A Stranger in Mayfair (17 page)

They arrived at a line of cabs. “Care for a drink?” Dallington asked. He grinned. “There’s a lad at the Jumpers who’s going to try to eat four hard rolls in a minute. I have a shilling on the other side.”

“Diverting as that sounds, I must go home,” said Lenox. “As you know, the Queen’s opening Parliament in the morning.”

“Well, if you prefer the Queen to an eating contest, I can’t say I admire your priorities.” Dallington laughed. “Here, take the first cab. I say, good luck tomorrow, Lenox. Pass a law making Fowler tell you everything if you find a moment.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

On the next morning he opened his eyes with the feeling that at last he would truly belong in Parliament, truly be one of them, for the first time. If the issue of cholera had given Lenox the realization of his responsibility, a purpose, the chamber’s opening reminded him of the gravity of his new work. After so much prelude he was ready for the real thing.

Jane was at home, thank God, and for the first time in what felt like years they spoke in their old, familiar way, as they had when they were friends (and she certainly would have been the one to straighten his necktie and brush off his jacket, as she did now). What a relief it was.

“Well—try not to fall in love with the Queen and leave me,” she said with a laugh as she inspected him. He was dressed and breakfasted. It was almost time to leave. “No matter how good her speech is.”

He smiled. “I’ll send a note if it happens. From my new home at the palace.”

“It’s the least you could do, really.”

“Are you going to see Toto?”

“I think I’ll take a day to myself, at last. I love her—as well you know—but she’s run me ragged.”

“Anyway, they’re quite safe now.”

“Exactly. I need the morning to catch up with my correspondence, and I’m having lunch with Duch.” This was the Duchess of Marchmain, Dallington’s mother and one of Lady Jane’s closest friends. “Then we’re going to call on Emily Pendle, the bishop’s wife—in Berkeley Square?” In exasperation at Lenox’s blank face, she said, “Surely you know her.”

“I misplaced my master list of all the bishops’ wives, I’m afraid.”

“He’ll be there with you, of course.” All the bishops of the Church of England had,
ex officio
, seats in the House of Lords. “She’s going through a terrible time, poor dear, with her father. He’s been ever so ill. We thought we’d try to cheer her up.”

“Are these shoes fine?”

“Oh, I daresay they’ll pass.” She smiled. “Yes, quite shiny, of course. I think Graham had the boots around to shine them five times yesterday.”

“Graham! I haven’t even thought of him today!”

“You’re lucky to have me, then. I congratulated him and gave him the morning off, then told him to come back at three so we could greet you together and hear all about it.”

Lenox frowned. “You can’t give my political secretary the day off.”

“I’ll give him the week off if I like.”

Now he smiled. “You know, I am lucky to have you.”

It was the first awkward note. She handled it by going to the hook where he kept his cloak and taking it down. “You are, of course,” she said lightly.

“Emily Pendle will be cheered by three, then?” he asked, trying to restore the tone the conversation had had.

“It won’t be for lack of trying if she’s not.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then they were saved from truly talking by the doorbell. Kirk’s footsteps echoed down the front hallways, and both of them peered curiously at the door.

Was it a message about Clarke, Lenox wondered wildly? Who was guilty? What had happened?

But no—it was his brother’s reddish, cheerful face that popped through the door. “Hallo, Member for Stirrington,” he said brightly. “You, too, Charles.” At his own joke he laughed loudly. “Imagine, Jane giving her speech in Parliament.”

“I think I’d do a fair job,” said Lady Jane with mock hurt. “Better than some of the gentlemen I’ve heard from the galleries.”

“You would! I don’t doubt it! Only—the figure of a woman—the benches—a dress!” Edmund dissolved into laughter. “It’s exceedingly comical, you must admit.”

“Not so comical as all that, Edmund you great oaf,” said Lady Jane, frowning. “After all, the Queen is speaking there today.”

“It’s true, you’re quite right.” Edmund looked at his watch. “Lord, Charles, we must be on our way. The crush of carriages around Whitehall, you wouldn’t believe it. The Queen’s only an hour away; we should already be seated!”

Lady Jane bestowed a kiss on Charles—still such a thrill, after all this time!—and the two brothers hurried out of the door.

