Soon the session was called to order and a succession of speakers rose to address the group, met by silence or shouted comments from the opposing bench, depending on how controversial the subject being addressed. After several hours, stiff from sitting on the hard bench, Maggie was about to concede defeat and make her way out when the voice that had whispered through her dreams tickled her ears.
Shock vibrating through her, she craned her head towards the nearest opening, hoping for a glimpse of him.
The light dancing on the wavy, blue-black curls sent another little shock through her. Nerves tingling and breathing quickened, she bent down, positioning herself to catch even the smallest glimpse as he paced below her.
His voice held her rapt—oh, what a voice! Her father was right—Giles Hadley was a born orator, his full, rich tones resonating through the chamber. As he continued to press his points, even the disdainful comments of the opposition grew fewer, and finally died away altogether.
When the rising volume and increasingly urgent tone indicated the approaching climax of the speech, Maggie found herself leaning even further forward, anxious to take in every word.
‘For too long,’ he exhorted, ‘we have allowed the excesses of Revolutionary France to stifle the very discussion of altering the way our representatives are chosen. But this is England, not France. Are we a nation of cowards?’
After pausing to accommodate the chorus of ‘no’s he continued, ‘Then let nothing prevent us in this session from doing what all rational men know should be done: eliminate these pocket boroughs that give undue influence to a few voters or the wealthy neighbour who can sway them, and restore to our government a more balanced system of representation, a fair system, a just system, one that works in the harmony our noble forebears intended!’
As his voice died away, he came to a stop right below her, his head bowed as he acknowledged the cheers and clapping from the Whigs, the mutter of dissent from the Tories. Then, as if some invisible force had telegraphed her presence, he looked up through the opening, and their eyes met.
The energy that pulsed between them in that instant raised the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. Then an arm appeared in her narrow view, pulling him away, and he was lost to her sight.
Straightening, Maggie found herself trembling. Thrilled by the power of his oratory, she remained seated, too shaken to move.
Papa had said everyone expected great things of him, and she now understood why. How could Lord Grey resist adding so compelling a Reformer to his staff? Even the Tories had fallen silent under the power of his rhetoric.
When he spoke with such passionate conviction, she suspected that he’d be able to persuade her to almost anything.
An alarming thought, and one that ought to make her rethink her intention to meet him again.
She was debating the wisdom of going downstairs and seeking him out, when suddenly the air around her seemed charged with energy. Startled, she looked up—into the blue, blue eyes of Giles Hadley.
Her mouth went dry and her stomach did a little flip.
‘Lady Margaret!’ he said, bowing. ‘What an unexpected pleasure to see you again.’
She rose to make him a curtsy. ‘And to see you, Mr Hadley. That was a very fine speech.’
He waved a hand. ‘The plain truth, merely.’
‘Perhaps, but the plain truth elegantly arranged and convincingly presented. It’s no wonder the full chamber attended to hear you speak.’
He smiled, his eyes roaming her face with an ardency that made her pulse kick up a notch. ‘I’d rather flatter myself that you came to hear me speak.’
‘Then you may certainly do so. I did indeed come with the hope of hearing you, and was richly rewarded.’
His eyes brightened further, sending another flutter of sensation through her. ‘Considering the many excellent speakers you’ve doubtless heard in both chambers, it’s very kind of you to say so. Surely I ought to offer you some tea in gratitude? Normally, we could take it in the committee room, but with the session just begun, everything is rather disordered. Might I persuade you to accompany me to Gunter’s?’
‘I would like that very much.’
He offered his arm. After a slight hesitation, she gave him her hand, savouring the shock of connection that rippled up her arm.
She did have the answer to one of the questions that had bedevilled her since their last meeting, she thought as he walked her down the stairs. The effect he had on her was definitely not a product of election excitement or the danger of that skirmish in Chellingham. Leaving caution behind in this chamber of debate, she intended to enjoy every second of it.
* * *
‘So,’ he said after they’d settled into a hackney on the way to Gunter’s. ‘Did my speech convince you that the time is right for reform?’
‘Your arguments are very persuasive,’ she admitted.
‘I hope your father and the Tories in the Lords agree. With so many Whigs returning to the Commons, passage of the bill in the lower house is certain. Though many in the Lords resist change, even the most hidebound cannot defend the ridiculousness of a pocket borough with a handful of voters having two representatives, when the great cities of the north have none.’
‘True. But Members are not elected to represent only their particular district, but the interests of the nation as a whole,’ she pointed out.
‘Another excuse to oppose change that the Tories have trotted out for years!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Let’s be rational. When a borough contains only a handful of voters who must cast their vote in public, they usually elect the candidate favoured by the greatest landholder in the area.’
‘Who, since he does own the property, should look out for its best interests and those of the people who work it and make it profitable,’ she countered. ‘Which is why giving every man a vote, as I’ve heard you approve, could be dangerous. A man who owns nothing may have no interest at all in the common good. With nothing to lose, he can be swayed by whatever popular wind is blowing.’
‘Just because a man owns property doesn’t mean he tends it well, or cares for those who work it. Oh, I know, the best of them, like your father, do. But wealth and power can beguile a man into believing he can do whatever he wishes, regardless of the well-being of anyone else.’
As his father had? Maggie wondered. ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘But what about boroughs where the voters sold their support to the highest bidder? Virtue isn’t a product of birth. Noble or commoner, a man’s character will determine his actions.’
‘With that, I certainly agree.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘You’re a persuasive speaker yourself, Lady Margaret. A shame that women do not stand for Parliament. Though since you favour the Tories, I expect I should be grateful they do not!’
At that point, the hackney arrived at Gunter’s, and for the next few moments, conversation ceased while Hadley helped her from the carriage and they were seated within the establishment. As Hadley ordered the tea she requested in lieu of the famed ices, Maggie simply watched him.
She’d been intensely aware of him, seated beside her in the hackney during the transit. But she’d been almost equally stirred by his conversation.
Most gentlemen felt ladies were either uninterested in, or incapable of understanding, the intricacies of politics. Only her father had ever done her the courtesy of discussing them with her. Even her cousin Michael Armsburn, and the several other candidates for whom she had canvassed, valued her just as a pretty face to charm the voters.
None of the men she’d supported had ever invited her to discuss their policy or its philosophical roots.