it, miss! The doctor will have seven fits if he finds out.” The new respect in Annie’s eyes mollified Mary’s pride. A little.

  “You see, don’t you, if I’m to continue on why I had to find out,” Mary said. “I’m tired of being kept in the dark. It’s humiliating.”

  Annie, who’d been nodding agreement, paused over this, but Mary gave her no chance to speak. “I still don’t know enough.”

  Annie looked alarmed. “I’m not lending you Ben,” she said. “You’ll have to kiss someone else.”

  Mary shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. There’s still things I don’t understand.” Overheard slang. Other cartoons that had made no sense. All those times people had hushed in her presence or exchanged sidelong looks. Overnight she’d gathered a list of them. For instance— “What does a Nancy mean?”

  Annie turned pink. “I’m not supposed to know,” she flustered.

  “But you do. Tell me.”

  Annie tried evasion, but Mary’s eyes were inexorable. “Alright.” With more timidity than Mary would have expected, Annie explained. “It’s what you call a man who—who loves other men. There’s all kinds of slang for it. Sod, backdoor man…”

  “Wait, I should get some paper.”

  Annie gave a strangled whisper. “Miss!”

  Mary’s look was level. “I mean to know.” Italian anatomy texts didn’t help with colloquialisms. It was a problem, if you were trying to make a point with salacious humour. She tried to explain. “I’ve got the mechanics, but they don’t call it coitus in the penny press and in the street.”

  Annie choked. “The breakfast dishes. I’ve got to bring them up. Cook will be waiting.”

  This was true, but unhelpful. “Come up to my room later. Please.” She looked long at Annie, trying to remind her without words of all the letters she’d passed between her and Ben.

  Annie agreed, but reluctantly, and Mary took herself back upstairs. Meantime, she could write up her list.

  By midafternoon, when Annie tiptoed into Mary’s bedroom, she was full of objections again. It was irresponsible, improper, and dangerous. Dr. Buchanan and Mrs. Yates were bound to find out and Mr. Brown shouldn’t be using her drawings, even if he was paying for them.

  “Annie,” Mary finally interrupted her. “I’m not giving up the work. With or without your help, I mean to keep on.”

  “I’ll get in trouble.”

  “From who? I’ll never tell. Help me.”

  Annie went to the window. She was weakening.

  “Please, Annie.”

  She gave in with a sigh, and Mary pointed her to the first word on the list. They worked through the first five, Mary bitterly clinical in her determination not to be shocked, and Annie flush-faced and squirming.

  “Must you write it down?” Annie pleaded.

  Mary ignored her and pointed to the next word on the list.

  “Jugs means bosoms,” Annie said.

  Mary’s eyebrows rose. A scrap of overheard conversation between Annie and Cook was now plain to her.

  “This feels dirty.” Annie moved her hand to block the paper.

  “I’m not the one letting Ben Pickett feel them,” Mary retorted. “Is that nice too?”

  Annie glared. “If you want my help—besides, it was only the once.”

  Mary set down the pen. “If it is sordid now, I cannot understand why you allowed it from Mr. Pickett. I—”

  Annie shook her head. “It wasn’t ugly. Just unwise. I don’t like talking about him with you. You’re so angry, and you don’t understand.”

  “Maybe I’m not meant to.” Mary slumped over the paper.

  “You should be hearing this from your mother, picking up slang from brothers, and kissing your own sweetheart.”

  Mary looked at her. Annie knew as well as she how impossible any of that was. “All I have is drawing for Mr. Brown. I need explanations for these. And any more that you can think of.”

  Annie sighed. “I don’t know this one,” she said, pointing at the word larking.

  Mary chewed her lip. They couldn’t ask Cook. “Ask Ben,” Mary suggested. “He’ll know.”

  Annie started shifting, but Mary stilled her with a look. “I can’t.” Annie said. “I just can’t.”

  “Why not? You want to marry him. You let him kiss you and—” Mary glanced at the list. “Handle your jugs. Maybe I’m just jealous,” Mary said, earning a dark look from Annie.

  “It’s awkward,” Annie said helplessly. “This kind of talk—it might spur wandering hands.”

  “Apparently you don’t mind,” Mary reminded her.

  “Maybe, but I’m not a fool.” Annie raised her chin. “Besides, how will I explain it to him?”

  “The truth should suffice. Tell him I’m asking.” Ben wouldn’t tell on her. “You’ve got to, Annie.”

  “All right. But you owe me.”

  They worked through the rest of the sheet, then Annie folded up the list and slipped it into her bodice, giving Mary a censorious frown. “If anyone knew…I don’t care that Mr. Brown hasn’t kissed you. There’s plenty improper going on. You got to be careful, miss.”

  “I can only be careful if I know how to be,” Mary protested. “Before I didn’t even know of the danger.” She assured Annie she’d be on her guard, and Annie left, unable to argue with that. There was still much to learn, but Mary felt she had enough now to start. She sat at her desk, jotting ideas, using up pages and pages of her gorgeous new notebook, determined her next cartoon would make Mr. Murray’s hair stand on end.

