Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter 20

The Letter

It was impossible to imagine a life without Margaret. It was true that they had been married only a short time: even through the haze of sleep John was able to quickly calculate the number of days at eighty-two. And she had been in his life for only a few months before that. Yet the many years John had spent without her, while not expunged from his memory, were colorless in comparison.

John rolled over in bed and reached for her, only to find her side of the bed empty, her pillow indented, but fairly cool. He sat up and stretched, then frowned when he saw her enter from the sitting room.

"What have you been up to?" he asked. John realized belatedly that in their quarrel of two nights earlier, and in the repeated reconciliations of the day before he had neglected to bring up the topic of boundaries. The pink tinge that immediately colored Margaret's cheeks suggested some guilt. John fell back against the pillows and sighed. He was not sure he had another argument in him.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I wrote a letter the other night, before we argued. But I don't know where I put it. I was looking for it. I haven't been going through your things, if that's what you're wondering. I know that was wrong of me. By the way, that early morning glower does not suit you."

John raised his eyebrows at this unexpected admission. Margaret never failed to surprise him.

"Did you find it?" he asked after a moment's contemplation. He pushed aside the question he most wanted to ask.

"No. Perhaps the char girl took it with her. I will have to ask Jane." She hovered near the doorway, as if considering whether or not to wake the servant.

"Lock the door, and take that off," John said quietly, gesturing at the thin silk gown she wore. She obliged, and John was reminded of one of the many reasons why it was so difficult to imagine a life without her.

"You are a goddess, you know." Her blush deepened alluringly, but she did not attempt to cover herself, as she would have only a few months before. His de Milo came to him instead, a small smile upon her lips.

"Only you would say that. I think I am getting fat."

"Voluptuous." He ran his hand over the curve of her hip. "I'm certain it's not time to get up yet. Come back to bed. And tell me, why couldn't you sleep?"

She moved around the bed and slid under the blankets. "Well, you see, the sad truth of it is, you snore."

He supposed he deserved that. Still, he rewarded her for her impertinence with a firm pinch to the bottom. "I do not snore. I can tell when you are lying, by the way. Your pupils dilate."

"I'm not lying. You do snore. Like this." Margaret rolled onto her back and made several pig-like snorts, punctuated with giggles.

John looked at her evenly. "You seem well-practiced. Perhaps you are the one who snores, Margaret."

"I most certainly do not!" She bolted upright in bed, mortally offended, and the blankets fell to her waist, revealing her naked form once again.

It was an invitation John could not resist.

Jane must have heard them, John decided, as he left the bed some time later to brief the girl on the morning's tasks. Servants always managed to hear. They picked up dirty sheets and dirty laundry and picked up on signs that might seem insignificant to the untrained eye. So really, it did not matter that only a room separated hers from the master bedroom. If Jane hadn't heard, she would have made up stories anyway. It was their honeymoon, after all. And that was the price one paid for having help.

He returned to his bedroom to find his wife slipping into a silken robe, a totally unnecessary garment, in his opinion. "What are we doing today?"

John slid the fine cloth down her shoulders as he drew her close. "I'd rather spend it here, with you, but I need to visit the crating company. The exhibit closes Sunday, and they'll need to be on site Monday to pack up the machinery. Rather foolishly, they broke down the crates completely on arrival. That means they'll need to build new ones for the trip back to Milton. They have the measurements, of course, but they may not have begun work yet. A visit is in order."

Margaret nodded. "May I accompany you?"

"I am afraid you'd be bored. We only have another nine days here. I would suggest you visit the dressmaker's today."

"That won't do, as I will need an appointment. London dressmakers do not take custom off the street."

"If you tell me the name of the dressmaker, I will leave a letter with the concierge," John replied. "Perhaps he will be able to set something up for tomorrow."

"Yes. Well, Edith was fond of Miss Sloane's in the Burlington Arcade. Are you sure you don't want me to go with you, John?"

