“I hope you won’t be cross with me. But. If our bill is accepted today, Ballentine and I will elope.”
Hattie gasped. “What? When?”
“Whenever the chamber closes.”
Annabelle looked delighted. “Where will you go?”
“Gretna Green.” Lucie smiled wryly. “My life is a romantic novel, can you believe it? Hattie dear, don’t look so disappointed. The idea of a grand palaver was utterly tedious, the planning, the . . . everything. This suits us better; Ballentine and I live on our terms, and we shall marry on our terms, which means he, and I, and a Scottish blacksmith.”
“I think that’s quite romantic,” Annabelle said. “Romantic in that it suits you.”
Catriona nodded. The idea of loving so vehemently on one’s own terms made her too emotional to find the appropriate words, so she just kept nodding.
Hattie released a defeated sigh. “I’m pleased for you. I was just looking forward to seeing you in your full glory and feel moved to tears when two such free spirits who have adored each other for so long finally say their vows.” Already her voice was quavering with emotion.
Lucie leaned forward and took Hattie’s hand. “You must all come to Ballentine’s parliamentary office after this is over tonight, no matter the outcome.”
“Why, what’s in Ballentine’s office?”
“My luggage. Also, I ordered a few buckets of champagne for when we win, and brandy in case we lose.”
“We won’t lose,” Catriona said. The words had come out without her thinking, and she looked as surprised as her friends. “I don’t know why I said that,” she murmured. “I sounded far too certain.”
Lucie smirked. “We appreciate the confidence.” She gazed around their small circle, her gray eyes lingering on each of them with an unfamiliar somberness. “Are we ready?” she asked.
Serious nods all around.
“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.