  Nineteen

  Even after long hours on the building site, Neil made a point of visiting Samuel most days. This business with Miss Buchanan required a close watch.

  When the bill was defeated by a Tory scuttling amendment, Samuel didn’t despair for long. Now it was more important than ever to encourage the people, but not inflame them. “We need reform, not a rising,” he said.

  The king dissolved Parliament and called a general election. This time, Samuel was sure of a Whig victory, speculating excitedly about what would be achieved once they had a clear majority. His articles were almost missionary in their zeal, and each of Mary’s cartoons a piercing riposte. Neil manufactured interest in debates and lectures at the Crown and Anchor, joined Samuel at candidate speeches as far away as Bristol, and accom
panied him on calls to Mrs. Chin. Twice he called on her on his own account, just to keep an eye on Mary.

  “You’re in luck,” Mrs. Chin said, welcoming him on a warm Sunday afternoon in May. “Miss Buchanan has also come to visit me.” Neil wouldn’t call it luck exactly, but didn’t quibble, just followed her to the glass house. The doors to the garden were flung open to let out the heat.

  “She’s working on something,” Mrs. Chin explained, when Mary failed to look up.

  “More orchids?” he hazarded.

  Mrs. Chin shook her head. “This one’s something else. Hello, Mary.”

  She looked up at this, smiled thinly at him, exchanged a few sentences with Mrs. Chin, and closed her book the moment he moved in her direction. “I’ve overstayed.” Ignoring Mrs. Chin’s protests, she gathered her supplies and left, saying she didn’t wish to intrude when Mrs. Chin had other guests. Mrs. Chin watched her go with a frown, then turned to Neil with questioning eyes.

  Instead of asking why he should have the least idea what the girl was about, he countered with a shrug and settled down to a discussion of the joinery of her pieces of Chinese furniture. Neil couldn’t think when he’d seen better construction.

  “These are your only pieces? Pity. I would love to see more,” he said with a sigh.

  “I wish I could show you, but I brought little with me from home. It was time to close one book and open another,” she said.

  “Do you miss China?”

  “Not on days like today. There’s so much to do. I came here to create a masterpiece.” She smiled, and for a moment Neil thought she was looking at her footman, but knew that couldn’t be right. She was referring to her garden, of course, and smiling at the wonderful roses blooming behind him. Mrs. Chin was far too well-bred to have designs for her servants.

  “You’ve created a marvel,” Neil told her. “Every time I come I never want to leave.”

  They talked much longer than the correct half hour, and when it was finally time for him to go, Neil promised to return again soon.

  “Next time, you really mustn’t scare off Miss Buchanan,” she told him.

  “You can’t blame me,” Neil said, opening his hands. “I never said anything.”

  He walked away, whistling and thinking of joinery, wondering if one of the carpenters he knew would be able to build a low table like Mrs. Chin’s.

  The next day he saw Samuel and didn’t notice the lines in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth until Samuel broke a silence that had gone on just a moment too long.

  “There’s no drawing today from Mary,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I checked. Twice.”

  Neil was surprised and told him he’d seen Mary drawing something at Mrs. Chin’s just yesterday. “It had to be for you because she wouldn’t show it to me or Mrs. Chin.” But the birdhouse in the garden was empty. They sat on Samuel’s terrace for an hour, talking of everything else, but really just waiting for Mary to appear. She didn’t. Neil stayed for supper, trying to head off Samuel’s increasing worry, but when he left, the drawing still hadn’t come. He didn’t like to suggest that perhaps the girl had come to her senses, or been caught, and now the game was over.

  Business kept him at the bridge site all the following day, but a message came to him from Samuel.

  It came! No need to worry, it said. Neil didn’t, until three days later, when the tardy drawing appeared in the paper. He saw it in Garraway’s Coffee House, picking it up as he took a swallow from his cup. He choked, drawing hot coffee into his lungs and sputtering all over the newspaper.

  When he straightened at last, wheezing and peering through watering eyes, he met the stern gaze of the proprietor.

  “Took it a little quickly, is all,” Neil said and placed another coin on the table to pay for the ruined paper. Abandoning his seat, he gathered the paper into his fist and hurried out the door.

  Two blocks away he looked at it again. Oh, it was hers alright. Disapproval gouged his forehead. This is Samuel’s fault, he told himself uneasily.

  Neil wanted to rail at him for being irresponsible, for encouraging Miss Buchanan over a line that couldn’t be uncrossed, but blaming Samuel didn’t help when he couldn’t find him. Neil went to his office instead.

  “Did you see this?” The foreman held up a paper.

  “Yes.” Neil’s terse rejoinder silenced the foreman’s chuckle.

  “Not a bad one,” the foreman said, retreating hastily.

