The Reformer Read online

  Neil turned the paper over, but the other side was blank. “No name. No note.” He studied the drawing again. There was no signature. “Where do you suppose it’s from? Could it be from Barnes?”

  “It’s not a print. This is the original.” Samuel took it back, holding it carefully by the edges. “Barnes would have sent a note.”

  “There must be something.” Neil examined the cardboard but found no clues.

  “We’ll be late,” Samuel said, glancing at the hall clock.

  “But—”

  “Leave it be. I’ll bring it to Barnes in the morning.”

  Mary lived on tenterhooks for days but no sign came from Samuel. Part of her wished she’d been brave enough to put in that note, but the more convincing voice said her drawing was childish, that she was a fool to think it would catch the attention of Samuel Brown. He’d probably glanced at it once and thrown it away.

  When he walked blindly past the window where she sat, yet again, Mary was sure of it. She stared disconsolately through the glass, calling herself seven kinds of a fool, and when a newsboy strode past with a stack of papers weighing down his arm, she told herself it was only hopeless fancies that made her see her drawing on the sheet.

  Impossible.

  There was no time for a second look. The newsboy was already gone, but that fleeting glimpse had resembled her drawing, and she couldn’t help wondering. Mary chewed her lip; she’d have no peace until she settled the question. Tiptoeing so she wouldn’t wake Aunt Yates, who dozed under a handkerchief on the long sofa, Mary slipped out of the house.

  Loosed into the tumult of the street, she wove quickly into the crowd. It was cold for April, and she hadn’t stopped to don coat or gloves. Mary wrapped her arms around her and hurried on. A sidling horse forced her to retreat to the flagway at a busy corner, but once the clog of carriages passed Mary darted across. Opposite the print shop window, she stopped.

  “Move along, would you?” A sturdy shoulder nearly jostled her into the road. Mary kept her feet and walked up to the print shop as if in a trance. That couldn’t be her drawing in the window. She stood outside the glass, heedless of her gloveless fingertips on the dusty panes. The picture was hers, smaller in size than the original, but rendered by the engravers with such precision it was practically indistinguishable. Her precise lettering and detailed faces were beautifully reproduced. Only the texture of the tree bark, with her concealed initials, was lacking.

  Just as well, Mary thought with a sudden palpitation. If Papa knew—but how should he? No one but Mrs. Chin knew her secret, and even she didn’t have the full of it. Steadying herself with a breath, Mary went into the shop. Here the drawing wasn’t clipped out for display, but nestled between columns of print in the Times. The Times! Mary would have swallowed if her throat weren’t so dry. Beneath the strong, black capitals of the headline was an article by S. Brown. Mary seized the news-sheet like it was a love letter.

  “Are you going to buy that?” snapped the proprietor.

  “I’ll take two.” Mary fumbled in her purse. One of her pence pinged to the floor, escaping in a long roll around boots and dusty shoes. She gave a blushing apology to the gentleman who returned the coin to her, paid the laconic man at the counter, and hurried out to read the article while leaning against the storefront, mostly out of the way of irate passersby. Folding up the newspaper, she started home, peeking at the paper all the way, knowing she was risking being run over but unable to stop.

  Her drawing and his words. They went beautifully together.

  Neil hadn’t heard anything more of the mysterious cartoon and was ready to tax his friend about it. Samuel couldn’t have forgotten. Neil arrived at the coffeehouse ten minutes early, secured a table, and picked up the Times, meaning to pass the wait reading. He only got to page two where the unsigned cartoon confronted him, looming out of the columns of tight print. Beneath it was a companion piece written by S. Brown. Neil was halfway through when S. Brown himself slid into the empty chair opposite.

  “Busy morning?” Neil asked. It was unlike Samuel to be late.

  “Not especially. I just never went to bed.”

  Neil glanced at him over the newspaper, but no haphazardness showed in Samuel’s dress. Only the shadows under his eyes told. “Worked through the night?”

  Samuel nodded, his eyes on the cup of coffee set down just now in front of him. He took a deep breath, savouring the smell.

  “I see you found the artist?” Neil shook out the paper so Samuel saw the page.

