A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [17]
The butler—former butler now—allowed himself a smile. “Yes, sir. Very,” he said.
“Good. I’ll see you at our new office, Graham.”
An hour later, after Lenox had done a few chores, the two men stood in the empty office, looking at it. A tiny window in one corner provided a very little light, but it was a dim set of two rooms, one, slightly larger than the other, with a fireplace, bookshelves, and a large desk. This would be Lenox’s. The outer room, through which all traffic would arrive, had two desks that faced each other. These would be for Graham and a new clerk, whom he would soon have to hire.
“Here we are,” said Lenox. “Let’s go over the appointment book.”
For twenty minutes they sorted through various notes asking Lenox to attend meetings of businessmen, railway chiefs, committees from the House of Lords (from which the Commons had truly begun to wrest power in the last thirty years), and a hundred other bodies of men. Graham promised to categorize the notes and respond to them, which lifted a weight off of Lenox’s shoulders.
“But first you have your tour,” said Graham.
“Have I?”
“A Mr. Bigham will be by shortly to give it to you, sir. He’s the assistant to the parliamentary historian and generally guides new Members through the House when they arrive. Since you were elected at a by-election, however”—that is to say, a special, one-off election—“you will be the only person on the tour.”
“We all have our trials.”
There was a rap at the door, and a cheerful face, similar to Lenox’s but slightly fatter and jollier, perhaps less pensive, popped through the crack. It was not the tour guide but Sir Edmund Chichester Lenox, 11th Baronet of Markethouse and Member of Parliament for the town of the same name. Charles’s older brother.
Edmund was a genial soul, happier at Lenox House in the country than in town, but he was also an important and reliable member of his party, who took his duties seriously and refused credit for much of his work—to the extent that his importance in the House had been unknown to his own brother until two years before.
“Charles!” said Edmund. “I wondered whether you might be here. My God, they gave you the worst office in the entire place. Young Michaelson had it, but he traded out like a shot when he got the chance. I hope you don’t die of a draft. But come: Has it really been ten weeks? Shake my hand. I stopped in earlier, and Graham told me you were to have a tour, but come have lunch at Bellamy’s afterward, will you?”
This was the famous Members’ restaurant at Parliament.
“Of course,” said Lenox.
“Excellent. In that case, I’ll take my leave and see you then.” Edmund put on his hat, which had been in his hand, and left, whistling down the hallway.
Mr. Bigham, who arrived a few minutes later, proved to be a plump, small man, with big owlish glasses and a dry manner of speech. He sat in front of Lenox’s desk for some twenty minutes and lectured him on various matters of protocol and procedure.
“As you know,” he began, “the House meets at a quarter to four in the afternoon, except on Wednesdays, when we convene at noon. Each sitting begins with a religious service from which the public is barred, but as soon as that ends strangers come into the galleries. Here’s a funny fact, Mr. Lenox: Although there are six hundred and seventy Members of Parliament, only about three hundred and fifty people can fit into the House of Commons! Remarkable, isn’t it? For an important vote we might just cram four hundred in, but not more than that.”
“I suppose many Members don’t come to the sittings?”
“Oh, there are a hundred men who only come to London once a year but find it convenient or pleasurable to hold a seat. Another hundred live in London but still come to the House only once a year. In the end only two hundred or so attend regularly. There are always empty spots on the benches.”
“I shall be part of that two hundred,” said Lenox.
“Shall you?” Mr. Bigham smiled, his jowly