London - Edward Rutherfurd [513]
At the start of November, apparently supposing that it was time to form a square, the gallant Duke of Wellington coolly informed the country that, as far as he was concerned, there would be no reform at any time in the foreseeable future. Even some of the Tories thought this was going a bit far. Two weeks later, in the House of Commons, the government was defeated on a vote; and Bocton, as a matter of courtesy, rode over to Carpenter’s workshop to tell him: “The king is sending for the Whigs, Mr Carpenter. You have your reform.”
For Lucy, the year brought pain. Even the warm weather that spring did not seem to improve Horatio’s condition. Tired though he often was however, whenever he felt up to it during the hot days of summer, he would struggle down to the Thames and wander about on the mud while she and Silas worked. Once, as a treat, she took him from London Bridge, where they had been working, up to the Bank. From there, the previous summer, an enterprising man had started a new mode of transport: a huge carriage seating twenty passengers and pulled by three strong horses, it made the journey from the Bank to the western village of Paddington. An omnibus, the fellow called it, and the two children took it all the way back to the bottom of St Pancras. It cost them sixpence.
But still, she could tell, Horatio was getting weaker. In her heart she knew that in their dreary lodgings, and down by the damp, dirty old river, and in the terrible London fogs he would never be well. And though she could scarcely bear the thought of parting from him, she told Silas: “He must get away from here. He must.”
Silas said nothing.
Several times, trying to think who could help them, she begged the boatman: “Can’t you think of any family, any friends who might help him? Have we no relations anywhere?” To which the answer always came, in his deep gruff voice: “No.”
Once, on a bright October day, as Horatio was wandering on the mud flats by Blackfriars, she and Silas heard him give a cry, and then saw him waving to them. Silas, with a quiet curse, finally agreed to row back and Lucy, fearing something was amiss, ran over the damp mud to him so that her legs were speckled black by the time she reached him. He was not hurt though, but in his hand, which he now proudly held out, were no less than five golden sovereigns.
“Five sovereigns!” He smiled. “Are we rich, now?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Lucy.
“Does this mean you could stop working? At least for a little while?”
“We shall have a fine feast,” she promised him instead.
For another hour Lucy and Silas plied the river that afternoon, and whenever Lucy looked back she could see the little boy standing there, smiling at her, a strange, unhealthy glow upon his pallid face and she thought, with a tremor of fear, how ethereal he looked, like a person from another world.
The most famous House of Commons vote in the history of modern England took place on 23 March 1831. The great Reform Bill, introduced by the new Whig ministry, had gone through amid stormy sessions. A hundred seats, after all, were to disappear. The entire political establishment was to be drastically rearranged. “I think, even now,” Bocton had warned Carpenter, “that the vote will be close.” He was right. The historic measure which ushered in modern democracy to England, passed by exactly one vote.
“Mine,” Bocton claimed, with a wry smile.
Not that the thing was done yet. Within days, a wrecking amendment had got through and the Reform Bill lay in ruins. This last stand by the die-hards did not distress Carpenter much. “The Whigs will go to the country now,” he judged. “And they will win.” Sure enough, the Whig prime minister, Lord Grey promptly called an election. The Whigs were returned with a large majority. Reform was now inevitable.
One small event did puzzle both men. Carpenter had just gone for a meeting with Bocton at the start of the new election. Finding him in a large, crowded lobby beside Westminster