  “No, we couldn’t find him. If you read in the private notices there’s a request for the artist to contact the editor. Barnes and I argued over using the drawing without paying, but it’s just too good to keep out of the public eye. What do you think of the article?”

  “Brilliant. You don’t need me to tell you.” Neil was half ready to march down to Westminster himself, and he was used to Samuel’s fiery imploring. He gestured around the shop where half a dozen men were buried in copies of the Times.

  “Nearly wrote itself,” Samuel admitted proudly. “The drawing spurred me on. Barnes loves it. I thought he’d choke the way he was laughing, but he was annoyed when he learned it was just left at my door. Said if I was the least bit interesting I’d have gotten a basket with a baby.

  “We agreed the artist can keep his anonymity if he wants it. So long as we are willing to pay—” Samuel shrugged. “Hence the notice. I’m sure by this time the office is besieged by hopeful artists trying to claim it as their own.”

  “How nice for Mr. Barnes,” Neil said dryly.

  “Isn’t it?” Samuel grinned and stretched out his legs, reaching for a newspaper from the Continent. “I think I’ll steer clear for a couple of days.”

  “I’m about ready to skip town myself,” Neil said.

  “Itchy feet again?” Samuel asked. “Contemplating travel to parts unknown?”

  “France is hardly the antipodes,” Neil said. “And no, I’m not planning on going anywhere.” Not just yet. In spite of halting progress, the bridge was nearly complete. A few more months. He hadn’t committed to staying for the demolition of the old bridge and felt no draw to a project like that. He’d rather build something than spend his days taking relics down. A friend had invited him to join the construction of a railway from Saint-Étienne to Lyon, which would carry both freight and passengers, just the kind of work Neil dreamed about. By the time Neil finished with New London Bridge, the reform question would be settled, Samuel would be happy enough to forgive himself, and the troublesome Miss Buchanan a forgotten memory. He could take himself to France without any qualms.

  Strange he felt little enthusiasm for it now. He must be overtired.

  Fourteen

  As Samuel had anticipated, Barnes quickly lost patience interviewing hopeful artists. What Samuel didn’t expect was Barnes foisting the task onto him. After three days’ vain searching, Barnes summoned Samuel to the office.

  “Mare’s nest. A complete waste of my time. Probably will be more of them tomorrow.” Barnes swept a hand over the litter of papers on his desk. “I asked the more likely claimants for samples. Some of the work’s not bad, but I don’t think we’ve found your artist.”

  “Doesn’t look so.” Samuel leafed through the sketches.

  “Well, I’m not paying all of them,” Barnes said. “Unless there’s some way to prove who drew it—damn it, Brown. You truly have no idea?”

  Samuel shook his head. “None. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Barnes grumbled something Samuel decided wasn’t meant to be heard. “Cogitate, man! Find him! I’ve had all of this I can stand.”

  Samuel waited for his editor to leave before sorting through the drawings. Most were clearly of inferior quality, but there were two possibles. Trouble was, both names were unknown to him. If they wanted to sell drawings why not bring them right to the office and Barnes? Or one of the print shops specializing in cartoons?

  He didn’t number many artists among his acq
uaintance, certainly none who would hesitate to own such a talent. Even Elspeth, grown quieter and more reserved in the years of their marriage, never hesitated to fix her name on her paintings. The sight of her neat initials tucked away in the corners still made his heart constrict. He missed detecting her presence by the faint smell of linseed oil.

  He looked again at the original drawing, searching in vain for some clue. Then he thumbed again through the pile of samples. He set them aside with a sigh. No answers here.

  When Samuel arrived home there was another folder with his mail. Dropping everything else Samuel bore it off to the kitchen, his appearance immobilizing the servants like they’d been suspended in jelly. “Did you see who left this?” he asked.

  Mrs. Wilkins recovered first, folding her hands together. “I’m afraid it came after the post, sir, while I was supervising the cleaning of the upstairs hall.”

  Damn. “No one saw anything?”

  No one even moved.

  “I won’t need dinner after all,” Samuel told them. On his way back through the hall he picked up his hat and dusted off the non-existent traces of its sojourn on the carpet. It was devilish inconvenient, but he’d have to find Barnes.

