Work Text:
In Enola's (admittedly biased, but nonetheless correct) opinion, her reputation as a detective had not yet caught up with her abilities.
After all, she did have a one hundred percent success rate in solving her cases. She had even uncovered Tewkesbury's would-be assassin before her renowned brother Sherlock had! And yet here Enola was, once again whiling away the hours without a client.
To make matters worse, the resolution to her last case had not been entirely satisfactory. Yes, she had found Sarah Chapman as Bessie requested. However, the death of William Lyon - and the fiery destruction of all the evidence he had helped Sarah procure - made the resolution decidedly less gratifying.
She could not give up hope. She lifted her chin from its resting place on her hands, and straightened her back. Though justice would not be as swift for Mr. Lyon and Mr. McIntyre as she might have hoped, it might not be forestalled indefinitely. Tewkesbury had promised to bring the matter before Parliament.
In fact, he had mentioned that he would address the subject today. He had invited her to watch the debate, but Enola had declined, confident that by this time, she would have a case to occupy her.
Alas, she did not. And so, once she decided upon her idea, she wasted no time in hastening to the Palace of Westminster.
She had never been inside the building before, and upon entering it, her keen powers of observation went to work. After beholding the dazzling exterior walls that gleamed golden in the weak sunlight, the interior seemed dark and cavernous by compare. Nevertheless, Enola could not help but be awed by the monuments and memorials surrounding her. A plaque at her feet celebrated the place where William Wallace once stood to argue for freedom and justice. Lest she become too distracted by the various statues, she remembered another warrior - a warrior of words, albeit of no sword but a fencing foil - and hurried deeper into the Palace.
"This is the House of Lords, sir?" she politely asked a guard as she reached a door.
"It is," the guard replied slowly. "Are you lost, miss?"
"No, that is precisely where I wish to be. Am I forbidden from going in?" Enola asked primly.
"No, not exactly," the man grumbled, "but it is highly unusual for a young woman to attend without a chaperon."
Enola pressed her lips together to suppress a sigh of frustration. "I was told factory reform would be discussed today, and the issue is personally relevant to me," she said. "I was a match-girl for a day or two."
The guard's brows lifted then furrowed as he scrutinized Enola's appearance - no doubt surmising that she looked too gently-bred to require to work for a living, especially in a factory.
"Just... keep quiet," the guard huffed, finally stepping aside.
Enola muttered her thanks, grudgingly, and slipped past him.
She had more investment, more at stake, in this issue than did any of the men in the Lords' Chamber. None of them had ever had to work for their bread. And yet they were the ones who would discuss the issue, who would vote on the issue. When would that change?
Swallowing hard, Enola stuffed down the thought of her mother; it was too alarming to think of how (relatively) easily Enola had slipped in to the gallery, and what her mother might do if provoked enough to do the same.
Seating herself in the viewing gallery, Enola winced at the creak of her chair. She felt disapproving glares from the others present in the gallery. Thankfully, however, she saw no heads turn toward her from the floor itself. Rather shocking, that, for the man currently speaking seemed a dreadful bore.
While whoever-he-was droned on, Enola surveyed her surroundings. The rich red upholstered seats, gilded decor, and stained-glass windows were ornate enough to render the chamber suitably ornate and formal. Enola's gaze drifted back to the floor, where Whiskers carried on about the economy.
Perhaps Enola had arrived too late to hear Tewkesbury's speech. She should not have delayed coming; she hardly ever got a client, so why had she waited? No doubt, in his eagerness to broach the topic, Tewkesbury would have spoken earlier in the day...
Just when she was beginning to doze off, a familiar and beloved voice piped up, making her start upright.
"My lords, I expect you have read in the newspapers of the match-girls' strike," Tewkesbury began, getting to his feet.
A low murmur of grumbling filled one half of the chambers. Enola narrowed her eyes at the offenders. How dare they interrupt Tewskbury?
"It is yet another sign," Tewkesbury continued, unruffled yet speaking slightly louder, "of the abominable working conditions that the men, women, and children are forced to endure."