John shook his head. "I have a number of errands to run. I need to stop by Barclay's for one, as we are running low on funds."

"Barclays? Are they set up in Milton?"

"No, but I have a circular letter of credit. It's something similar to the letters of credit I use for the mill, although of course this is for our family account. It is dangerous to travel with large amount of money on ones person."

"Credit?" Margaret's brow furrowed. That did not seem like John. "I was just thinking I might go to the drapers today as I could use new stockings and garters, and it did not seem that Jane ordered everything I called for yesterday. Very few packages arrived last night. But I could certainly do without. What I have could easily be darned."

"You worry too much about cost, love." John kissed his wife's forehead. "We are not on the verge of insolvency by any stretch of the imagination. Quite the opposite, in fact. When I said I was 'running low on funds,' I simply meant I did not stop by the bank before we left Milton. A letter of credit is not a loan. It simply assures a London banker that there are funds in the Milton bank. They settle up via telegram later. And you should be dressed as the wife of a leading manufacturer, Margaret. You must do that for me. No mended stockings or undergarments. No second-rate goods."

The furrow remained. "If you insist. But it seems foolish to spend so much on clothes that must be discarded in two month's time."

"Many customs are foolish. Still, we abide by them."

There was a knock on the adjacent sitting room door, and John left to speak with a porter. The young man waited in the hall with a small team of understaff. One stood sentinel by a wheeled table, laden with the morning's breakfast. Two others bore a large brass tub. Upon the porter's signal, the latter made their way into the dressing room as breakfast was set up in the sitting room.

"Kippers! Lovely," said John as he returned to the room and removed a silver cover from a plate. Then he gazed at Margaret with concern as he seated her at the table. "They aren't going to be a problem for you, are they, love?"

Margaret shook her head and blushed. "I feel perfectly fine, John. You are being silly." She ate her breakfast with gusto, to prove the point.

He polished off his own breakfast remarkably fast, but the morning's activities might have had something to do with that.

"I assume you want the first bath?" John rose from the table and retrieved his Gladstone bag from its location by the wing chair. He unlatched it quickly and rummaged inside until he located one of two leather pouches. He placed the drawstring bag on the table, next to his wife's finished breakfast. "That should cover your needs for today."

Margaret poured out the contents of the purse to find an abundance of sovereigns and crowns. "This is too much, John."

"We will have no more discussion on this, Margaret. No middling goods will be purchased."

"Yes, John."

"I will be back at one, if you'd like to luncheon together."

"Of course, John."

Margaret left the room to take her bath, and John took up his deconstructed copy of The Economist, and settled into a wing chair with a cup of tea to mentally prepare for the day. It would have been better to leave John Thornton the mill master in Milton, he knew. Surely Margaret deserved a full two weeks of his undivided attention. But in a few hours time, he would put mill business away again and let the honeymoon resume.

They'd have each other all to themselves again.

"You and Mr. Thornton are getting along quite well."

Jane had heard.

Obviously, she had heard. Margaret willed herself not to turn pink, as Jane ran the boar's hair brush through her hair. Margaret thought quickly. If she accused the girl of impertinence, it would only make things worse. The tale would be embroidered, no doubt, and by the time the trio returned to Milton, the story of the connubial delight of the Thornton honeymoon would bear little resemblance to what had actually transpired. Although delight had definitely transpired.

"We get along famously," Margaret replied after a moment. "I am lucky to have such a good man as my husband."

It was interesting that Jane was talking at all. John had identified her a gossip, and Margaret had no reason to doubt him, but in her presence the girl said very little. But perhaps that was because the servant spent her time listening. Or perhaps she'd deemed Margaret not worth gossiping with. According to John, Jane gossiped readily with Fanny. But she said nary a peep in front of the elder Mrs. Thornton. Margaret laughed aloud as she regarded herself in the mirror, wearing the raven's cut-down mourning clothes. Did Jane think she was also cut from the same cloth?

