"It was bad. She suffered," he said.
India broke his gaze, unnerved.
"No one dies smiling, Mr. Malone. Did you know that? The very idea is a fairy tale. Utter tripe. People die in pain and afraid. Screaming, crying, cursing, begging, but never, ever smiling. So yes. To answer your question... yes, she suffered." India angrily ripped her coat off, wadded it up, and threw it in a corner.
"And now you are."
"I don't take your meaning."
"Suffering. Because she did."
"I'm angry, that's all," she said quickly. "I had a useless nurse assisting me and I had to work on a decrepit operating table with no stirrups because Dr. Gifford, my employer, took the best table for a gallstone surgery." She threw her hands up in frustration. "Gallstones! They're a doddle. A monkey could take them out. On a fruit crate. With a corkscrew. And he's got to take the best table without even a thought for what anyone else is going to do if we get a miscarriage or an obstructed labor, never mind a botched abortion."
India talked on, telling Sid about the appalling state of medical care for women and the lethal hypocrisy of a medical establishment that provided birth control to the moneyed classes and forbade it to the poor, the very ones who needed it the most. And Sid said nothing. He did not make faces, spout platitudes, or advise her to calm down. He let her talk. He listened until she ran out of steam and stopped pacing, and then he said, "Your guv's no good."
"My guv?"
"Gifford. He's no good. You should be out on your own. You could do things your way then. The right way. Why aren't you?"
"I can't afford to. And I don't want to. At least, I don't want to be in private practice. I have hopes, only dreams, really...of opening a clinic one day. For poor women and children. Here in Whitechapel. I've started saving for it. Patients would pay only what they could afford, even if it was nothing."
She stopped talking. He must think I'm mad, she thought. Maybe I am. Because I've done it again. Poured out my heart to him. First about my studies, then about Hugh, now this. I've never told Freddie some of these things. What on earth is wrong with me? Why do I tell him these things? Him of all people?
"Can't you ask your father for the money? You said he was loaded."
"I don't want his money. I haven't asked him for a penny since the day I left Blackwood. I won't start now."
"I'll give you the money, then."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll give you the money for your clinic. How much do you need?"
India stared at him. She couldn't believe that he would make such a wildly generous offer--or that he would think for a second that she would accept it.
"Thank you. Very much. But I couldn't possibly take it," she said.
"Why not?"
She did not reply.
"My money's dirty. Is that it?"
"Mr. Malone, I am a doctor. I took an oath to heal people. How can I accept money made by destroying them?"
It was Sid's turn to go quiet. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and touched it to her forehead. "Blood," he said.
India stood stiffly as he wiped it away. He was standing so close to her and his touch was so gentle. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to lean her head on his chest and cry for Miss Milo. To cry out all her sadness and anger.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malone," she said briskly, taking a step back. "I'm certain you did not come here to listen to a diatribe on the state of medicine in Britain or to a junior doctor's career goals. Why did you come? What can I do for you?"
Sid held his hands up. "No, it's me who's sorry. I only wanted to stop in before I left, that's all. Tell you thanks for what you did."
"Really, Mr. Malone, I was just--"
"Doing your job. I know. All in a day's work, right?" he said, with a touch of bitterness. "I still want to say thank you. And to tell you that if there's ever anything I can do for you--anything you need..."
"Yes, well, should I ever find myself in need of a stolen painting or a pound of opium, I shall know upon whom to call," India said tartly.
"Aye, well... ta-ra, Dr. Jones," Sid said. The depths of his eyes were hidden to her now. The gentleness was gone. He doffed his cap and then he was gone, too.
India closed her eyes and groaned. Why had she said that? He had only tried to thank her, to offer his help, and in return she had all but pushed him out the door. Why?
She knew the answer. She knew that if she had cried for Miss Milo, if she had leaned her head upon his chest, he would have let her. There would have been no words, just his strong arms around her, his cheek pressed against her own. And she knew that she'd wanted his warmth just then, his touch, more than she'd ever wanted Freddie's.
She knew it, and it terrifled her.
Chapter 22
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lytton."
"Prime Minister."
"I'm ready to hear a brilliant speech. Are you ready to make one?"
"I am, sir," Freddie said, smiling. "And history."
Lord Salisbury's bushy eyebrows shot up. His shrewd eyes sparkled. "Not lacking for confidence, are we? That's the spirit, my boy."
The prime minister, flanked by several of his senior ministers, had just entered St. Stephen's Hall in Westminster, where Freddie had been standing, silently gathering his thoughts for the ordeal ahead of him. In a few short minutes, he would deliver his speech in support of the Irish Home Rule Bill. Salisbury stood with him for a few minutes, complaining about the rush of tedious governmental business that had to be completed before Parliament rose for the summer.
"What was it yesterday? Oh, yes! Wine tariffs, an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth in the Fens, and a petition for funds to establish traffic lights at Basingstoke. Damned dull stuff, I tell you. It's all one can do to stay awake." He paused, then archly added, "I don't mind telling you that I don't think you've the chance of a snowflake in hell today, but I am looking forward to watching you melt. Should provide a good hour's entertainment."