  Luckily for Samuel, he discovered Barnes partway drunk and in a vastly better mood. Increasing age hadn’t slowed the man’s carousing. After pulling him away from a heated argument with a Whig of weak resolve from Bristol, Samuel showed him the new drawing.

  “It came to my house today. Early this evening. So I doubt the drawings are from any of the men you interviewed today.”

  “Bloody waste of time,” Barnes spat, still examining the picture.

  “Suppose this is from someone who can’t reveal his name? A public figure, say. Or even a lady?”

  Barnes shook his head. “Unlikely. I know all the public figures you know. If they had something they’d bring it to me.” He leered. “You don’t know any ladies.”

  Samuel ignored this. “Whoever this person is, if he’s willing to deliver the drawings to me, I think we should let him. Set aside the money you’d pay in case he ever does come forward. We can give him a name. Mr. Griffin.”

  “Too Welsh. I like Mr. Black. Goes with Brown.” Barnes looked again at the paper. “This is good. You’ll write—”

  “A number of ideas have already occurred to me,” Samuel said. If he didn’t get home and get to work they’d escape just as surely as the mystery artist. Already his fingers were twitching with urgent need for a pen. “You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

  “A day or two with the engravers,” Barnes mused. “We could print it within the week.”

  “I’ll take my leave, then.” He must be quick.

  Barnes nodded. “Keep your eyes open, Brown. I’d still rather you found him. Don’t like mysteries.”

  Samuel left the next morning, tired but brought up to the mark by the excellence of his tailoring and a second cup of coffee. “Keep a strict watch on the door,” he told Mrs. Wilkins. “Next time I want to know who’s bringing them.”

  But nothing came, not that day or the next, or the one after that. Barnes grew testy when one finally arrived during the watch of Samuel’s dozing housemaid, but this was nothing compared to the earful Samuel got from his housekeeper.

  “The maids won’t do it any longer! And nor will I! Hours staring at the panelling, counting threads in the carpet. Meanwhile we’ve not sent out the laundry or cleaned the chandelier. And you’ve guests this evening!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilkins.” Samuel had quite forgotten. “There’s no need to clean the chandelier. Mr. Murray won’t mind.”

  Samuel sat in the hall himself for an hour before dinner, reading in a dining room chair, and discovered how uncomfortable it was to sit without stirring, ears trained for the creak of the mail slot. No wonder Mrs. Wilkins was so upset.

  Neil arrived, startled to find Samuel sitting in the hall. “I’m not late, am I?”

  Samuel explained his presence and why dinner might be less tempting than usual. It would probably take a day or two for his servants to forgive him.

  Neil only laughed. “Will we eat here too? With plates balanced on our knees?”

  Samuel had considered it, but felt he’d been sufficiently ridiculous for one day. “No. The others came in the afternoon and you’ll want to do justice to the roast duck.”

  “Must you catch him?” Neil asked. “If he wanted to be known he’d leave a card.”

  “We’re publishing his work. It’s selling very well.” They were printing both drawings as single sheets with Samuel’s articles beneath. They sold so fast the shops couldn’t keep them. “Barnes insists he should be paid for his work. And it causes all sorts of havoc, never knowing when or even if the next drawing will come.”

  Over dinner they fell into a discussion of Samuel’s articles and theories of who the unknown artist might be, taking fewer and fewer bites. Everything was a little cold and the sauce was lumpy. “I can see why the servants are unhappy,” Samuel confessed over his soup, “but it’s very inconvenient, especially as he might come again at any moment.”

  “Suppose he does?” Neil set down his spoon.

  “Doesn’t bear thinking of.” Samuel took another swallow. “Barnes will be livid, Mrs. Wilkins will fuss—”

  “Why are we here, then? Let’s look!” Neil abandoned his bowl, grinning like a boy of twelve.

  They went into the hall. “I don’t expect there will be anything—” Samuel stopped. Another folder lay at angles on the carpet.

  Neil whistled, long and low. “I think he’s watching you. Knows just the moment to catch you off guard.”