Well, maybe several days without an audience had loosened the girl up, because she was very talkative this morning.

"May I ask where we will be goin' today, Mrs. Thornton?"

Margaret turned her head to look for the woman, before realizing who was being addressed.

"There are several drapers on Piccadilly. At least, there used to be when I lived here with my cousin."

Jane nodded her head vigorously. "Yes, ma'am. I visited one yesterday. But there were several t' choose from, I noticed."

"You only visited one? But I gave you quite a list. How did you spend your day?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You see, I got lost. I was quite turned around. I walked for several miles in the wrong direction. Into quite a seedy neighborhood. I was about t' buy a map when this nice man approached me-"

"A man?" Margaret raised her eyebrows as she glanced at Jane's reflection in the mirror. Jane focused her attention on the braid she was coiling on Margaret's head, and continued.

"Yes, a very nice man. And so handsome. Tall with sandy blond hair and a ginger beard. And lovely hazel eyes. He saw me sitting on bench in a very big park. I don't remember the name. But I guess he could tell I was lost. I must'a looked confused or worried or somethin' because he offered to buy me a lemonade. That was very nice of him, I think."

"Yes." Margaret frowned.

"And when I told him what I was after, and that I worked for a wealthy cotton manufacturer and his wife, he said, 'Oh, you'll be wantin' the best, then love!' and then he walked with me all the way back to Piccadilly. Now what kind of man would do that 'cept a gentleman?"

"What kind of man indeed?"

"I don't think I've ever met such a man in Milton." Jane blushed. "Except for your Mr. Thornton, that is. So in the end, I only had time t' buy fabric for one gown. All the black fabric was exactly th' same! I couldn't tell it apart."

"Well then, I guess we'll have plenty to keep us occupied this morning." Margaret patted her hair, and satisfied with her appearance, asked for her bonnet.

"I wish the gentleman had stayed with me. He could have sorted out the fabric, y'see. He told me he was a draper's son."

"Is that so? But that hardly would have been appropriate."

"I know, ma'am. But I just thought it seemed rather fateful, given that your Mr. Thornton also got his start as a draper."

"I see." Margaret furrowed her brow, because actually she did not see. She had no idea where Jane was going with her current line of reasoning. Thankfully the girl dropped it.

"I hope it is not rude t' ask, ma'am, but I do not have much experience of mourning, apart from Mrs. Thornton, who has been in mourning forever, but not high mourning... It's different for my class of folk."

Margaret looked at the girl expectantly as she tied the ribbons below her chin.

"How much longer will you wear th' veil?"

"It has only been twelve days, Jane. Custom dictates that I should wear the veil for a month, and black for three months. Then half-mourning. You've seen women in gray and lavender, no doubt."

Jane nodded, and Margaret was struck by how attractive she was. Her wavy, ash blond hair was styled very becomingly, although in the simple style that befit a servant, and her huge, gray eyes were quite striking. Margaret wondered how often "nice" men introduced themselves to her. The girl probably would not remain a servant for long, as marriage and service did not mix.

"Then why does the elder Mrs. Thornton still wear th' black?"

Margaret blinked as she came back to the conversation. "Well, it is different for widows. They must wear black for a year. Although some to choose to wear it for longer. Mrs. Thornton must miss her husband greatly."

"I hear he was a rascal." The girl fairly leered at Margaret.

"Jane! You are lucky Mr. Thornton has already left. But I will not suffer you to speak in such a way about his father! Misfortune and grief come to all of us, in time. You must remember this. And even if you do not, you will experience it, in time."

Jane bowed her head, and busied herself locating Margaret's reticule, while Margaret picked up the purse John had left behind for her. No apology was forthcoming, but Margaret did not expect one. It was clear the girl needed to work on her attitude.

"Jane, you were in these rooms for a while yesterday, were you not?"

