Free Love's Harbinger by Joan Smith

defensively.
    “If you at least hope, then you’re not past cure and help, according to Mr. Shakespeare—one of my idols. I treasure him for his insights. Hope, however, is only an inanimate virtue till it inspires you to action. The action I am suggesting, in this roundabout way, is that you try reading my journal.”
    With a charming smile, he handed her the latest copy of the Harbinger . “I never waste an opportunity to gain a subscriber, you see. When I’m not writing, I’m promoting.”
    She accepted the paper and then turned aside to catch the light over her shoulder, for the day was overcast. “It is writing you should be doing now, so I’ll read this and let you get back to work.”
    “I look forward to hearing your opinion.”
    She turned immediately to Mam’selle Ondit’s column and read again his article on Thomas, which undid any good effect of their talk. He watched her quietly for a moment. His expression was gentle, even yearning, as his eyes flickered over her bent head and her profile. As time passed, he resumed his writing and she read other articles.
    She soon found herself adrift in a strange, new, and horrible world. He wrote stories—surely they were just stories, and not true—of whole families in the North and Midlands subjected to terrible deprivation. Husband, wife, and children all toiled long hours in factories or foundries under appalling conditions for a pittance. It seemed the greed of the mill and foundry owners was only half of the problem. The other half involved the corn laws, known to her thus far solely from her father’s conversation and considered an excellent thing.
    But in the case of the poor, who had to buy rather than sell, these laws had the effect of raising the price of bread to some astronomical height. She became first interested, then outraged that such a thing could be. England, lately subject to poor harvests, had raised the price of grains; and to prevent people from buying imported grains at a lower price, the government imposed high import tariffs. How was it possible that the politicians, supported by her own father, allowed this dreadful thing to happen? Nay, encouraged it!
    Mr. Delamar stole quiet glances at her from time to time as she read. He saw first her frowns of misunderstanding or disbelief and watched as anger gathered on her brow. He sat ready to expatiate further on political matters, but she had no intention of revealing the extent of her ignorance, so when she had finished reading, she just set the paper aside and looked out the window.
    He put away his pencil and said, “We’re in for a storm, to judge by that lead sky.”
    “Yes. The roads will be a regular hasty pudding. How far are we from Bournemouth?”
    “We’re coming to Amberley. This is the Arun River. There’s a charming old ruined castle and a Norman church, but we shan’t have time to view them today.”
    “Are we near Winchester yet?” she asked.
    He handed her Thomas’s folded map, and she studied it. “Amberley! Mr. Delamar, we’re going the wrong way. Thomas marked Winchester on his map.”
    “We couldn’t expect to overtake him at Winchester. We’ll catch him at Bournemouth. That’s where he sails from, tomorrow evening at nine. We’re just taking a slightly different route. We’ll go south, then west, instead of south-west. We’ll have to ferry across the inlet, but it’s no farther.”
    “I must have misunderstood the Pythagorean theorem! How can two sides of a triangle not be longer than the other one?”
    “Not much longer,” he said.
    “Ferrying the carriages will be very awkward. Why aren’t we going by Winchester?”
    “I have to make a stop at Fareham. I have some business to attend to there.”
    “Did you learn something about Thomas?” she asked swiftly.
    “No, it’s another matter entirely.”
    “But that will waste time! We want to catch him as soon as possible. That’s the only reason my aunt and I came.”
    A mask of arrogant