The Reformer Page 4

  Mary considered scenarios and decided morning was better, when Mr. Brown set out from his house. If she came outside at just the right moment, it would be the most natural thing in the world to fall in beside him as he walked. They’d speak together for a while and could part at any street corner without her having to think up an excuse. He usually left around nine, and Papa seldom saw patients before ten. It was quite safe.

  She’d finally begun putting her hair up, because it was absurd for a girl her age not to, and luckily only Annie and Cook had noticed. Her wardrobe, though, was a problem. He’d seen her grey day dress, which didn’t leave her much to wear if she didn’t want to look like a schoolgirl. She’d grown since spring, and her dresses were embarrassingly short. Her white muslin might do if she added the flounce from her newest nightdress, and prettied it up with Aunt Yates’s green shawl.

  While Aunt Yates drowsed under her diluted laudanum, Mary filched the shawl and set to work with her needle.

  “Do you like it?” she asked Annie, showing off her longer skirts.

  Annie cocked her head to one side. “Can’t see your ankles now. You should have asked me to stitch it for you. I’m a dab hand.”

  “I will next time,” Mary promised. If Annie wasn’t already waxing the furniture and changing the drapes.

  Next morning, Mary donned her muslin and inspected herself in the mirror. Better. Much better. It was a pity her hair was so long and heavy. The weight dragged down her natural curl, and her hair was too long in front to do anything but gather it up with the back. Fashionable ladies didn’t wear their hair that way. They wore short curls gathered about their ears that swung as they walked and talked. Mary chewed her lip. She needed short curls. Before she could change her mind, she went for the scissors.

  The first snip went quickest. A heavy blonde lock fell and Mary’s hair sprang up—a little too much. She’d make the next one longer. That one could hide amongst the others. Two more…it might be best to tackle the other side, then come back. Mary snipped—once, twice, three times, ignoring the greasy churn of this morning’s breakfast. Her hair was fine—save for that last bit. It was much too short. Mary tried to tuck it away. She rolled it round her finger, trying to persuade it not to jut from her forehead at a right angle. She angled the scissors and cut again, and found herself with two of them. Heart pounding now, Mary stared with wild eyes at the mirror. She’d wear a hat. Pins would keep it in, or a ribbon.

  Blinking furiously, Mary pushed her hair under her bonnet. Her palms were slick, and it had to be close on nine. As she hurried down the stairs, the truncated tresses fell forward again, tickling her eyes. Once more she forced them back, rushing to the parlour window, scarcely breathing as she waited for Mr. Brown.

  He rescued you from the rain, Mary reminded herself. You needn’t be afraid of him.

  His door opened and a heartbeat later Mary was in the hall. She flew out the front door in time to see a glossy carriage stop in front of her house and a young lady step out of it. She was dressed in pink with swansdown trimming, with curls like clusters of grapes at her ears. Samuel tipped his hat to her, and went on his way, whistling. He didn’t look Mary’s way once.

  Too stupefied to move, Mary watched a second, older lady exit the carriage. She wore ermine and blue velvet. The pair started up the steps, then stopped and looked at Mary.

  “Who is that person?” the younger one whispered.

  “Probably a charity case.” Her mother nudged her. “Don’t stare.” As they vanished into the house, Mary heard the daughter whisper, “He may have a wonderful reputation, but he ought to see people like that someplace else.”

  When the feeling came back into her legs, Mary went around to the kitchen. She must have looked dazed, because Cook immediately asked her what was the matter.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” Mary said as she plucked apart the bow holding her bonnet. It fell away and Cook bit her lip.

  “Miss Mary, may I ask what you did to your hair?”

  Some things couldn’t be fixed with slices of lemon cake.

  Five

  Aunt Yates flew into a snit when she caught Mary trying to return the shawl. Then, of course, she noticed the butchered hair. “What were you thinking?” she demanded, and there was nothing Mary could say.

  “I’m sorry for taking your shawl without asking.”

  “We’ll have to cut it all now,” Aunt Yates said, forgetting the shawl. “It’s like someone went at you with a hatchet!”