"No one forces them!" came a shout from a man near the front row. The fact that he had a seat closest to the floor meant he held great sway - not in Tewkesbury's favor. "They choose to work there for their pay!"
"Indeed, it is one of the few choices they can make," Tewkesbury returned coolly. "They change occupations or factories, or organize strikes, because women can hardly vote to improve their own working conditions--"
At this point, the yells of protest became so raucous that Tewkesbury was forced to halt. Finally, however, the stomping feet of so many Liberal Members of Parliament, and the chants of "Let him speak!", brought the Conservatives to a grudging silence.
"Thank you," Tewkesbury said, collecting himself. "I shall not speak today of votes for women, then, but of a proposal: a new Factory Act."
A laugh resounded in the chambers, but not a pleasant one. Enola scowled at the offender, who stood up to address Tewkesbury.
"There have been dozens of Factory Acts, one every few years. Nothing is ever enough for them!" the lord scoffed. "Shall we forgive you for your ignorance simply because you are young?"
There were shouts of agreement, while Tewkesbury seemed to nod, contemplating his next words. Enola bit her lip, angry for him but unable to help him. Finally, the shouts quieted.
"And shall we forgive someone his prejudice simply because he is old?" Tewkesbury retorted.
As the Liberal MPs laughed and shouted their approval, Enola realized she was grinning. Clever Tewkesbury, managing to insult a man without attacking him personally. Parliamentary debates were far more interesting - and far less civil - than she might have expected.
"I am well aware of the Factory Acts of 1833, 1844, 1847, 1850, and the most recent in 1878," Tewkesbury continued coolly, ticking off the years on his fingers. "And I am aware, my lord, of their limitations."
Tewkesbury's interlocutor, looking rather more red-faced, spluttered, "I am aware of the limitations of your argument!"
Tewkesbury clasped his hands behind his back, a show of patience. "Please, my lord, enlighten me."
"What will compel a factory owner to continue with his business when he can no longer turn a profit? And how is he to turn a profit when he must spend so much on higher wages and improvements to the factory? Or if he can no longer make a profit, and he must increase the price of his product, how will the average man afford it? Or shall he go out of business, and then his workers lose their livelihood?"
"I am not speaking, my lord, of livelihood. I am speaking of lives," Tewkesbury clarified, talking with more haste now. "Young women and children at the Lyon Match Factory are dying because of the phosphorus--"
"Where is your proof of this?" interrupted Whiskers.
"You can ask any of the workers--"
"Can I? I do not see them here."
Oh, dear. Enola nervously fidgeted with her gloves. Curse McIntyre for destroying all the evidence of his misdeeds! Still, Tewkesbury had made a fine effort.
Enola started then as a young woman stood at the other end of the viewing gallery. Then another stood, and then another. From the distance, she could not be certain, but she thought she recognized them as some of the participants in the Lyon strike. It was certainly a reasonable enough supposition, for otherwise, they would be at work. Enola squeezed her hands together in pride and relief. No doubt, Whiskers still would not believe; yet she was proud nonetheless, and grateful that the young women had made the effort to be present.
"It would not be proper for them to shout, of course," Tewkesbury said, "but I believe their presence speaks more eloquently than my words." More quietly, he added, "And the absence of so many of their sisters speaks yet more powerfully."
"He could have hired actors," Whiskers grumbled. "A publicity stunt..."
Undaunted, Tewkesbury went on. "We did not choose to be born into wealth; they did not choose to be born into poverty. We did nothing to earn our privilege, but every day, they toil in miserable conditions to earn enough to live. Yet those conditions prevent them from living, at least in most of the factories in this city." He paused, and when some men tried to shout him down, he simply raised his voice. "There is a statue outside of this chamber of Edmund Burke. He was not a revolutionary; far from it. But he said that 'when bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall' as 'an unpitied sacrifice.' There are many bad men taking advantage of innocents. Where are the good men who will stand with me here, lest more of those innocents be sacrificed to the greed of the merciless? And if you will forgive me yet another quote, John Stuart Mill said that 'bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.' If you consider yourself a good man, I beg you will not do nothing, but will join me in supporting an act to hold factory owners accountable."
