Samyu

The debut season was never pleasant.

Everything tended to smell like sweat and melted candle wax, the air was always thick from too many bodies packed into one room.

You were standing in front of the mirror while Mrs. Alderly finished tying your dress. It was gorgeous — properly, undeniably gorgeous.

The empire waist sat in a flattering position, the fabric was soft and flowy. The colour shifted depending on the light, somewhere between pale gold and lilac, with delicate silver flowers embroidered on the waistline and neckline.

You always loved dresses: loved how they’re made, how they fit, how something so soft can be so structured. You loved the tiny details — the stitching, the beading, the way the skirt falls when you walk.

But you hated what this one represented —

“All done, miss,” Mrs. Alderly said, smoothing the front of your bodice.

—

You debuted last year. That bought you some time — the novelty of being new. But this was your second Season now, and suddenly everything felt urgent.

Find a husband this year or people will start talking.

And if you come back next year still unmarried?

Well.

No one ever said the word spinster out loud but it was hanging in the air every time your mother talked about eligible matches. Every time she mentioned how fortunate it was that your older sister married quickly. Every time she reminded you that love was not necessary.

—

The door behind you opened without knocking, a familiar voice interrupting your thoughts.

“Turn around reader,” Mina said.

She walked in like she owned the place, already reaching to fix the way your sleeve was sitting on your shoulder.

Mina was technically your maid, but she was more your best friend.

She had been with you since you were both children, her mother being the head maid, and the line between servant and companion blurred years ago between shared secrets and staying up far too late whispering under blankets.

“You look like you’re about to be sold,” she remarked.

You met her eyes in the mirror.

“That’s because I am.”

She chuckled, "Yes, to The future 'Lord Whoever-He-Is will be thrilled'.”

“The future 'Lord Women Should Not Have Opinions',” you corrected.

“The future 'Lord Your Thoughts Are Now My Property'.”

You both went quiet for a second.

On your dressing table, hidden under a few poetry books you knew mama would never open, was what you’d actually rather be spending the evening with — a political newsletter you took from your brother’s private library two nights ago.

You were not meant read things like that.

You definitely were not meant to sneak out to attend workers' rallies in servant’s clothing.

You absolutely were not meant to have started writing your own essays about factory conditions and women’s rights in the back of old notebooks.

But here you were.

—

Later, in the ballroom, everything was bright and loud and suffocating.

You danced.

You smiled.

You even made polite conversation.

And you tried not to scream depravities at this ridiculous mean.

Lord Harbury told you very casually, that once he gets married, he expects his wife to focus on domestic matters rather than “ intellectual nonsense.”

Earl Sterling and some others were laughing about factory workers complaining over long hours, saying that they should be grateful to have jobs at all.

Another man — you didn’t catch his name — kept joking that women who read too much ended up hysterical.

By the fourth dance your face hurt from smiling at these stupid men.

You were halfway to the refreshments table, desperate for a moment to breathe, when you overheard something that made you stop.

"A friend of mine went to a small printing place in Clerkenwell. It's ridiculous really, he wanted to get prints of bills for trade groups and the like.”

You turned your head immediately at towards the man who said that. “A printing shop?” you asked without hesitation.

“Yes. Apparently they don’t ask too many questions, I personally think that it is a worthless use of time however.”

—

That night, the house went quiet slowly.

Doors closed. Footsteps faded. Candles were put out one by one until the corridor outside your room was dark.

You waited until everyone was asleep.

Then there was a soft knock on the connecting door.

Mina stepped in carrying a bundle of her plain clothes.

“Reader, I managed to find some of my old dresses, and a dark cloak, are you sure about this?” she whispered.

You thought about Lord Harbury.

About Earl Sterling.

About being trapped in a marriage where your thoughts belonged to someone else.

“Yes.”

She helped you change out of the silk robes into the rougher fabric. You braided your hair put on the dark cloak over everything.

“You’re going to get caught,” she muttered, fastening the clasp at your throat.

“Then you’ll say you didn’t know.”

She rolled her eyes playfully.

“As if I’d ever do that.”

You smiled.

—

The servants’ staircase was narrow and cold, the back corridors quiet as you both slipped through them.

At the final door, Mina stopped you, grabbing your hand.

