obituary.
Excitement sparked the spectators.
They saw the Speaker—trainbearer holding up the ceremonial black silk robe—follow behind the Serjeant at Arms. Jack saw a finger-pinched postcard of a naked man fucking his fist.
A low rumble of restlessness filled the domed, octagonal hall.
The chaplain and secretary who trailed the trainbearer through the East door and into the Commons Corridor disappeared behind massive oak.
The two doors would not open for another three minutes.
Inside the House of Commons, the Serjeant at Arms secured the mace on the Table while the Speaker and chaplain knelt for Prayers.
But the spectators did not know what they could not see. And Jack did not see what could come of himself and Rose Clarring.
Yet he could not stop thinking of her.
The pain that had compelled her to approach him outside the Old Bailey Courthouse. The need that had turned her blue eyes black, watching him undress.
Her resolve to gain a divorce when a divorce was impossible to be gained.
The spectators marked the time: They faced the North door. Jack marked the time with them: He faced the East door.
Johanna of Navarre, Queen of Henry IV; Henry V; Katherine, Queen of Henry V; Henry VI; Margaret, Queen of Henry VI; and Edward IV gazed down at Jack.
For every king, there was a queen. Together they symbolized the foundation of the English Commonwealth: family.
Yet inside the Central Hall there was no queen for Edward IV. And Johanna of Navarre’s king guarded the North door rather than the East.
Jack read the Bible verse that was inlaid inside encaustic tiles underneath the marble statues: “Except the Lord keep the house, their labor is but lost that built it.”
“Prayers are over!” vaulted down the Commons Corridor and through the Central Hall. Doorkeepers simultaneously threw open the galleries.
The three minutes were up. The House was now sitting.
Feminine and masculine heels pounded encaustic tiles, clattered up stairs.
Memory slashed through Jack, the image of six women and five men.
While awaiting the judgment of Frances Hart, Rose Clarring had stood in the rear of the courtroom gallery between John Nickols, a man confined to a wheelchair, and Joseph Manning, the mustached founder of the Men and Women’s Club.
Marie Hoppleworth, a spectacled woman, had rested her hand on John Nickols’s shoulder. Joseph Manning had cupped the elbow of Ardelle Dennison, a coldly beautiful woman.
They had congregated as if they had the legal right to do so.
Men did not stand with women in the Houses of Parliament, Jack reflected.
Left hand tightening around a leather satchel, he pushed away from the wall, hat and umbrella secure in his right hand.
The male spectators climbing the stairs would publicly watch the machinations of England’s most powerful club of men in the gallery while the female spectators privately observed through a brass trellis.
Unseen. Unheard.
Unrepresented.
“No, madam, I cannot accept a penny less.”
Rose stared down at the letter clenched between her fingers.
The fifty-three-year-old butler came with perfect references.
She recognized the name of his last employers. She knew that his reason for leaving their employment was valid.
The employers had leased their townhouse and purchased a manor in the country. The butler did not want to leave London where his family lived.
Rose did not blame him. It was obvious he blamed her.
She was a notorious woman who belonged to a scandalous club. No respectable servant wished to work in such a household without due compensation.
“Then I’m afraid we will not do, Mr. Tandey.” The salary he demanded was outrageous. Carefully Rose smoothed the reference before folding it. Glancing up, she extended the letter with a steady hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Curling his lips in dismissal, the man grasped the edge of the folded paper.
He would have no problem gaining future employment with a respectable household, that smirk
Excitement sparked the spectators.
They saw the Speaker—trainbearer holding up the ceremonial black silk robe—follow behind the Serjeant at Arms. Jack saw a finger-pinched postcard of a naked man fucking his fist.
A low rumble of restlessness filled the domed, octagonal hall.
The chaplain and secretary who trailed the trainbearer through the East door and into the Commons Corridor disappeared behind massive oak.
The two doors would not open for another three minutes.
Inside the House of Commons, the Serjeant at Arms secured the mace on the Table while the Speaker and chaplain knelt for Prayers.
But the spectators did not know what they could not see. And Jack did not see what could come of himself and Rose Clarring.
Yet he could not stop thinking of her.
The pain that had compelled her to approach him outside the Old Bailey Courthouse. The need that had turned her blue eyes black, watching him undress.
Her resolve to gain a divorce when a divorce was impossible to be gained.
The spectators marked the time: They faced the North door. Jack marked the time with them: He faced the East door.
Johanna of Navarre, Queen of Henry IV; Henry V; Katherine, Queen of Henry V; Henry VI; Margaret, Queen of Henry VI; and Edward IV gazed down at Jack.
For every king, there was a queen. Together they symbolized the foundation of the English Commonwealth: family.
Yet inside the Central Hall there was no queen for Edward IV. And Johanna of Navarre’s king guarded the North door rather than the East.
Jack read the Bible verse that was inlaid inside encaustic tiles underneath the marble statues: “Except the Lord keep the house, their labor is but lost that built it.”
“Prayers are over!” vaulted down the Commons Corridor and through the Central Hall. Doorkeepers simultaneously threw open the galleries.
The three minutes were up. The House was now sitting.
Feminine and masculine heels pounded encaustic tiles, clattered up stairs.
Memory slashed through Jack, the image of six women and five men.
While awaiting the judgment of Frances Hart, Rose Clarring had stood in the rear of the courtroom gallery between John Nickols, a man confined to a wheelchair, and Joseph Manning, the mustached founder of the Men and Women’s Club.
Marie Hoppleworth, a spectacled woman, had rested her hand on John Nickols’s shoulder. Joseph Manning had cupped the elbow of Ardelle Dennison, a coldly beautiful woman.
They had congregated as if they had the legal right to do so.
Men did not stand with women in the Houses of Parliament, Jack reflected.
Left hand tightening around a leather satchel, he pushed away from the wall, hat and umbrella secure in his right hand.
The male spectators climbing the stairs would publicly watch the machinations of England’s most powerful club of men in the gallery while the female spectators privately observed through a brass trellis.
Unseen. Unheard.
Unrepresented.
“No, madam, I cannot accept a penny less.”
Rose stared down at the letter clenched between her fingers.
The fifty-three-year-old butler came with perfect references.
She recognized the name of his last employers. She knew that his reason for leaving their employment was valid.
The employers had leased their townhouse and purchased a manor in the country. The butler did not want to leave London where his family lived.
Rose did not blame him. It was obvious he blamed her.
She was a notorious woman who belonged to a scandalous club. No respectable servant wished to work in such a household without due compensation.
“Then I’m afraid we will not do, Mr. Tandey.” The salary he demanded was outrageous. Carefully Rose smoothed the reference before folding it. Glancing up, she extended the letter with a steady hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Curling his lips in dismissal, the man grasped the edge of the folded paper.
He would have no problem gaining future employment with a respectable household, that smirk
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