When they were sitting in the carriage together, Edmund asked about Ludo Starling. “They’ve arrested somebody?” He had always taken a deep interest in his brother’s work and liked to solve the crimes of his small village—a missing silver plate, for example, or a stolen horse—using only the evidence in the newspaper. He would bring his deductions to Charles with frankly unbecoming pride and boastfulness.

“The butler.”

“I’ve never liked Ludo Starling, not that it’s here nor there.”

They were in Whitehall now, and it was indeed crowded. The mall from Buckingham Palace was entirely cut off for the Queen. “Oh, bother murders. What are we to do today, Edmund?”

The question was more complicated than it seemed. This was one of those many days in England when a host of old traditions come back to life, and ceremonies with obscure and absurd origins are carried out with the utmost seriousness.

“You and I will start by going to the House—the House of Commons.”

“Won’t it be jammed?”

“Here, let’s go out on foot. It’s crowded. No, it won’t be too jammed. Do you really not know this ceremony? Right at the moment, the Yeomen of the Guard—that’s what we call the Beefeaters when we like to be formal—anyway, those chaps in red uniforms, who get a ration of beef every day—they’re poking around the cellars in case somebody wants to emulate Guy Fawkes and blow us all up.”

“What a relief,” murmured Lenox with a grin.

They were halfway down toward Parliament now, and the crowds were growing denser. “At just this moment an MP—this year it’s Peter Frogg, the lucky blighter—is being taken prisoner.”

Lenox laughed. “What can you mean?”

“In case we try to kidnap Queen Victoria, of course. He sits in the palace and gorges himself on wine and food and makes pleasant conversation with the royal family, generally. Plum job. Then the Queen comes down here in her coach—she’ll be on her way now.”

The Members’ Entrance was crowded with politicians, and a roar of noise was audible even from fifty feet away. The porter, waving away their identification, said, “You oughter have come earlier, for shame, sirs,” and pushed them into the throng of people.

“This way!” shouted Edmund. “Let’s slide through! I made sure we could both be in the Commons! That way we’ll get to see the Queen!”

“Why will we get to see the Queen?” asked Lenox when they were through to a quieter corridor. “And why on earth won’t it be jammed?”

“Most people are in the House of Lords—where they give the speech, you know—or in the Queen’s Gallery”—the hall that connected the Lords and the Commons. “Only a few dozen of us will be straggling around the Commons. Look, here it is.”

They took their place on a green baize bench. Lenox was, to his surprise, rather fluttery in his stomach. “Edmund, how will we see her speech, if it’s in the House of Lords?”

“Let’s talk of other things for a moment—I want to hear about Ludo Starling.”

“But—”

Edmund smiled fondly. “Let it be a surprise, Charles.”

So they talked of Ludo Starling, Freddie Clarke, and Jack Collingwood for some while, pausing occasionally to greet a Member they both knew, or more often one that Lenox knew by reputation and with whom Edmund exchanged a few cryptic words about various bills in the offing for the new session. Strangely enough the room was indeed empty but for a dozen or so men.

Edmund was asking questions about the case when there was a hush. A man in tremendously ornate garb appeared at the door of the chamber, and to Lenox’s shock a gentleman at the far end got up and slammed the door in his face.

“My G—”

“Shh!” whispered Edmund urgently.

Then there was a very loud rap at the closed door of the chamber. Lenox jumped a foot in the air. Edmund laughed into his sleeve.

“That’s the Lord Great Chamberlain,” he whispered. “It means the Queen has entered the building—through the Sovereign’s Entrance, of course, on the other side from ours—and taken on the Robes of State. We slam the door in his face to show we’re independent—that we don’t have to listen to a monarch.”

Another loud rap. “What do we do?”

“Now we’ll go. Wait—the Speaker leads us.”

So they processed down the silent Queen’s Gallery, and through to the
red
-benched House of Lords.

Suddenly there she was, in her person; Lenox, no great admirer of power, was so enchanted he could barely stand when he saw her on her glorious golden throne: the Queen.

“Bow at the bar!” said Edmund urgently. “We must bow!”

They bowed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

She was a roundish, placid, unbeautiful woman; in her youth she had been not pretty but slim and eye-catching. Now she contained all the majesty of England in her rather waddling gait and intelligent, indifferent face. She had survived half a dozen assassination attempts, given birth to children, and seen empires fall. Whether because of her position or her person, she was captivating to behold.