"I wasn't aware that you found Liberal victories entertaining, Prime Minister."
Salisbury laughed. "Someone ought to warn Campbell-Bannerman that this young pup's after his job," he said.
"No sir, not his. Yours," Freddie said.
There was laughter from Salisbury's ministers. The prime minister him-self was smiling, but the look in his eyes was deadly. He had never forgiven Freddie for crossing the floor. And he would not forgive him for supporting the Home Rule Bill either. To him the bill, and all that it stood for-- self-imposed limits on England's reach and its power--was nothing short of traitorous.
"Good luck, Mr. Lytton," he said, still smiling. "You will need it."
The lion in winter, Freddie thought, watching him go. He was the last of his breed. He was a Cecil, a member of one of England's greatest fami-lies, born and bred for politics. His ancestors had served as chief ministers to Elizabeth Tudor and James Stuart. And though he might be an old lion now, stooped and gray, he was still a lion and, as Freddie was well aware, perfectly capable of tearing young comers to shreds.
The clock in the hall struck ten.
"Blast!" Freddie said. He would have to hurry to the Chamber now. He was already rattled. Very likely the old boy's intention, he thought, trotting down the hall.
"Freddie! Freddie, have you seen the Times?" a voice suddenly called from behind him.
Freddie turned around. "Bingham! You're here," he said.
"I am. Yes. Obviously."
"Come to hear my speech?"
"Yes, but--"
"Good man!"
"Freddie, have you--"
"No time," Freddie said, heading for the Members' Lobby. "I'm bloody late. Must go. See you afterward."
"Freddie, wait!" Bingham shouted, waving a newspaper.
"Afterward, Bing, afterward! Meet me at the Reform Club!" Freddie yelled, disappearing into the Members' Lobby. He zoomed into the Chamber and took his seat on one of the tufted leather benches.
Glancing around the Chamber, with i
ts somber Gothic architecture, he saw that attendance was excellent. MPs milled about in their frock coats and silk hats, except for the one and only Labour member, James Keir Hardie, who wore tweeds and a cap. Whips from both parties had made certain a majority of their members had shown up to vote. Freddie looked up and saw various members of the press seated in the Strangers' Gallery, and recognized more than a few faces from the House of Lords.
Today was the most important day of his political career; it was the day the Home Rule Bill went before the Commons for its Second Reading, a period of discussion and debate during which the House would consider the content and principles of the bill, and then decide whether to approve it or kill it. Freddie had been working diligently behind the scenes to garner bipartisan support for the bill. It had been an uphill battle, and he had only just attained the majority required to push it through. Some of those might still change their minds at voting time. He needed to convince a few more doubters and bring them to his side, and to do that he would have to deliver a speech that was nothing short of stupendous.
He'd been writing and rewriting the speech for months, furiously rip-ping up old drafts and starting from scratch until his words were perfect and polished. Then he practiced. He delivered the speech in his flat again and again until he was hoarse, until he had every word committed to mem-ory. Prepared speeches were not allowed in the Chamber. Notes were, but Freddie, seeing them as a sign of mental weakness, never used them. A riv-eting orator, he always spoke solely from memory, commanding a stunning array of facts and figures, and he would do so today.
He was keenly aware that his performance would be watched carefully by politicians and the press at home and abroad. If he succeeded, his triumph would virtually guarantee his ascendancy within the party and ensure a win come election time--for many of his Tower Hamlets constituents were Irish, and he had shamelessly played up to their patriotic feelings.
And if he failed ll, he wouldn't fail. He couldn't fail. Too much
...we
was at stake.
Irish Home Rule had a history of defeat. Under Gladstone, the Liberals had pushed Home Rule Bills through the Commons in '86 and again in '93, only to see them killed in the House of Lords. Hand over power to one part of the Empire, the Lords argued, and you'd soon be forced to do so every-where else. Home Rule's history of defeat might have intimidated some, but not Freddie. He was confident in his arguments and in his ability to de-liver them persuasively. When the bill won today, as it surely would, its for-mer defeats would make his own victory shine all the more brightly.
The Chamber was nearly full now. Freddie felt a current of excitement run through his body. Politics was his life. It was his highest ambition, his one true love, and he was never happier than at times like these--when the game was afoot. His nerves were crackling, but he felt good. Confident. Everything was going his way now. Absolutely everything. India had finally been brought to heel. His finances would soon improve. And Gemma would shortly be back in his life. He would succeed with his speech, too.
The House was called into session. The Speaker's chaplain read the prayers and the day's business began. The Home Rule Bill was first on the Order Paper. As the Speaker finished his opening remarks, Freddie rose from his seat, signaling his wish to be called. "The Honorable Member for Tower Hamlets," the Speaker said.
"Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Freddie replied. "Prime Minister, Right Honorable Gentlemen, fellow Members, I come before you today to address the future of Ireland, and in so doing, to secure nothing less than the future of Britain--" a loud and lusty volley of "Hear! Hear!"s, bellowed from the Liberal benches, filled the Chamber--"Britain today is an empire the like of which has not been seen since the Caesars' Rome. An empire vast and magnificent, one upon which the sun never sets. We, her citizens, rightly bask in the brightness of our country's strength, of her unparalleled achievements..." Another round of cheers went up. "And yet I fear that too much time spent basking in the bright sun has blinded Members seated on the right of this esteemed House to the storm that now approaches." Grumbles were heard. Freddie quickly cut them off. "A distant thunder rumbles at our shores," he said, "a thunder that grows louder as these self-same Members continue to make an enemy of our neighbor Ireland by denying her the same political self-determination that we, the heirs of Magna Carta, enjoy ...by denying her the privileges and rights of Home Rule."
A roof-raising howl went up from the Tories. It was met by a roar of ap-proval from the Liberals. Freddie smiled, pleased that his words had nearly incited a riot, for it meant his colleagues were paying attention. He waited for the noise to die down, then continued, artfully juxtaposing ideological arguments with hard examples, facts, and figures with stirring rhetoric. His supporters frequently broke into cheers. His detractors booed him. But all Members, from both sides of the floor, listened raptly. No one fidgeted. No one yawned. Every man sat forward in his seat.
Half an hour into his speech, Edward Berridge, a Tory backbencher, ran into the Chamber clutching a pile of newspapers. Freddie saw him out of the corner of his eye and assumed he was late. He turned away from him slightly, so as not to be distracted by his movements. He didn't see Berridge hand the papers to the Tory chief whip. He didn't see the whip read the front page and smile. He saw only his own victory, his forthcoming glory.
He spoke masterfully for more than an hour, laying out for the House what it cost to maintain the British Empire in terms of men, money, and the military, arguing impressively for the judicious use of Britain's resources in commodity-rich lands that rewarded investment--Africa, Ara-bia, India--and a more limited role in Ireland, which did not.
"We are still fighting a war in the Transvaal, and facing unrest in India," he said, concluding his impressive performance. "Let us not turn Republi-cans into revolutionaries. Home Rule must carry the day. Ireland must govern Irish affairs," he said. "This is not devolutionary politics, gentlemen. This is not defeatism. It is political pragmatism, and it is the future."
When Freddie finally sat, there was thunderous applause from the Liberal benches for what had been a powerful and affecting speech. He smiled, certain he'd gained the majority needed to pass the bill, certain he would shortly be celebrating his success at the Reform Club. He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the Speaker to call for a vote on the bill, but instead Edward Berridge stood.
What the hell is he doing? Freddie wondered, his nerves suddenly taut.
Berridge was a great friend of Dickie Lambert's--Freddie's rival for the Tower Hamlets seat. Not currently a Member of Parliament, Lambert could not be present on the floor, but Berridge could.
"The Honorable Member for Banbury," the Speaker called out.
Berridge cleared his throat, then gravely said, "I wonder if the Honorable Member for Tower Hamlets has seen today's edition of the Times?"
The hairs on Freddie's neck prickled. Hadn't Bingham asked him the same thing just as he was hurrying to the Chamber? Why?
"I'm afraid I have not. Perhaps the honorable gentleman's countryside constituency affords him more time for leisurely pursuits than mine affords me," he said.
Freddie's supporters laughed. The Tories sat stony-faced.
"Mr. Speaker, I wish to make a reasoned amendment," Berridge said.
A chorus of "Hear! Hear!"s rang out from across the floor. Freddie felt blindsided. He knew, as did everyone else in the Chamber, that Berridge was following protocol not to have the Home Rule Bill amended, as his words suggested, but to have it killed.
"Your reasons, sir?" the Speaker asked.
Berridge held up a copy of the Times. At least two dozen other Tories did the same. "Five Killed in Dublin Shooting," the front page blared. "Republicans Ambush Police with Guns from London Wharf Robbery."
The House erupted in outrage. Catcalls and boos rained down. Freddie felt as if someone had punched him. He could barely breathe.
Berridge waited for the uproar to die down, then continued. "The men killed in Dublin were
Englishmen," he said. "They leave behind English wives and English children. Republicans, revolutionaries, rebels ...call these Irishmen what you will, it does not change what they are--murderers. Every one of them. Are these men--these criminals, these killers--are these the men the Honorable Member wishes England to empower? Are these the men who should control the fate of our nearest neighbor, and by extension our own? Are these the men who should be granted Home Rule?"
Freddie tried to respond, but he was shouted down by rabid Tory back-benchers. The Speaker called for order, and eventually got it, but as Freddie was about to speak, Berridge attacked again.
"The guns used in the slaughter were stolen from the Stronghold, a wharf in East London, in Tower Hamlets," he said. He paused for a sec-ond, then delivered the killing blow. "Apparently the Honorable Member wishes to turn Ireland into a place as lawless and renegade as his own con-stituency."
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