  Still smarting from the snub from her father’s patients, Mary’s chin went wobbly. Annie interceded. “I always cut my sister’s hair at home. May I try, ma’am?”

  “You certainly can’t make it worse.”

  Annie steered Mary into the chair in front of Aunt Yates’s dressing table. “It won’t be so bad,” she said, combing out the blond waves. “If we cut the back, and even things out here and there—” The bits she took were smaller, and the curls left behind much better behaved. Maybe this wasn’t a catastrophe, Mary thought, until she looked at Aunt Yates through the mirror.

  “What happened to your gown?” Aunt Yates demanded.

  “It’s too short.” Mary dropped her chin. “I’ve grown at least two inches.”

  “Keep still, please,” Annie muttered, pushing Mary’s head back up.

  “Too short?” Aunt Yates looked unconvinced. “Let me see. Turn around.”

  “When I’m done cutting, ma’am,” Annie pleaded. “I’ll get it crooked if there’s moving about.”

  Aunt Yates subsided onto the foot of the bed, folding her arms and mumbling about girls who ruined perfectly good nightdresses, so Mary didn’t feel much better when Annie complimented her on her thick hair. “There’s so much here, you’ll never know half of it’s gone missing,” she said, coiling it low behind Mary’s ears. “Doesn’t she look pretty?” She turned Mary’s chin so her aunt could see her in profile.

  Aunt Yates humphed and motioned Mary to stand up. “I suppose it’s time for new gowns. We’ll look tomorrow.”

  Mary couldn’t believe her luck.

  “I’m so glad we found something suitable. And such a bargain!” Aunt Yates sighed with satisfaction as they exited another shop. The shops on Oxford Street were closer, but she preferred to comb for bargains at the linen drapers along the Strand.

  Mary gazed woodenly at the pavement, less pleased with her bargain-priced hat. There’d been a much prettier one trimmed in green velvet, just the shade to bring out the golden tint she was sure lurked in her hair. She’d thrown it one glance of unabashed longing before Aunt Yates cleared her throat and told the shop assistant she wanted something suitable for a young lady. Mary hadn’t touched the green bonnet, but even now she felt the seductive caress of velvet beneath her fingers.

  She was tired of always wearing unpretentious grey and blue. Life was grey enough, she shouldn’t have to wear it.

  “We’d best go home. I can tell I’ll have a sore head tonight,” Aunt Yates said. She hurried them toward a hackney, past the windows of a print shop. Mary glanced longingly at the newspapers and the brightly coloured cartoons decorating the window. There was a caricature of the king pooh-poohing plans for a lavish coronation. Mary gathered that, unlike his elder brother, King William IV had frugal tastes. At least it seemed so from the patched garments he’d been drawn in.

  The shabby hackney smelled of gin and cheap tobacco. Aunt Yates gave a low moan and leaned her head against the window, draping a lavender-scented handkerchief over her face. Mary hoped this might silence her, but Aunt Yates enjoyed complaining about her favourite bogies too much to stop, so Mary was treated to a discourse on the evils of democracy, and the fecklessness of the poor. She only half-listened, still thinking of the cartoon. “What’s your opinion of satire?” she interrupted.

  “Mary!” Aunt Yates’s lips drew tight. “That’s not at all a subject for young girls. Why do you think I won’t take you to the museum? There’s so much inappropriate statuary.”
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br />   Mary puzzled over this. “Oh. Satyrs—”

  “We won’t speak of it.” Forgetting her distaste for the hired carriage, Aunt Yates settled deeper into the shabby cushions. She was almost content until they turned the corner closest to home. “I forgot to get my lineament from the apothecary. You’ll have to fetch it for me.”

  Mary tried not to look pleased. She hadn’t been allowed out on her own for an age, since the rainstorm and her meeting with Mr. Brown. If she hurried, she could buy herself a newspaper, one that wasn’t days old.

  As Annie carried in the packages, Aunt Yates tottered to the couch. Mary tiptoed away with her own boxes and tore into them when she was safely alone. Her new pelisse and hat were sensible, but better than what she had on.

  “You look pretty,” Annie told her before she set out.