“Bring me back a copy,” she said softly. “When it’s printed.”

You squeezed her fingers once and left for the printing shop.

—

Clerkenwell at night felt like somewhere you were not meant to be.

It was darker than the streets you were used to — not just because there were fewer lamps but because no one here seemed particularly interested in making things look nice for anyone else.

The road was uneven beneath your shoes, mud catching at the edge of your skirt where it peeked out from beneath your cloak.

You were walking down a narrow street until finally you saw it.

A small shop, warm candlelight spilling from the windows. One shutter was slightly crooked on its hinge. The door is open.

You stepped closer and knocked against the frame.

Inside, a man was bent over a wide wooden table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, completely absorbed in the sheets of paper in front of him. There was ink on his hands — across his fingers, the side of his palm, even faintly along his wrist where it smeared into his skin.

He didn't turn around.

“We're closed,” he said automatically.

“Well I shall like to have something printed.”

That made him pause, it was unusual to here a woman's voice in this area.

He straightened before turning around, “We do not—”

He stopped when he saw you.

Arthur’s first thought was that you were lost.

His second was that you were in the wrong part of town.

His third was that even dressed plainly, you don’t belong here.

There was something about the way you held yourself.

“We do not print poetry,” he said, because that was usually how this went.

“It is not a poem,” you replied calmly. “It is a political newsletter.”

Right.

That’s new.

“Come in,” he said after a second.

You stepped inside and handed him the folded pages without hesitation.

The man took them, unfolding them across the table.

He wasn't expecting much, most people who came to have such things printed often did not write well.

But as he started scanning the pages, his brows pulled together.

There was a section about textile mills that made his chest twist.

He glanced up at you. “You wrote this?”

“Yes.”

He looked back down again. “This is actually—” He stops. “It's good.”

“I am very glad you think so.”

There’s something about the way you say it that made him glance up again.

“What name do you want it printed under?” he asked, reaching for a scrap of paper.

You didn’t even hesitate like you had thought this through.

“I shall be submitting it under a pseudonym,” you say smoothly. “Mr Elias Grey.”

Arthur’s hand paused. You’ve already thought about that.

He looked up at you properly now. “You have done this before?”

“No.”

“Then why the pseudonym?”

“Because,” you replied, meeting his gaze steadily, “I feel that in order for people to take my political writing seriously they should believe it was written by a man.”

Arthur stared at you for a second and smiled slightly at your wit. “That is true,” he said writing it down.

There was a small pause before you decided to tell him your name, well not your actual name, if anyone knew that a lady was going to a dingy street to print political writing it would be dangerous. You decided to give him a fake name, “My name is Mary Clarke.” You even offered your hand.

Arthur hesitated for a second before taking it.

Your hand was warm. Soft. And entirely out of place in his.

“Arthur,” he said. “Arthur Frederick.”

You nodded once like you’d remember it.

He was suddenly very aware of the fact that there was ink on his fingers. Of the fact that he’s still holding your hand.

He let go quickly.

“So — Arthur —” you say, glancing toward the press. “If I may ask, how does this machine work?”

He cleared his throat slightly. “I set the type first,” he explained, moving around the table. “Then run off however many copies you want.”

“And you do this often?”

“Printing political material?” he snorted. “less than you’d think.”

“What made you start?”

“My father had a small business when I was younger,” he replied. “Or tried to. Some Earl investor decided the agreement they had did not apply anymore when my father asked to keep a larger share of his profit.”

Your expression shifted slightly. “And there was nothing you could do?”

“Nothing anyone like us can do,” he replies. “Not when the law’s written by aristocracy.”

You brows furrowed slightly at this, hearing a first hand account of what you wrote about, “That isn't right.”

Arthur glanced over at you. He was slightly surprised to see you watching him like you meant it.

Like this mattered to you — which didn’t quite line up with the rest of you.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn't.” Arthur asked another question, "What does your father do Mary?"

"Oh he is" You paused to think of a sensible answer that did not reveal your identity, "A clerk! — yes, a clerk."

Arthur turned back toward the press and smiled to himself as he started setting the type, carefully slotting each tiny metal letter into place with practised ease.

You watched for a moment before you can stop yourself.