"Only for the briefest of times, Miss. I mean, Ma'am. The master banished me, he did." The slightest of smirks played over the girl's lips and Margaret did her best to maintain her composure.

"Did you happen to see a letter? I might have placed it on the mantelpiece. Or the writing table. I do not remember."

"No, ma'am."

"I thought you might have mailed it."

"I wouldna do so without asking, ma'am."

"Do you think the char girl might have?"

"I doubt it. Anyway, it's clear she hasn't visited. Look at the state the hearth is in."

Jane was right. The pile of ash in the grate was more than twenty-four hours worth, and the brass was beginning to oxidize.

"Was it important?" There was a gleam in Jane's eyes that made Margaret hesitate.

"No, there were no documents or any things of that nature enclosed. It's just that I spent several hours on it. I'd hate to have to write another. I was informing an old friend of Papa's death."

"I'll be sure to let you know if it turns up, ma'am."

The morning passed quickly, and by half past twelve, Margaret had purchased enough stockings to last her through the winter, and yardage for not only two more black gowns, but silks in dove gray, plum and charcoal as well. After finding trims quiet enough to suit such gowns, she was ready to return to the hotel. Margaret had never enjoyed the very feminine activity of shopping: she found endless discussion of the merits of one passementerie or other to be frivolous and difficult to follow. This morning's labor, with one sales girl or another nipping at her heels, extolling the merits of this French gimp or that English piping had been quite exhausting.

"Shall we?" she asked Jane, after directing the sales girl to send their purchases back to the hotel.

"Do you want me to call for a carriage?" Jane asked. "You look a bit tired."

"I am quite well. I need the fresh air after my confinement, and it is a very short walk." The pair left the shop and journeyed along Piccadilly toward Albemarle Street. However, their progress was slowed by a very large crowd that completely blocked traffic.

Disconcertingly, it was mostly men who filled the road, rude, rough, shouting men who seemed to be having a great deal of fun as they pointed and laughed at some spectacle they encircled. Just what the spectacle was, Margaret had no idea. She was not tall enough to see.

"What is going on?" Margaret asked. Jane left her side without her leave and pushed through the crowd, returning breathlessly some minutes later. She led a large, sandy-haired man by the hand, a man who despite the early hour had clearly had a nip or two. He did not stagger, but he had that high coloring that responds readily to alcohol. His nose and cheeks flushed red to match his scraggly sideburns.

"Mrs. Thornton," Jane said, "this is the gentleman I told you about, Mr. Leonards. What a pleasant surprise to find him here!"

Margaret was glad of her mourning attire when the man spoke, for the veil hid her features from view. It also camouflaged a look of shock that she was unable to control. Although she did not recognize this man, his Hampshire accent was unmistakable. And there were several flags that this man was Navy, each as clear as the semaphores her brother had shown her years earlier.

"George Leonards, at your service," he said, as he doffed a wool cap of the type worn by sailors and extended a work roughened hand, one that undoubtedly had coiled many thick, hempen ropes over the previous years. Margaret noticed he wore a light jacket of fustian, like most working-class men, but his trousers were linen front-falls. Only seamen wore those. She put her up her guard, and put on her best London accent to hide her own southern origins.

"How do you do?" she asked. "Just what is the disturbance over there?"

"It's some strange American ladies. They call themselves Bloomers. You'll not believe what they're wearing! Short skirts and trousers. I think they want to collapse our civilization, they do." Leonards held out a handbill for the women to inspect, snickering as he did so.

Margaret read the handbill as Jane looked over her shoulder.

A Call to Sartorial Action

Women of London!

Are you not the equals of men?

It is time to throw of your brutal oppressors,

and to adopt an attire

better suited to the dignity of person-hood.

Stays and crinolines were invented

to restrict and constrain.

But if we cannot bend, if we cannot reach,

how can we reach our full potential?

Do we not have a right to wear what we wish,

so long as we injure neither health nor modesty?

