“Well, then. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”
The Ladies’ Gallery above the chamber was already crowding, and judging by the variety of hats and dresses, the debate had drawn spectators from lady to office girl, all trying to cram into the limited space. They had to make do with five rows of chairs behind windows barred by ornate metal grilles. The air was turning thick from too many people breathing together, lukewarm condensation would soon drip off the fixtures. Voices from the floor below drifted up in a muffled hum. Lucie insisted that the poor acoustics had been designed this way on purpose.
A soft whistle directed Catriona’s attention to a slim woman with cropped hair at the front row of chairs. Aoife Byrne. Sure enough, there was the blond head of her bosom friend Susan Patterson, a few chairs down.
“We’ve reserved the whole row for you,” Aoife announced. “Susan brought toffees for sustenance; the tin is making the rounds. Don’t be shy, grab a handful.”
Lucie walked right up to the loathsome metal grille and pressed her face to it. Judging by the angle, she was trying to peer down into the Strangers’ Gallery where the men sat, just below their caged section.
“I can’t see Ballentine,” she said. “Nor Wester Ross. They must be right below us.”
“What about Blackstone?” Hattie asked, sitting down but craning her neck.
Lucie shook her head. “Can’t see him, dear. Ah, there’s the duke.”
Catriona sat down between Hattie and Aoife.
“How do you think it’ll go?” Aoife asked, licking toffee off her teeth.
“Lucie thinks our bill will come last,” Catriona said. “Our opposition, likely Mr. Warton, will try to push our point off the agenda entirely by drawing out the other points; that’s what he’s been doing during the previous sessions. The speaker won’t let it stand today. We will have our reading and a decision.”
Aoife’s lips curved down. “We’ll starve up here. It’ll be hours.”
“Probably.”
More women arrived, filling the gallery antechamber and the corridor where they could neither hear nor see anything except for the reactions of the women at the front. Below the gallery, the speaker, out of their field of vision, opened the session.
Hours did pass. The ventilation shafts sluggishly turned over exhausted air. As dusk dimmed the natural light from the chamber windows, the subdued gaslight in the Ladies’ Gallery strained the eyes. Heads were drooping, some were snoozing, by the time Mr. Morgan Osborne tabled the motion of the amendment.
“The honorable Member for Kirkcaldy,” the speaker announced.
A burst of energy made Catriona sit up straight and blink to clear her eyes.
Heckling ensued, and oh-ohs rose from the benches of the House.
Lucie pressed her forehead back to the screen. “Ugh. It’s Sir George.”
Catriona rose and put her face to the grille, too. There was enough space for one eye to have a clear view. In a sea of heads, the Scotsman’s stern visage stood out, looking red even from a distance.
“I suggest any honorable members who say ‘oh-oh’ might leave the House,” he bellowed. “Mr. Speaker, if you believe that I shall let this bill pass without a reasonable discussion—”
“Hmm,” said Lucie, “almost thirty years of discussion are unreasonable, then?”
“. . . this bill is as important as all the other bills that passed the House since this Parliament began.”
Someone laughed.
“Aye, the honorable members might laugh, but this bill created a social revolution that affected almost every family in this country and was being passed through the House without one man or woman in a million having any idea of what was being done.”
“What?” Hattie squeezed her head next to Catriona’s, her cheek radiating indignant heat. “Lucie, is he serious? We have spent years on educating people about the bill—So. Many. Years . . .”
“Shh,” hissed Lucie. “Your feather is in my face.”
“Whoops.” Hattie took off her hat.
“. . . The Christian form of marriage, under which there was complete community between the married parties for life, is the best form of marriage!” Sir George proclaimed. “However, the ‘women’s righters’ have been exceedingly energetic—” Here, he shot a glare at the gallery, causing some of the women to shrink back. Lucie bared her teeth. “. . . Exceedingly energetic, whilst the friends of the poor married man have been indolent. I can sense the mood of this House, so I wish to stand here today and be eternalized in the records as one of the few who fought to obtain a small measure of justice for the poor, unfortunate married man.”
Another MP rose from the bench, his bald pate shiny in the gaslight. Catriona recognized the lilt of his voice from one of her countless petition meetings, a Mr. Fowler.
“Mr. Speaker,” Mr. Fowler said, “I should like to know how fair is it, that the honorable Member for Kirkcaldy, a Scotchman, should interpose to prevent the English women having what the Scotch women got last year?”
There were sounds of approval; ask a room full of Englishmen whether they hold with an Englishwoman or a Scotsman, and enough discovered that their local patriotism outranked sentiments of brotherhood.
Sir George raised his hands. “To spare you the trouble,” he said in a tone that barely repressed the indignity of having to speak to idiots. “No man would marry a woman with property, knowing that she could set him at defiance so long as the marriage continued. It would change the position of the sexes, and make the woman, instead of a kind and loving wife, a domestic tyrant. Scripture was opposed to the bill—”
The speaker’s voice came from under the gallery: “The honorable and learned Member’s speech is certainly very discursive, and I must invite him to address himself to the question.”
Sir George snarled something that sounded like “buffoons” as he sat back down again.
“That didn’t go too well for him,” Catriona said with cold glee.
“Serves him right, silly lad,” said Lucie. “Oh, here comes Mr. Warton. Boo, hiss.”
She must have said it too loudly because Catriona saw the Duke of Montgomery turn his head their way. His cool, pale gaze glided over the gallery in a gentle warning.
Mr. Warton, meanwhile, was imploring the House to stop and think; after all, the bill had been “rushed” through the House of Lords.
Morgan Osborne reminded everyone in a deeply tired tone that the bill had been practically discussed to death and was already approved by the Lord Chancellor, and only Warton and Campbell were really blocking it now.
“It’s obstruction,” someone cried.
“Order!”