  It wasn’t. In fact, it was wretchedly clever and coarse as a dustman’s coat. She’d drawn a dog wearing King William’s face, crown and gamely smiling expression, ignoring a wheedling cadre of Whig politicians trying to coax him with a plate of tempting bones. Blind to these lures, the royal dog sniffed after a thin-faced hound that sauntered away to the right with a provocative backwards glance. You could almost feel the coquettish sweep of skirts in its provocatively held hindquarters. The hound also wore a little crown and the face was Queen Adelaide’s.

  The caption underneath was even more explicit. If Samuel was teaching her words like that, Neil would pulverize him. He spent the afternoon imagining taking his friend to task, and therefore accomplished very few of his own. The bell rang at the end of the day and the workmen filed away, and he still had unfinished work on his desk. It could wait. Neil stashed the most urgent papers into a leather case and hurried to Wimpole Street. Mrs. Wilkins answered the door.

  “Did you forget? He’s gone to Birmingham. Lord Russell and the Unionist leaders were speaking to the voters,” she said. “I’m not expecting him until late.”

  “I’ll wait,” Neil said. He refused supper, but she brought him bread and butter and a bottle of wine. “I’ll take it in the garden,” he told her.

  The sky was just turning purple grey, and the air was warm and still. Lights blossomed in the surrounding houses and night song floated on the air. Neil drank three glasses of wine and glared at the windows of number fourteen, daring her to come out. She came at last on noiseless feet into the garden. She would have looked romantic in her white gown and heavy coils of hair if not for the folded arms and look of disdain.

  “It’s unnecessary to stare at my house. You might as well alert me with a signal fire,” she said.

  “I’d have exhausted Samuel’s coal by now if I had.” He matched her with words just as acidic.

  “I’m here now. What do you want?”

  Neil lifted his wine glass off the newspaper. It left a damp half-circle in the middle of her drawing. “I’d hoped the delay producing this drawing meant you’d given this up.”

  She was a small thing, but made herself look taller by drawing an angry breath. “I was merely addressing the deficits you found in my person. I think you said there were some things I wouldn’t understand. You’re quite mistaken. I know exactly what copulating means.”

  “And a good deal more.” Neil’s eyes narrowed. “How? If it’s Samuel, I’ll murder him.”

  Confusion crossed her eyes for just an instant, then her lips curled in a smile. “A gentleman.”

  “Who?” Neil folded his arms so he wouldn’t shake her. “Tell me his name.”

  “Signor Bellini.”

  Oh God. Some smarmy Italian. Suave and entirely without scruples, Neil was sure. His cheek twitched.

  “Does your father know?”

  She smiled beatifically. “Of course not. But he introduced us. In a manner of speaking.”

  “Tell me where I may find him.” Neil didn’t know what should be done, only that he must do something without delay.

  “He’s in the library.” The glint in her eyes was a challenge. Neil took it, marching past her to the long windows of the house, through the heavy curtains. Inside, it was shadowed and dark, lit only by the fire in the hearth. Five strides into the room, Neil’s searching glances into the corners and armchairs revealed the place was empty.

  “Don’t play with me.” He kept his voice low with effort.

&nb
sp; “Calm yourself, Mr. Murray.”

  “I’m perfectly calm,” he said.

  “Would you like me to introduce you to Signor Bellini?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?” He couldn’t read her face in the shadows, but there was a suggestion of mockery in her movements as she went to the bookshelves and up onto the library stool, one slippered toe pointing down to the floor. Her wrist arched as she swept her fingers along the highest shelf. For one heartbeat, she might have been a dainty figure of painted china. The impulse to catch her up in his arms swept over him. He didn’t know if he wanted to beg forgiveness or scold, to obliterate Bellini from her memory or comfort her. He felt sick, ghastly sick, realizing what he’d driven her to: bartering her innocence for education at the hands of Signor Bellini. Even if the cad loved her—but that seemed immaterial. The man deserved to hang. As for himself, he must find some way to help her.

  He cleared his sand-filled throat but in the same instant, her ink-stained fingers closed on a book. It was heavy, falling into her arms with a thud, nearly toppling her from the stool. He moved closer without thinking, coming up against the hard corners of the book, and her face which, alarmingly, was level with his own.

  “Here he is.”

  “A book?” It wasn’t just the weight of the volume dropped in his arms that made him stagger. “You’ve just taken a year off my life.”

  “I hope so. Did you honestly think I’d—”

  “I didn’t know what to think. I was afraid you’d let some rogue take advantage of you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You continue to underestimate me.”

  I’ll say. Where had she learned Italian? And how had she picked up the slang?

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” she said.

  She was clever, he’d give her that. “You know perfectly well I did not suppose Mr. Bellini to be an Italian anatomist.”

  “He died over a hundred years ago.”

  Neil laughed, weak with relief. “How fortunate for him. You, however—” She wasn’t his sister, so he couldn’t twist her nose. Not that he wanted to, exactly.