“Hopefully,” said Lenox, and smiled.
“What you’ll find,” Bottlesworth went on, a picture of seriousness, “is that a half pint of porter is not enough to sustain you. There, the great secret of oratory, at your feet! You will need at least a pint of porter, perhaps even a pint and a half, and I have known great men, very great men indeed, to take two pints of porter, ere they speak before the House. Which is to say nothing of sandwiches, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I needn’t mention to a man of your experience and wit the importance of sandwiches.”
“No.”
“Horseradish and roast beef I find to be too upsetting to the insides. Perhaps you will have a stronger constitution than I do, though I very much doubt it.” He laughed at the idea that Lenox’s constitution might exceed his own, eyes screwed shut with merriment and spectacles bouncing. When he had recovered, he said, “What I find is that a gentle ham sandwich, even a tomato sandwich, answers capitally. You see the picture?”
When Bottlesworth had left, carrying in a handkerchief the scones that the butler had thought to bring in just before the Tory’s departure, there was almost immediately a third ring at the door.
It produced another member of Parliament, this time from Lenox’s own party. This was Phineas Trott; and where Bottlesworth found assurance and strength from victuals, Trott — a flustered, red-complected gentleman, who was thought to own more horses than any other claimant in Warwickshire — found them in hunting and the Lord. He, too, took a place upon the red couch near the fireplace.
His approach was direct. “What these speeches want in them is more of Jesus.”
“D’you think so?” said Lenox.
“I do. Country sports and Jesus — all of our problems could be solved by one of the two, Mr. Lenox.”
“Not the Suez question?”
“Jesus.”
“Education?”
“Country sports.”
“What, you want the coal miners’ children to go hunting?”
Trott frowned. “No, that wouldn’t do. Perhaps they could go beagling, though.” His face brightened. “They’ll certainly want Jesus, I can promise you that.”
In his mild way, never given over to much show, Lenox was a God-fearing Christian. Nonetheless he felt compelled to say, “I think they want better food, milk without chalk in it, and not to go to the factory at the age of five, that sort of thing.”
“Well; I suppose,” said Trott, doubtfully. “I wouldn’t put that about too much in your speech. This is England, after all, we’re not a raft of Hindoos.”
“What do you think I should say, then?”
“It starts with Jesus,” replied Trott, more firmly now. “Stick to Jesus, and country sports, and you’ll get through it very well.”
“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Trott.”
Trott went; and in his place came the worst of the lot, Lord Brakesfield. This white-haired, tenebrously attired fellow, born to a butcher in Ealing, had succeeded in making himself one of the richest men in London by exporting soap of startlingly poor quality to all of the country’s counties. The most recent New Years’ Honours had seen him receive a lordship for services to Her Majesty’s Government, and he had immediately released a soap called Brakesfield to capitalize on the notoriety of his newly bestowed name.
“Mr. Lenox, I have found in business that honesty is the best course.”
“No doubt.”
“Here is my proposal, then. I will pay you a hundred pounds if you mention Brakesfield soap in the first three paragraphs of your speech.”
Lenox almost laughed out loud. “But I don’t want a hundred pounds,” he said.
“Nonsense. Everyone wants a hundred pounds.”
“Not I.”
“You don’t?” the lord asked incredulously.
“No.”
Lenox’s guest considered this turn of affairs. “Perhaps I might raise my offer to a hundred and fifty pounds.”
“I don’t want a hundred and fifty pounds, either.”
“Hm. Your way, then, make it a hundred if you simply mention my name — don’t have to say anything about soap — but it has to be in the first two paragraphs.” The lord sat back, well-satisfied with this gambit. “Can’t say fairer than that, get the Brakesfield name out there. People know about the soap already, after all, but a mention in the opening address to the House of Commons would give it such a touch of dignity.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to accept your offer,” said Lenox.
After Brakesfield left — also with a handkerchief full of scones, for he had never turned down the opportunity for something free in his life — there was still another knock at the door. Lenox sighed, and felt that if the days leading to the speech would all be this way, they could have it back.
This knock, however, brought a more welcome guest: his older brother, Edmund.
“Thank God it’s you,” said Charles.
Edmund chuckled. “Have you been receiving guests?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. And a dozen more have left their cards for me down in Whitehall, Graham says, all to talk about the blasted speech. It will be the death of me.”
Edmund and Charles looked rather alike, though the older brother — the ninth baronet in his line, and the heir to Lenox House, where both had grown up — was haler; his cheeks were red and he always looked fresh from the country, which was indeed where he generally would have preferred to be. Despite that preference he had risen to be very powerful in the Commons.
“Is it you I have to thank for this opportunity?” asked the younger brother. “I’m grateful, of course.”
“You must stop believing me to have a hand in your success, Charles. You’re a rising man.”
“Then it wasn’t you.”
“No. I say, you couldn’t get Kirk to fetch me in some tea, could you?”
“Oh, instantly.”
They sat companionably while they waited for their refreshment, talking as brothers will about any number of things, each seemingly unconnected to the last from the outside, their line of connection clear to the two speakers. Bessie the cow had given birth; the Marquess of Broadhurst was ill; there was to be a party for Toto McConnell the next Wednesday; and so forth.
When they had their tea the conversation returned to Lenox’s speech. “What do you want to say?” asked Edmund.
“I’d like to talk about the poor. So far I haven’t had a moment to think, however. Only a series of visitors.”
“It will be worse when you go down to the House. Everyone will be in your ear.”
“What I need is somewhere quiet.”
Edmund shrugged. “That’s done easily enough. Go to Lenox House.”
“I couldn’t leave now, with the speech in three weeks.”
“On the contrary, through the years many people I’ve known have left London to write the opening speech. People will consider you statesmanlike, I imagine, if you disappear to have a deep think through things. It implies an appropriate seriousness. Really, honestly.”
“I wonder …” said Lenox. With a quick tug of excitement he remembered the letter from his uncle Frederick. “Perhaps you’re right, after all,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Before supper Lenox and Edmund had a visit with Sophia. Her affectionate uncle dangled his pocket watch over her crib and she happily batted at it, smiling and laughing.
“I wish I had had a daughter,” said Edmund, rather wistfully.
“How are the boys?”
“Oh, they’re in excellent form. Teddy is still aboard the Lucy with Captain Carrow, as you know, and happy as can be. Have I shown you his letters? Remind me to, when you next come to see me and Molly for supper. The ship has acquired a pet monkey, apparently. He sleeps with them in the midshipman’s cabin. But a little daughter, to dote over … I should have liked it above all things.”