Chapter 2
Alexander Fitzgrant would rather have been cornered in an alleyway by a Glasgow razor gang than stand up before the room full of English peers in which he now found himself.
He dressed like them, a waistcoat of royal blue, a matching cravat, and a snowy shirt.
His coat was dark and his breeches cream, with patent leather shoes.
In his hand he held a copy of the motion which the House was debating.
It was slightly crumpled where, in his nerves, his grip had become too tight.
In the seat beside him, Sebastian Cadzow, a fellow Scot by birth, sat with crossed legs and an arm lying indolently across the back of the cushioned chair.
He looks completely at ease among these glaikit Sassanachs. Because while I was choking in the chimneys of Kelvinside mansions, he was being educated at Glasgow University. And spending summers at the family estates here in England.
Cadzow caught his eye; gave him a wink and a nod. Alexander took a breath as the Speaker called out.
“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”
The Tory peers that filled the rows of seats opposite shouted and jeered.
Partly because Alexander had allied himself with the Whig government on this particular bill.
Partly because they heard his title but saw a long-haired, bearded Scot.
A highlander. A Jacobite, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in the highlands during his entire childhood and adolescence.
It had been a common discrimination experienced ever since he had first arrived in London.
The Dukedom had come to him five years ago and he had first stepped into the murky waters of London society two years ago.
What he had not been prepared for were men who smiled and spoke politely but whispered daggers behind one’s back.
Alexander was used to his enemies confronting him face to face, coming at him with bared teeth and unambiguous intentions.
In the savage world of politics, where words were weapons, he felt defenseless.
And all the more when his Scottish accent and dialect were highlighted.
The English seemed to think there was one type of Scot, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and playing the pipes.
And of course, roaming the glens of the highlands.
The only greenery I saw before taking the Dukedom and the estates in Hampshire was Glasgow Green. But they just hear the accent and the unfamiliar words. I may as well be French. I’m a foreigner to them.
He took a breath.
“My Lords, this bill we have before us is an important piece of legislation that will take the economy of this country into this nineteenth century. We have all heard the calls for the abolition of slavery coming from Mr. Wilberforce in the Other Place. Freedom is coming for those adults who suffer in bondage. But that Bill proposes to free adults taken from their homes and forced to work for others. This Bill is even mair important…” a smattering of laughter among the Tories at the Scottish word that had crept in despite Alexander’s best endeavors.
Flustered, he looked down at his speech held in the same hand as the bill paper.
But, in that glance, he could not see exactly where in the cramped lines of scrawled script he was.
Looking up, his eyes met the bright blue gaze of Ambrose Deveraux, Earl of Godstone.
Deveraux was handsome, with the cold perfection of a sculpture.
He was elegant and dignified, with piercing blue eyes and a confident personality giving him a charisma that few could resist. There was talk of making him leader of the Tories to challenge the government of the Earl Gray at the next election.
Deveraux’s smile was mocking. He didn’t jeer, allowing others to do that for him. As always, he behaved entirely properly for a member of the House of Lords. But that mocking smile stabbed at Alexander. He could feel the anger rising as he fought to maintain the momentum of his speech.
This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!
“…even more important. It would free our own children. British children from the bonds of slavery…”
“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.
Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.
“I’m not finished!” Alexander shot back at the Speaker.
That earned him a stern look from the man who sat at the far end of the chamber.
“You may give way to a point of order, or refuse it. But, you will do so within the rules of the debate, Your Grace.”
“My Lord Speaker, it is quite understandable if our Scotch friend does not understand the procedures of this house. It is very different to the environment he is used to,” Deveraux said.
“I refuse the point of order,” Alexander said through clenched teeth.
“As I was saying. Children are employed, without their consent, in a variety of dangerous industries to the detriment of their health. These are, after all, the future workforce of our economy…”
“Point of order!” Devereaux called out, almost gleefully.
Alexander was aware of Sebastian stirring next to him but did not risk a glance in his direction while Deveraux was watching him.
He remembered the advice his friend had given to him before the debate, however.