Join us in throwing off these chains!

An engraving of a woman followed these emphatic words, and Margaret blinked in surprise as she scanned the image. Above the waist the woman's garment was not so outlandish: she wore a open-front jacket that appeared to be figured with a lozenge design. It might have been silk, or damask, in some somber color. Under that was a ruffle-fronted shirtwaist. But her skirt, which belled out with several layers of ruffles in the latest style, looked as though her draper had been short a full four yards of cloth. It stopped two inches below her knee, exposing the model's legs for all the world to see. True, those legs were covered with cloth. The model wore very full trousers gathered at the ankle, so that they resembled the Turkish garment seen in books.

Jane laughed. "Her hat looks a lot like the one you always wear, Mrs. Thornton!" The engraving showed it to be of straw, with a brim about four inches wide and a rounded crown.

Margaret self-consciously touched the black silk bonnet she was wearing, which effectively cut off half her field of vision, even without the veil. Perhaps these Bloomers were onto something.

"You have been standing here watching the show, Mr. Leonards? Do you not have some place to be?" Margaret asked haughtily.

"It's been quite entertainin'." Leonard responded with a cheeky grin. "Although those young ladies should be careful. They're likely to get find themselves in a predicament. They're courtin' trouble, they are."

"I hear you were able to get my maid out of a predicament only yesterday." Margaret had taken an instant disliking to this man, even before learning he was from Hampshire, or that he was most likely a sailor. She felt like an animal acting solely on instinct. There was something about this man, something unsavory that rolled off him like the scent off a fish monger's stall.

"Aye, but that was different. Your miss is clearly a better class of person, isn't she. She wouldn't parade around half-dressed."

"They look fully covered to me, Mr. Leonards."

"Perhaps you'll be joinin' them at their ball, then! Leonards pointed to the bottom of the handbill, where a date and location were printed. You'll have to dress for it though!" he guffawed, and Jane looked from him to her mistress with an appeasing smile.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Leonards?"

"Looking for work at the moment. Was a seaman, but I'm done with that."

"On a merchant vessel?" Margaret was fairly certain the answer would be 'no.' She steeled herself.

"With the Navy. I sailed with the Orion-"

Frederick's first vessel. Margaret did not hear the rest. By the time she had regathered her wits the conversation had turned to Leonard's imminent relocation.

"I thought he might apply for work at the mill," Jane said.

Margaret nodded, unable to do otherwise. She would just have to ask John to reject Leonard's application. "There is plenty of work in Milton for those who are a quick study. Jane, we should be off. We will double back on Old Bond Street instead. Mr. Thornton expects us within the hour. Good day, Mr. Leonards." She did not extend her hand.

Although it was not quite one, John was waiting for her when she arrived back at Brown's.

"Are you well?" he asked as she removed her veil and bonnet. Margaret waved Jane away, and beckoned John into the dressing room, well away from prying ears before speaking.

"I am fine," she said as she sank into the slipper chair that to the side of the small dressing table. "But Jane and I saw something that disturbed me." She reached into her reticule and pulled out the handbill she'd folded into quarters.

John laughed as he read it, then pulled up a chair to sit so that his knees touched hers.

"I'd heard about these young ladies. I believe one of their leaders spoke recently and caused quite a stir. But Margaret, I don't quite understand why you would find this so upsetting."

"You don't mean to say you would find such a choice of clothing acceptable attire for your wife."

John grinned. "No, frankly. Although I do quite like the hat." He gazed intently at his wife. "It can't be this that is bothering you."

"It's not. I think their costume is ugly to be honest, but in no way immodest. While I wouldn't wear it myself-"

"-Thank heavens!"

"-I can see why some women might want to. They are correct when they say that the vast number of undergarments we wear are quite limiting. It is almost as though that is by design."

"By design? I suppose you mean by men. And yet some women, like Fanny, choose to wear their skirts even wider. By whose design is that?"