  Mary smiled, glad she hadn’t been allowed to spend all of her quarterly allowance on trifles today. Now she could spend a few pence at the print shop. “I’m off to pick up Aunt’s lineament, but I might wander a little farther if there’s time.”

  “I won’t tell.” Annie winked at her.

  The apothecary served her quickly, eager to please a household that sent him so much business. Tucking the parcel under her arm, Mary hurried to the nearest print shop, edging cautiously past the nearby coffee house with so many gentlemen seated behind the windows. No doubt it was unseemly to walk past, allowing herself to be ogled. Mary kept her eyes straight ahead and tried not to blush. She probably wouldn’t be noticed. Aunt Yates’s decrees on appropriate dress were so strict she might as well be a Quaker. Once she was past the coffee shop, Mary breathed again—and noticed the crowd she’d been too preoccupied to see gathering outside the print shop. One man swore angrily, his frustration rumbling through the others. Mary licked her lips. She couldn’t push her way into that. The entire street seemed noisier than usual, and further along the tobacconist was shuttering his store. Mary took a step backwards, nearly colliding with a boy with a stack of pamphlets under his arm.

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  “I’m sorry.” She turned her head to get a better look, but the ink was smudged and obscured by the boy’s tattered sleeve.

  “You have to buy if you want to read,” he said.

  Mary handed over her pence and retreated, tucking the paper away in her sleeve. Papa wouldn’t like her out in this. Neither would Aunt. She could content herself with Annie’s scavenging and do her reading at home. At least she had her penny pamphlet.

  Bootheels beating in time with her heart, Mary fled for home, but the relief of turning tail waned the further she walked. Two blocks from the print shop she wished she weren’t such a coward. A crowd of irate labourers shouldn’t have deterred her. At this rate, she’d never summon the courage to speak to Mr. Brown. She might smuggle newspapers and read until she was sixty, but unless she faced him—

  Mary nearly stumbled in surprise as the man himself turned onto Wimpole Street in front of her, scarcely half a block away. His hands were deep in his pockets, a leather case tucked against his side. His quick stride would soon put him well beyond her. Mary doubled her pace.

  It must be fate. Her thoughts had never had the power to summon him before. This chance must not slip by. She was comely enough in her new clothes, her cheeks were pink from exercise, and she’d read enough of Mr. Brown’s articles to say something intelligent.

  “Pardon me!” Mary called after him.

  He turned and she saw her mistake. This wasn’t Mr. Brown, though he wore a similar coat and the same colour muffler. It was the friend Mary often saw with him; a little shorter than Samuel, and broader throughout the shoulders. He had the pale skin of a Scot or an Irishman, and the flame-bright hair to match. His eyebrows were light, almost invisible above soft, blue-grey eyes. “Yes?” His lips twitched, and he smiled. He had lovely teeth.

  Mary tore her eyes away from his mouth, travelling up the ruddy glow of his cheeks to his eyes. They looked like they knew a good joke.

  “Forgive me,” Mary said. “I thought—I mistook you for my neighbour, Mr. Brown.”

  Inexplicably, his gaze cooled. “Of course.” Mary waited for him to smile or brush aside her apology. No harm done, or it’s no trouble. They were simple, meaningless words that belonged here, but they didn’t come.

  He straightened, becoming stern and formidable. “You’re quite mistaken. My name is Murray.”

  She’d made herself ridiculous, but there was no call for him to look angry.

  “I suppose your family is expecting you,” he said.

  “Yes, they are.” Ignoring the unspoken reproof, Mary tried to step round him, but he inadvertently moved the same way—twice—before edging back so she could pass. At the safety of her front steps, Mary braved a backward glance and discovered he hadn’t moved an inch and was glaring so forcefully at her she nearly dropped the key Papa had grudgingly provided. It took three tries to convince the lock to open. Mary stepped into the house like she’d escaped a wolf, bitter at the injustice of it all. Mr. Murray didn’t own the street.

  She didn’t remember the pamphlet she’d bought until she unbuttoned her pelisse. It fell from her sleeve onto the drawing room carpet.

  “What’s that, Mary?”

  “Nothing.” Mary crumpled it into her hand, so Aunt Yates wouldn’t see. “Would you like me to rub in your lineament?”