  Samuel ignored Neil’s gaze, fixing his own on the packet. It was an uncomfortable notion. “I’m just unlucky.” He shrugged away the sensation of watching eyes and sank into the dining room chair stationed in front of the door, raking his hands through his hair. “I’ll take one of the boys off the printing floor,” he said finally. “Barnes will agree to that.”

  Samuel’s idea spared his domestics and left him free to attend the next day’s session at the House of Commons, but ultimately proved unsatisfactory. The chosen boy watched for a day and a half, then skipped out of the house with a number of valuables, necessitating a visit from the police, whose dubious assurances that they would ‘try to find the ruffian’ inspired little confidence.

  “Hard to find one boy unless he’s fool enough to go back to the newspaper.” At least Neil had come to commiserate with him.

  “I’m afraid you should have listened to your housekeeper, sir,” the police sergeant said.

  “I see that,” Samuel replied. Mrs. Wilkins had warned him against bringing strangers into the house. He hadn’t listened, and now his father’s collection of Roman coins was missing, probably hawked by now. Unless he wanted to search every pawnshop and question every fence in London, they were gone. Samuel offered grim thanks to the policemen and let Mrs. Wilkins usher them from the house.

  “I’m sorry,” Neil said.

  “So am I.” Being summoned from the House in the small hours of the morning to report a theft was bad enough, but the MPs weren’t finished yet. “I’ve got to get back,” Samuel said.

  “Barnes will understand,” Neil told him.

  Samuel shook his head. It wasn’t just Barnes. They were nearing the precipice, the crucial vote that would either sink the Reform bill or send it up to the House of Lords. At every session, express riders waited for press reports from the Gallery and galloped them to points all over the country. Printers worked night and day, to copy the debates he transcribed. Once printed, they were read over and over, passed from hand to hand. People depended on him. “I’ve got to get back,” he said again.

  Neil didn’t argue. “Then let me watch the door.”

  “What about your bridge?” It was selfish of him to accept help, but Samuel couldn’t see another way.

  “I can persuade Mrs. Wilkins to cover my absence here if I need to leave for a cou
ple of hours,” Neil said.

  This was probably true. He had a way with Mrs. Wilkins. She spoiled him shamelessly.

  “Let me take care of this,” Neil said. “You look done in.”

  “I shouldn’t.” Honour made Samuel protest one more time.

  “Nonsense. I can manage with a quick trip to the building site, and tomorrow is Saturday. It’s been two days since your last delivery so the next one should be right around the corner. I’ll watch. It won’t take long.”

  “It would please Barnes if we could nab the fellow,” Samuel conceded.

  “That’s decided, then.” Neil settled himself into the chair. “Get me some coffee before you go. And something to eat.”

  By the time Samuel had gathered his coat and hat, Mrs. Wilkins had brought both, among other things. When he left, Neil had a blanket on his knees, his feet propped up on a stool, a glass of brandy in one hand and a book in the other.

  “Watching here doesn’t seem so bad.” Neil winked. “Mind you don’t suffocate in the Gallery.”

  Samuel left with a grim smile. Crammed in the Gallery of the House of Commons, where the air was hot and muggy from sweat and candle smoke, where one could scarcely hear the speakers over the symphony of coughing, smothering was entirely possible.

  Fifteen

  Neil had enjoyed the cartoons initially. Now he wasn’t sure they were something to laugh about. Yes, the marriage of the drawings and the articles was inspired. They went well together, bringing humour to Samuel’s impassioned rhetoric, but sneaks were not to be trusted.

  Neil read the first quarter of a book from Samuel’s library, sipping brandy until his eyelids grew too heavy. He wished he’d had sense enough to ask Mrs. Wilkins to brew him another pot of coffee before retiring. Once or twice he fell into a doze and woke with a start, roused by passing traffic in the street. This wouldn’t do. Neil rose, stretched, and swung his arms, pacing out the length of the carpet, wondering how much longer the vigil would be. He returned to his book. The clock struck four. Then five. At half past, Samuel returned from Westminster, grey with exhaustion. “I can take over,” Samuel said.