It was not wise to flatly refuse to concede the floor too many times.
It would serve to make the other peers think he was unwilling to allow a debate and increase the chances the bill would be voted down.
“I concede the floor,” Alexander said, sitting and unconsciously running a hand through his thick, unruly beard.
Always in the past, growing up in Glasgow, his size had been his ally.
As a young boy, there had been nothing to stop the priests of the orphanage administering discipline with the belt, or the employers that he was sent out to, to be dispatched up a chimney, if he did not work as hard as they believed he should.
As a youth, weak-chested from the years of chimney work though he was, he’d developed broad shoulders and a thick chest. Scars, now hidden by his expensive clothes, bore witness to the many battles he had fought in the alleys and rookeries of the South-side.
Until Master Gellert had come looking for him, telling him of an inheritance in England. The death of a father long forgotten.
But here, in the House of Lords, the place where laws were debated and shaped, his size was to no avail. Deveraux need not fear the Duke of Lorchester physically. He could not be touched. And Alexander had none of the political instincts of his opponent.
I am no opponent to him. He has his backers and I stand alone. The only reason the Whigs support me is this bill happens to align with their social policies. I am not one of them. I am not one of anyone in this damned city.
“I thank His Grace for allowing a humble point of order,” Devereaux said, standing. “He will forgive me, I’m sure, if I clarify a point. The accent he carries makes the King’s English somewhat difficult to…”
“For shame!” Sebastian cried out, rising. “Let us keep our debate to matters of policy and legislation, not personal insults.”
“A purely practical matter, I can assure my Lord of Holmesley,” Deveraux replied smoothly. “There are certain standards we adhere to in this place and we risk confusion if some of us do not speak in…precise English.”
The speech and bill crumpled into a ball in Alexander’s clenched fist. He gritted his teeth behind tight lips.
Cadzow sat, clamping a hand to Alexander’s arm as he did so.
They were in the middle of the assembled Whig peers on the left-hand side of the room as one looked down it towards the Lord Speaker’s chair.
Opposite, in rows five or six deep were the Tories.
The room was lined with paintings, earning it the nickname of the Painted Chamber.
It was the only room that could be salvaged from the fire that had gutted the Palace of Westminster the previous year, allowing the Lords to continue to sit in the same building at least, as they were accustomed to.
“Your point is about His Grace’s colloquialisms?” the Lord Speaker queried.
“A passing remark only. My point concerns why we are debating a matter which is surely not the province of the state. This is a country of merchants, shopkeepers, mill owners, and farmers. To deny them a plentiful source of labor would be to drive them out of business. I stand for the freedom of Englishmen to manage their affairs. And, yes, the freedom of English youths to seek gainful employment. What, otherwise, would they do? Does His Grace envision thousands of idle young people thronging our streets? I think his views have been colored by his own experiences. I believe he once worked as a chimney sweep?”
That brought a ripple of laughter and Deveraux basked in the reaction, smiling broadly. Alexander’s patience snapped. He leaped to his feet, hurling the ball of paper that had been the Bill as well as his own speech.
“Aye, I was! I was sent tae work as a young wain. No chance to educate myself or better myself. Exploited! Is that English enough for ye, ye ignorant Sassenach!”
Cadzow lowered his face into his hands as Alexander pushed through the ranks of peers seated in front of him.
The Lord Speaker was on his feet calling for order and the rest of the chamber erupted in sounds of disapprobation towards the angry Duke of Lorchester.
Alexander had the satisfaction of seeing a brief look of fear sweep across Deveraux’s face as he watched the angry Scotsman advance towards him.
Then Cadzow caught his friend's arm, half turning him.
“Are you quite mad?” he hissed, face inches from Alexander.
“His Grace is removed from the chamber forthwith. He will leave the chamber and not return until a full apology has been given for this un-Parliamentary conduct!” The Lord Speaker’s voice rose over the din.
Alexander snarled in disgust and tore his arm free of Cadzow’s grip. He stalked towards the exit from the Painted Room, delivering a furious insult in pure Glaswegian dialect as he went.