Margaret smiled. "Touché."

John reached for her hand. "What is it, Margaret? This cannot be what is troubling you. This is... frippery."

"It was Jane. She has found herself the most unsuitable of companions. I know you have said that it is none of your business what your employees do on their own time, but this man made me very uncomfortable. They way he talked of these Bloomers." She gestured at the paper John held. "It was as though he wished them harm, or as though he might be thinking of harming them himself. There were at least three hundred men hooting and hollering at these girls and he was one of them. It was...disconcerting."

John looked at her gravely. "You should not have been there. Not among such men."

"This was Piccadilly, John! It's quite safe during the day."

"Yet you did not feel safe this day."

"No," she agreed. "I did not."

"To your point, Margaret, there is a vast difference between the employees of the mill and those in our home. We trust the latter with our secrets, so they must in turn be worthy of that trust. And this trust must extend to those they hold in confidence. But this is a London man, correct? We will not see him once we return to Milton."

"He is out of work. And apparently he is so smitten by Jane that he will be relocating to Milton. She asked if you might employ him. Right in front of me. The cheek! I did not know how to reply."

"And you do not want me to."

It was not a question, Margaret noticed. She nodded her reply, head bowed.

John shrugged. "Then I will not. It would be unseemly, at any rate, to be employing the beaux of household staff. There would be talk, no doubt."

There was a knock at the sitting room door and John rose. "Luncheon is here. You know, you haven't asked me about my day, yet." He grinned at her crookedly.

"Oh, do tell, John!"

John waited until the servant had left and they were both seated at the table to tell her his news.

"Everything is on track to have the machinery crated up on schedule. Well, it is now. They had quite forgotten, but I soon put them right. But that's not what I wanted to tell you."

"Oh?"

"The crating company is out near Spitalfields."

"Where silk is woven."

John nodded. "The very place. I ran across an acquaintance of mine who said he would be more than willing to set up a tour of some of the weaving establishments, if you are interested. You'll find it is very different from Marlborough Mills, and given your interest in the plight of the working class I thought you might be interested."

"'The plight of the working class?' You mean Engel's book?" Margaret pursed her lips as she sorted through her husband's words. "But just how is Spitalfields different from Milton?"

John grinned. "It's traditional weaving as opposed to modern methods. I think you'll find it illuminating. I certainly did."

"I'd love to see it, John. How thoughtful of you."

"There's something else."

Margaret gazed at him raptly.

"It seems I was in just the location today. I ran across your friend, Mr. Lennox."

"Henry? My friend?"

John frowned. "I suppose it wasn't surprising, as the Inns of Court are so close by to Spitalfields. He was leaving work for the day." John scoffed. "At eleven. He said he would be paying a call on Edith, who would be overjoyed to know that you were in town. And that she would want us to come for dinner." John produced a note from his waistcoat pocket. "Edith has already sent over the invitation."

"But she did not attend the funeral. Why would she re-establish communication when she's already cut me?"

"I don't know. I didn't open it."

That was so very like John: the missive was addressed to both of them, but he put her feelings first. Margaret opened the note and scanned Edith's words.

"She and her husband were on the Continent," she said after a few moments. "doing a tour of hot springs with her mother. Henry did write to her, but the letter followed them. Edith only returned on Sunday. She hopes we will forgive her and join them at seven tonight."

"And do you want to, Margaret?" John asked, his clear blue eyes piercing.

"Yes," Margaret said. "I love her."

"Seven? We'll still have plenty of time, then."

"You're insatiable!"

John laughed. "That was not at all what I had in mind, but now you mention it..."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Do you have a passport?"

"The Shaws always talked of getting me one, so that I could accompany them to the Continent, but it never happened."

"Let's go to the Foreign Office and apply for one, then."

"But why?"

"That is a surprise."

"But won't we need documentation of who I am? My birth is recorded in the church at Helstone, and our marriage at the church in Milton. As far as I know, those are the only records of my existence."

