The Frost Fair was a gigantic, jumbled event. More booths and tents were sprouting even while we strolled. At least half were stocked with casks and packed with rollicking drinkers—gentlemen, tradesmen, workers, even women, all mingling in joyful familiarity. Mules pulled carts filled with meat pies, kegs, rolled-up canvas, and clucking chickens. The walkways were sprinkled with straw and fronted with shops for all manner of goods. One even sold shoes. Harriet browsed but did not buy. They seemed more expensive than their land-based brethren.
When my watch showed quarter of one, I began searching for our meeting. Requests for directions received happy, useless shrugs, but I finally spotted what the letter described—tiered benches and a podium. We rushed through the crowd, arms linked so we would not be separated, and I spotted Mr. Tinsdale’s imposing frame with two other well-dressed gentlemen, all in black silk toppers and belted black coats.
I pulled Harriet to a stop before we were seen. “You must wait by that coffee booth. I will speak with Mr. Tinsdale first. Then I will pretend to see you and call you over for a grand entrance!”
“A grand entrance?” Harriet said, her eyebrows squishing.
“You were not introduced in our first encounter, so it will naturally be grand.” Harriet looked even more concerned. I patted her arm. “Fold your coat on your arm, be your lovely self, and all will be splendid.” I gave her a little push, and she headed to the coffee booth.
I approached Mr. Tinsdale and raised a lace-covered hand. He immediately excused himself from his friends.
“Miss Woodhouse,” he said, his smile pink-cheeked in the cold. “This is a delight. I was charmed to receive your unexpected letter.”
“You are very kind,” I said. “I was not sure you would remember. We could hardly meet properly under such terrible circumstances. I feared you would think me forward.”
“Not at all,” he said jovially. “I was intrigued by your mention of draca.”
“I could not help but notice that you were aware of the Darcys’…exceptionalaffinity to draca. I hoped I could approach you about my own unusual situation.”
Under his eyebrows—which now I could not help but think of as “big”—his eyes became shrewd. “I gather you are in the Darcys’ close confidence?”
“Naturally,” I said with a confident smile. “Seeing the government’s interest, I thought you should know that Mrs. Darcy is not the only lady with exceptional affinity.”
Mr. Tinsdale’s mustache wiggled. “I see this is more than a delightful social meeting. The government values wyves with such ability.” A man shouted from the podium behind him, and Mr. Tinsdale frowned. “I am afraid I am the first speaker. Perhaps we could continue after?” He looked me over with an appraising eye. “Have you come alone?”
I blushed at the notion. “My friend is with me, which is why I wished to meet. Her affinity is remarkable, but unfairly hampered by the silliest oversight in records. Of course, that could be easily corrected by a gentleman of your influence.”
“Yourfriend? I thought—”
“I seem to have lost her…” I shielded my eyes, looked high and low, then waved at the coffee booth. “There she is!” Harriet noticed my wave with an artful start, then promenaded toward us. As she arrived, I said proudly, “Mr. Tinsdale has requested an introduction. May I present Miss Harriet Smith.”
“Sir,” she said with a perfect curtsy. I had selected her clothes for today, a rich green velvet gown and bonnet, my gifts for her last birthday, and a cheerful red shawl for warmth. They deepened the rich hue of her complexion.
Mr. Tinsdale’s reaction exceeded my hopes. He seemed dumbstruck. He finally muttered “Miss Smith” but so late that Harriet was already rising. That meant he could not take her hand, but I was satisfied.
“I have been researching the matter,” I said. “It seems only a question of having her rights documented—”
“You must pardon me,” Mr. Tinsdale said. “I am overdue for my speech.” He bowed stiffly, then strode off.
“Is that all?” Harriet asked as his broad back vanished into the growing crowd.
“For now,” I said cheerfully, although I was disappointed. “His speech cannot be long. Let us wait.”
A substantial crowd had gathered. The tiered benches were packed, and the overflow strained behind flimsy rope barriers. Mr. Tinsdale mounted the podium, which I realized was a wooden crate draped with a blanket. That was disappointingly makeshift.
Then he began speaking, and my disappointment vanished. His voice was confident, his charisma magnetic. This was a new aspect to the man—and a taste of the excitement of London politics, which never reached our tiny town in Surrey.
To a man, the crowd had cropped hair and belted coats that matched the speakers’. The darkness made their upturned, milk-pale faces shine. Mr. Tinsdale’s voice projected effortlessly. “I come to you with a new and revolutionary conception of politics, and of life itself…”
“He is an orator,” I whispered to Harriet.
“Miss Woodhouse, I do not like this,” she whispered back. “There are no ladies here. Must we stay?”
“It is naturally men,” I said to reassure her. “Women cannot vote.”
Mr. Tinsdale’s voice rolled, and the crowd amplified each cadence with shouts and surging motion like a restive herd of animals. They spanned society, from well-dressed gentlemen nodding sagely to rough-and-tumble workers punching their fists into the sky.
Mr. Tinsdale’s voice cut through the crowd’s cries: “…this ceaseless warring against the French, our natural allies in the struggle against inferiors, is bought with your blood…”