It was oddly fascinating. The precision of it. The way he moved around the machine like he understood it instinctively, adjusting part of the frame with one hand before pulling a lever down with the other.

The press looked heavy but he didn’t seem to struggle with it at all.

His sleeves were still rolled up, forearms flexing slightly with the effort, ink smudged across his skin that looked—

You cleared your throat, looked anywhere else.

“So — Mary” he says after a moment, still focused on the printing. “You do not strike me as the sort who thinks women should stay out of politics.”

You blink. What was that supposed to mean?

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” he continued mildly, “most people who come in here asking to print articles about workers’ rights do not also tend to think women should be kept out of education and decision-making.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You support women’s rights?”

Arthur glances over at you like that’s an obvious question. “I do not see why half the population shouldn't get a say in how things are run,” he said with a shrug. “It seems inefficient and cruel.”

You laughed softly before you can stop yourself.

“That is a very practical way of putting it.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” you admitted. “You are not.” There was a small pause before you added “I have always longed to attend university.”

This time he did look up.

“I would have liked to study mathematics — I would also love to travel across Europe one day, without a chaperone forced upon me.”

Arthur’s expression shifted slightly — surprised, but not in a way that felt unkind.

“That would suit you.”

You smiled faintly. “My brother went to Paris — He is attending University there,” you said without thinking.

Arthur's face immediately twisted into confusion, “I thought you said your father was a clerk, how can your brother afford the expense of it all?”

Oh.

Right.

You did say that.

You straightened slightly in your chair.

“I meant—” you started, and then had to stop yourself before you said anything worse. “My friend’s brother. From when I was a child. He attended.”

Arthur watched you for a second. “…Right.”

“Their father is a lord so... they have the wealth,” you added quickly, like that explained everything.

His mouth twitched at your newly flustered state. “And they let him go but not you?”

“Well,” you said dryly, “I am a woman.”

He laughed along to your sarcastic quip.

“What would you have studied?” you asked.

He didn’t even hesitate. “History.”

That surprised you. “May I ask why Arthur?”

“I figured... if you are going to argue with people about how things should be run,” he said, slotting another piece of type into place, “it helps to know how they have been run before.”

You smiled at that. “That is most sensible.”

He smiled over at you again, for a moment you were both just looking at each other — until he cleared his throat and turned back to the press.

Some time passed when you glanced outside the stained windows, The sky was now a dark periwinkle, as if the sun would rise soon.

Still early enough that your family would not notice your absence — Mina had helped with that — but not so early enough that the streets felt less threatening as they did the first time.

But if you did not leave now, there was the chance of this escapade being revealed.

Arthur's expression shifted when he turned to see your slightly tense state. “Oh,” he says. “Mary.”

You broke out of your trance. “Yes? Sorry — Arthur.”

"You appear to be quite fearful."

"I just need to — leave soon, I cannot stay any longer."

He observed the soft glow of candlelight on your eyes as you spoke, suddenly turning around to show you a copy of your writing.

Your pseudonym — Mr. Elias Grey — sat neatly at the top of the page like it belonged there.

Arthur watched your face as you stepped closer. “Is this satisfactory Mary?” he asks.

You picked one up carefully, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

“They look…” you trail off.

He waited.

“They look dignified.”

His heart skipped a beat when you said that..

You turned back toward him, to give it back so he could print more.

“Thank you.”

He reached to take it and your fingers brushed.

It was nothing. Barely a second. Just the lightest contact between your skin and his.

Arthur’s hand stilled slightly before he took the page properly, clearing his throat as he looked down at it like he hadn’t seen it a dozen times already.

“I shall have them all printed in two nights Mary,” he said.

“Of course — I shall bring the shillings then.”

He looked at you again, for a second, it felt like the shop had gone very quiet. “You will have to be careful of the brothel.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“Walking in this area, on your own,” he clarified. “It is not exactly safe, especially near the brothel — some of the men there are — not well mannered.”

“I shall be careful.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

You smiled slightly. “Are you worried about me, Mr Frederick?”

He huffed. “I am worried about my customers,” he said, reaching for another sheet. “It is bad for business if they get robbed on the way home.”

“Of course — I shall see you in two nights time Arthur."

a/n - like and comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if u wanna be on the taglist

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