Marcus guffawed. “And how do you suggest I go about doing that more than I already am? I’m already patting babies’ heads and opening Sunday markets.”
Now it was Towle who stood up, pausing to tug at his collar. “It really is miserable in here, Hartley. Creature comforts are not a sin, you know. Life is not meant to be an endless struggle just for its own sake. You ought to enjoy it on occasion.”
Frowning, Marcus stood up as well.
He knew what Towle was thinking but had left unsaid. Marcus Hartley, champion for the proletariat, was forever practical, always feeling the need to justify his place in the world with good works. What time was there for fêtes and fripperies when injustice reigned throughout the country?
He bristled at the common characterization of him, but it was true. He’d never be like the toffs in the House of Lords; they’d made that clear from the moment he’d started school. He was the son of a solicitor, the grandson of shoppy people. So he’d aligned himself with the working class, seeking to rise above the aristocracy, at least morally. Perhaps if he did enough good, he’d one day be able to rest. Just as his father had instilled in him.
But not now. There was no time for it now.
Following Towle out into the hall, which was cooler—but only just—Marcus replayed their conversation in his head. On Towle’s advice, he ought not push for further reform of the Bastardy Clause due to his lack of a wife and children. It remained to be seen whether or not Towle was in cahoots with his mother on that issue.
Towle had also suggested he take steps to shore up support in his borough. With arms crossed and one hand across his mouth, he tapped a finger on his cheek, thinking.
Fennel was waiting with Towle’s effects. The elderly butler seemed more stooped than usual. Or perhaps Marcus was just in a pessimistic mood.
“Oh,” Towle said, hat in hand as he turned. “I’d meant to tell you right off, but, well, the conversation got away from it.” He looked down awkwardly at the papers he held, as if he didn’t know just where to begin. “The Prime Minister is granting me an… honor.”
Marcus froze. He wanted to exclaim, but he’d already blustered enough for one afternoon.
“A baronetcy.”
Ah, a common reward for backbenchers with significant personal means; Towle was descended from some powerful industrial family in Birmingham. Still, Marcus felt a creeping, insidious twist of envy in his gut. Ashamed, he pushed the feeling down, far from the surface.
And he smiled.
“Congratulations are in order, then.”
“Yes, well.” Towle donned his hat, looking downright bashful.
“By all means, you’ve worked tirelessly for the party and the cause.”
“Bah, a silly old man I am, nothing more.” Towle waved off the praise, but then schooled his face into seriousness. “But I willaccept the honor, all the same. No doubt my wife will have some sort of to-do to celebrate.” He gave Marcus a stern look. “You’ll attend, won’t you?”
His mentor’s meaning was implicit:You should accept the invitation, as well as every other that crosses your threshold.
“Of course,” Marcus said, polite as could be, even as his soul roiled with an unpleasant mix of emotions. “So you’ll be taking the Chiltern Hundreds, then?”
Something akin to relief passed over Towle’s features, but it was gone in a moment. He scoffed, reaching out to clutch Marcus’s shoulder more forcefully than usual.
“Still have the fight in me, don’t I? You shan’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckled.
But it was obvious. He was more than ready to happily resign to his retirement as a newly minted baronet.
Towle had toiled for years, mainly to enfranchise working men. And though the Second Reform Act had finally doubled the electorate several years ago, it felt a cold comfort when Marcus tallied up all the work not yet done. And to lose his mentor now, when he needed his guidance more than ever? Truth, Towle would be about—no MP could ever leave well enough alone, retired or not—but he would no longer be in the chamber with him. Marcus worked his jaw, trying to sort it out.
After he bade Towle good day, Marcus stood in the hall for a moment, staring at the door, hands in his pockets.
There was a time when he’d have given his eye teeth to be Sir Marcus Hartley. He’d gone off to Harrow thinking himself quite an admirable young lad. He’d found, though, much to his youthful chagrin, that he barely held a candle to boys boasting courtesy titles—little viscounts thoroughly unimpressed with his common pedigree. For a time, Marcus longed to be like them, with their signet rings and heraldry. His family had properties,yes—houses chock-a-block with gilt and polished silver. They had money, plenty of money.
But it wasn’t collected from rents. It was from sales of shoe polish.
By the end of his first year he no longer wanted to be one of them. He hated them. Hated everything they stood for. Hatred felt much more mature than envy, and actionable as well. He’d been waiting, waiting for years now, to even the score. He’d followed his late father’s example and become a solicitor, with an obstinate need to not emulate the social-climbing Sedley side of the family. And on top of that, he sought to ensure that he would become worthy through deeds, not titles.
Unfortunately, those deeds had yet to manifest, as nearly every scrap of legislation he touched died before it even reached committee. Yes, the Infant Life Protection Act had passed last year, but heknewit was not enforced. It rankled. At least he’d had a hand in the Life Assurance Companies Act, but not enough so that Towle would think his seat safe. It felt rotten, failing everyone in the country, but it felt especially cruel to disappoint a man he’d come to view as a surrogate father of sorts. A man who would now be compelled to hang up his hat, now that he’d reached such rarefied air. Marcus couldn’t fathom following that path, even if he could acknowledge its siren song. He dropped his head with a sigh.
His butler cleared his throat.