Enola's heart was fit to burst with pride. She wondered if he was shaking, for she realized that she was. Uncharacteristically, she hardly heard the details of the bill; she was so focused on watching Tewkesbury.
After she collected herself, she slipped past a few other observers, making her way to the young women from the match factory. Bessie and Sarah were among them!
They exchanged quiet greetings, and squeezed each other's hand for support and solidarity as the Members of Parliament debated.
At one point, Enola was rather in pain from the pressure exerted upon her hand. At least having Bessie hold her hand restrained Enola from leaping out of her seat - for surely, Enola would have done so otherwise. Whiskers and his comrades were debating vociferously.
"This bill is redundant and does not yet have enough information to proceed," an important-looking man intoned. "Lord Tewkesbury may present the topic again at a later date with more research and justification as to its necessity."
Slumping against Bessie in dismay, Enola wrapped a comforting arm around the younger girl's shoulders. All the while, Enola watched Tewkesbury, who sat back down and hung his head.
--
It was dark by the time Enola arrived at Tewkesbury's doorstep. She had waited until she believed his servants had gone to bed, based on her visit to him after the Lyons' ball. It hardly mattered to her if it was improper; she simply wanted to talk to him without an interfering, prying chaperon. Unfortunately, since the flower shops had closed a while ago, the bouquet that she was clutching might look rather the worse for wear.
There was no helping it now. Drawing in a breath, she knocked thrice at Tewkesbury's door. What was the proper way to knock to convey eagerness without desperation? She sighed as she waited, and examined the flowers. Good; not wilted yet. That would have rather sullied her message.
At last, the door opened to reveal Tewkesbury. It seemed his butler must have turned in for the night.
"Enola," he said, brows lifting as he stepped back to let her through. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in."
"I went to see you today," Enola said, obliging him by going inside. "At the House of Lords. I... could not wait for the papers tomorrow."
"Ah." Tewkesbury's face fell slightly. He closed the door behind her. "It was kind of you to come - that is, to the chamber, and to see me now. I wish you had been there to see a better result." He sighed. "Not that I am surprised."
Enola frowned. "Don't be such a cynic that you give up."
"I'm not, and I certainly won't," he assured her. "I am, however, a realist. There are too many MPs invested in the factories."
"Oh," Enola said quietly.
"It is against all propriety for nobility to work for a living," Tewkesbury explained with a shake of his head, "so to afford the upkeep of estates, lords must invest their money. Of course they hope the factories will turn a profit."
"I see." That did make matters more difficult. Enola descended onto a chair to think.
"Ugh!" Tewkesbury's head tipped back on a frustrated groan. "That's the quote I should have used in my speech. I always remember these things afterward. 'For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' I believe some of my colleagues forget that the Jesus they claim to follow was quite a radical."
As Enola's religious education had been quite rudimentary, she could only nod. "It was a good speech," she said gently. Indeed, three quotes would have made seem rather too crowded. Tewkesbury's words had been so strong on their own.
Tewkesbury sighed, sinking into a seat as well. "Thank you. I had to try."
"Oh! That reminds me." Suddenly, Enola got to her feet again, remembering the flowers. "Here," Enola said, thrusting out the plants for lack of something better to say. "I brought you these."
A fleeting smile curved Tewkesbury's mouth as he stood and took the proffered bouquet. "Chamomile," he said. "And goldenrod." He admired the blooms for a moment, then brought them closer to his face and sniffed delicately.
"I thought you might make tea, and..."
Tewkesbury stepped closer and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "It is perfect, Enola. Thank you. I will think of you every time I look at them."
Then Tewkesbury turned away to get a vase and a carafe of water for the flowers. (Apparently the man just kept them handy in case he happened upon a plant he liked!)
Glad he had understood her true message with the flowers*, and glad she did not have to explain, Enola simply nodded as Tewkesbury arranged the stems in their new vase. Why was it so difficult for her to speak of her feelings to Tewkesbury?