"You forget I am a magistrate."

John crossed the room, opened his Gladstone bag and pulled out a leather folio. In it, Margaret noticed, were a number of printed documents. He pulled one out and laid it on the table.

"This is a certificate of identity. As a magistrate, I have the power to ascertain that you are indeed Margaret Thornton of Milton. And that is enough to obtain you a passport. We can head to Charing Cross this afternoon."

"Yes, but where are you taking me after?"

"That is a surprise, love. We won't leave until next week."

John closed the folio and began to place it back in his bag, when Margaret noticed familiar black-edged stationery.

"Isn't that my letter?"

John's brow wrinkled in confusion as he retrieved the letter from the bag. He shook his head as he handed it to her. "I didn't know it was there."

"I'm sure it was my fault. I must have inadvertently placed it there that evening, when I was looking for a stamp." Margaret's cheeks burned as she inspected the intricate pattern of the parquet flooring. The letter bent in her tightened grasp as she felt John's gaze upon her.

"I couldn't help but notice the address," he said slowly. "Is that why you were so eager to visit the Spanish exhibit at the Exhibition?"

"It's not what you think," Margaret began.

"How would you know what I think?" John shot back in a whisper.

"Please, give Jane the afternoon off. And I will tell you," Margaret pleaded. "His name is Fred."

Author's notes:

Thank you to everyone who is continuing to read and review! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. :)

About the circular letter of credit: these are the forerunner to the ATM, credit card and (for those of you who are old enough to remember) the traveler's check, and have been around in some form or another since the crusades. I obtained my information about CLOCs from a website belonging to the Columbia University law library. A circular letter of credit worked in the following way: a bank would issue a document to wealthy traveler for a certain (large) amount of money on deposit in the bank. (This tool was not for common folk.) The traveler would present the document to a different bank, who would release a certain amount of money to the traveler, and contact (using the telegraph by the 1850s) the original bank to have the funds sent on. The merchant would also record the amount of funds to be deducted on the document itself, so that the traveler could keep track. After a while, to prevent fraud, travelers were asked to keep either their passport or another document, called a letter of indication with them, which had a signature the merchant could compare against, to prevent fraud. This sounds a bit like a debit card, doesn't it?

I obtained the information about passports from the Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation (1877). This reference is 25 years beyond the time frame of the book (which bothers me), but it was the closest reference I could find. I will update if I find an earlier reference (or if someone points me to one). :) A certificate of identity verified a person was who he said he was and could be issued by any mayor, magistrate, minister of religion, physician, surgeon, solicitor or notary. They were used from at least 1867 on as formal documents, perhaps earlier. From what I have read, with the advent of train travel in the 1850s and the very large increases in the amount of people traveling, passports were not always needed to travel from England to Europe. However, I would think that some form of identification would have been needed. I decided to err on the side of caution and get a passport for Margaret, as John would be required to have one as an importer of cotton. If anyone has further information, please let me know and I will revise!

The description of the attire of the Bloomers is from two places: the November 1851 edition of The Journal of the American Phrenological Society (because phrenology, the study of how the shape of a person's cranium predicted their character and mental ability was a thing in the 1850s!), and The London Illustrated News. The former describe the attire of a 35-year-old woman named Mrs. Dexter who gave a lecture at the Literary Institution in London, and of two younger woman parading on Piccadilly as they passed out handbills extolling the virtues of Bloomerism and advertising the Bloomer ball that was to take place in London on October 29,1851. Great crowds of gawking men congregated whenever these women appeared, for obvious reasons. The Illustrated London News of July, 1851 (pp. 85-86) has an accurate drawing and description of the clothing worn by Amelia Bloomer, the founder of the movement. If you Google "Bloomerism an American Custom" you will easily find a caricature from Punch that gives an idea of the clothing.

Thank you for reading! Tintin