The speech addressed a number of issues for the Houses to take up. To Lenox’s annoyance Edmund kept whispering questions about the case. These received at best a nod by way of reply, but still Lenox found himself missing chunks of the speech. It was nearly the end when he could concentrate.

“My Lords and Members of the House of Commons, I pray that the blessing of Almighty God may rest upon your counsels.”

With that the speech ended, in the same words it did every year. For the rest of the day there were a thousand things they did, each of which half confused and half delighted Charles. They elected the Speaker (a reelection, and a matter of no drama) and then, per tradition, several Members “dragged him unwillingly” to the Speaker’s bench.

“Ages ago it was dangerous to be Speaker—you could be killed if you said something to displease the monarch—and that’s why we do it. Daft, of course, but good fun when the Speaker is such a magisterial figure for the rest of the session.”

They debated the speech and passed a bill—again per tradition—declaring their autonomy from the Queen’s rule. Several people stopped and clapped Lenox on the back forcefully, saying welcome, Members from both sides of the aisle. He found it tremendously collegial of them.

On it went for hours and hours, all of it fascinating. What it reminded him most of was being new at school, when he was twelve. There was the same overwhelmed, excitable feeling, as if a new adventure had been embarked upon and now there was nothing to do but figure out its multitude of small necessities, rules, traditions. At Harrow—his school—there had been the same sort of insular world, with its own terminology: Teachers were beaks; a bath was called a tosh. It had taken weeks before he felt at home with all the slang.

Finally, a little after three that afternoon, Edmund led him out through the Members’ Entrance again.

“Well?” he said when they were a few streets clear of the din of Parliament.

Lenox simply grinned and told him what he had been thinking about Harrrow, where Edmund had been, too.

“It makes a strange impression, doesn’t it? Don’t worry. You’ll soon feel at home there. Look—a pub. Let’s duck in for a celebratory drink.”

They spent an hour then drinking to each other’s health, the Queen’s health, and the House. It was a pub called the Westminster Arms, with honey-colored walls and low raftered ceilings and the gleam of brass and glass everywhere.

“What’s all this about cholera?” Edmund asked finally, after they had sat down with their drinks.

“What did you hear?”

“Hilary spoke a word to me in Bellamy’s. Said he was rather taken aback by your insistence that it be addressed.”

“Insistence? Of course I was insistent.”

“Things move slowly in politics, Charles.”

“They ought to move a sight faster.”

Edmund smiled indulgently. “No doubt you’ll change it all?”

“You think me foolish?”

“No! The farthest thing from it—I’m full of admiration for you—but this is a matter I know about. Perhaps you may be a bit innocent. It will be difficult.”

“Graham has a plan.”

“Does he? Then things will be well. I was surprised about that, by the way. Not that you deemed him worthy for the position, but that you considered it wise. There was a rumble among the secretaries. They fell in line after Percy Field, however.”

“I wondered if it were taking a toll on Graham.”

“Be careful. You compared the House to Harrow—well, it’s just as rigid and orderly. They don’t like people jumping the queue.”

“Graham’s thought was to find a group of Members who felt the same way about the issue of cholera. With strength in numbers we could approach a frontbencher—Brick, Hilary, you.”

“I’m not a frontbencher.”

“In all but name, Edmund.”

“At any rate, you needn’t gather a group to speak to me.”

“What did Hilary tell you?”

“Pretend he told me nothing.”

Lenox recounted the same story he had for Hilary, dwelling on the potential risk to the people in East London of a cholera outbreak.

“It’s unquestionably a valid concern,” Edmund finally answered, sipping at his pint of mild ale. “You must keep me apprised. Wait, though—about Ludo—isn’t—”

“Just a moment, before you go and change the subject please.”

“Me?” said the baronet innocently.

“I know you too well for that, Ed. What’s wrong with it? I hate you being tactful. It irritates me.”

Edmund sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Charles. It’s only that there’s so much against it. A major public works has just finished, at tremendous expense and after tremendous difficulty. No public body backtracks this quickly. ‘We just finished with all that bother’ will be what people say. I promise you.”