"But... this is not about me. I do not want this to be about me," Enola said finally. "It's about the match girls, and so many others like them, and... and about you."
Tewkesbury glanced up from his flowers, looking at her from beneath furrowed brows. "What about me?" he asked guardedly.
Enola hesitated Perhaps she deserved his concern after calling him a nincompoop one too many times. Why was she so hesitant to praise him? She must examine her heart with the same scrutiny she would give a case. Was she so desperate to prove herself as a woman that she must belittle a young man to feel stronger? Or was she afraid that showing her admiration for him would make her vulnerable - too vulnerable, in the event that he left her, just as her mother had, and broke her heart anew?
She took a breath. Tewkesbury had already said he loved her - and he had returned the sentiment. She had faced far more frightening things; surely, she could be brave about this.
At last, she said softly, "You were brilliant."
Enola saw a small smile grace Tewkesbury's features, but an instant later, he had folded his arms around her, his face hidden against her hair.
For a long moment, Enola closed her eyes and let herself relish the embrace. Then Tewkesbury stepped back, and Enola saw renewed passion kindling in his eyes.
"We are not done fighting yet," he promised. "I was too hasty; too emotional. I should have waited until I gathered more evidence, gotten some more of the lords on my side..."
"Should you have waited until more girls died?" Enola countered.
Looking grateful for her support of his decision, Tewkesbury said, "I just hope we can get somewhere soon; the workers at Lyon's cannot hold out forever without their wages, or without better conditions."
"Indeed not," Enola agreed, thinking of Sarah and Bessie orchestrating the strike. "Neither can Mr. Lyon hold out without labor."
Tewkesbury sighed. "I wish it weren't true, but there are many hungry people out of work who will be quick to take their place." He glanced down at his bouquet then, as if to draw optimism from it.
"Mr. Lyon will give in to the demands," Enola asserted. "He has lost his labor and lost his son over this debacle. He will lose his reputation, too, if he does not smooth this over quickly. I hope..." She took a deep, shaky breath, thinking of poor William. "I hope he will want to honor his son's memory by preventing any more deaths."
Nodding, Tewkesbury said quietly, "And if he does not, he and his fellow owners will have far more to fear if the workers unionize." He managed a small, sad smile. "Miss Cecily - that is, Miss Sarah - certainly seems capable of organizing it."
Enola's eyes widened. Perhaps, paradoxically, the strike and the failure of Tewkesbury's bill would be a boon after all. Should she hope that Lyon would not give in, so that more factory strikes might occur? After all, Lyon's was only one factory; even if he did meet Sarah's demands, not every other owner would follow suit.
"McIntyre might have managed to keep the strike out of the papers," she mused, "but now that you've spoken in Parliament, your speech will be in the papers tomorrow! People will talk..."
With a small smile, Tewkesbury nodded. "I hope that some of those people have influence in the House of the Commons."
"And, as you said, you have plenty of influence yourself," she reminded him. "When the bill gets from the Commons to the Lords, by then you'll have convinced more people to support it, I'm certain."
Tewkesbury fell back into his seat with a groan. "I'm sick to death of compromising - sponsoring some odious bill in exchange for someone else sponsoring mine."
Enola wished she could have offered some words of encouragement. Admittedly, she was not very good at compromise. She could, however, offer something else.
"How about some tea?" she asked.
Ruefully, Tewkesbury smiled. "Thank you, but it is quite late, and I expect you should be getting home. It isn't proper for you to be here at this hour, especially alone. Though... I shall quite miss you when you go." He reached to press her hand.
Enola sighed. Dratted propriety. He was right, though; London was not the best place to be alone after dark, even in this neighborhood.
"Besides," Tewkesbury continued with more cheer in his voice, "you're not making tea out of these. I have to look at them for encouragement, remember? We still have a lot of work to do."
Even after Tewkesbury had hailed a cab, and insisted on escorting her home, that is what Enola remembered: she liked that he had said "we."