  “That’s very kind. I have such a twinge in my elbow today.”

  Mary reached for the tin. It was horrid, greasy stuff.

  Aunt Yates kept to her room the next morning, claiming exhaustion. It didn’t save them from fried eggs.

  “Are you sure you’re quite well?” her father asked. “You’re picking at your food.”

  “Perfectly well.” Mary forced down another bite. She was still upset with Mr. Murray. She didn’t like the way he’d looked at her. And when she had a chance to smooth out and read her penny pamphlet, she learned the Duke of Wellington, in his opening speech to Parliament, had resolutely condemned any possibility of reform. No wonder there’d been such a furor at the print shop.

  “Keep the servants in today,” her father said between stalwart bites. “Might be trouble. I don’t trust the rabble.”

  “Must I stay inside also?” It was a foolish question. If Annie and Cook weren’t permitted to buy fresh vegetables, she was stuck. “Could I at least go out in the garden?” A fine day like this might not come again for a while.

  “I suppose so. If that woman approaches you, you needn’t say anything. I expect it’s the only way to depress her pretensions.”

  Wishing she could stop her father from eating a second egg, Mary finished her breakfast, brought down her aunt’s empty tray and left it in the kitchen. Armed with her sketchbook and a handful of biscuits, Mary ventured into her father’s library. The room was empty since Papa was busy in his consulting rooms, but Mary knew she wasn’t welcome here either, so she walked to the long windows as if there were traps laid for trespassers. It was dark, with the curtains drawn and the lamps asleep. When she parted the heavy brocade at the windows, sunlight stung her eyes. Thumbing the latch, Mary opened the window, and air rushed over her, cold and clean.

  The terrace outside was a poky, neglected place, shielded from the shared garden by overgrown laurels now bare of leaves. Aunt Yates sent Annie out here to sweep from time to time, but not often enough, and not lately. Broken branches and dead leaves littered the flags, piling up in the corners.

  Mary decided she didn’t mind; in fact, she liked it. There was no cupboard or corner in the house free from Papa or Aunt Yates’s decrees. Here in the place they’d forgotten, one could slouch and breathe loudly. She could draw without watching for eyes looking over her shoulder and think whatever she pleased. There was no sign of Mr. Brown today, and no chair for her to sit on, but Mary was perfectly happy to seat herself on the steps going down to the lawn. It gave her a much better view of the shared garden, and her unwelcome neighbour, Mrs. Chin. It wa
s hard to tell at this distance, but it looked like she was planting onions. Her footman, the same Ben Pickett who’d graced so many of Mary’s sketchbook pages, looked handsomer than ever in his livery. Instead of digging and pruning for Mrs. Chin, he was reading aloud.

  Mary set aside her sketchbook and walked closer, pretending she was out to enjoy the air and the sight of bare trees. They’d had frost already, but the grass was wet this morning. Damp soaked through her slippers, but Mary didn’t mind. They had been chosen by Aunt Yates for their practicality, and much as Mary might wish it, a little water wasn’t going to spoil them.

  Mrs. Chin sat back on her knees and Ben stopped reading. “A little clearer if you please. And I think a little more feeling,” she said. Her English was beautifully precise. Mary had expected slurring.

  Ben cleared his throat and began again. “If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.”

  “Ridiculous concept, but I like the delivery.” Mrs. Chin nodded, her eyes on her work.

  Ben continued, switching after a while to a different voice. He was reading a play, Mary realized.

  “How do you think he’s doing, Miss Buchanan?”

  Unwittingly, she’d moved within sight of Mrs. Chin. “Very well,” Mary said. In truth, she’d been watching Ben more than listening and was too startled for a clever response. She’d never spoken to Mrs. Chin, but of course it wouldn’t have been hard for her to learn her name. Buchanan, and her father’s profession, were there for all the world to see on the plaque by the front door.

  She ought to retreat to her own terrace or go inside. Papa would expect that. But Mrs. Chin wore eau de Nil satin slippers with daintily curved heels and embroidered roses. Mary wanted a closer look. Such beautiful shoes, just to garden in! “What play is it?” Mary asked.