Respectfully,
—S
P.S. All the ridiculous strictures of society shall be satisfied. My aunt, Lady Lavinia Thornburn, has arrived in Town and will serve as your proper chaperone.
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Drawing a fresh sheet of paper toward me, I dashed off a brief reply:
S,
Your kind invitation is accepted with pleasure. That time will suit. I look forward to meeting Lady Lavinia.
—R
A footman was dispatched across Grosvenor Square without delay, carrying my acceptance, and with it the certainty that London would have much to talk about by week’s end.
Chapter
Two
Parliamentary Stubbornness
After I took my place halfway along the long table in the committee room of the House of Lords, I arranged my notes with deliberate precision. Not that I needed to consult them. The facts were etched into my mind, but order lent authority. And in this room, appearances were often as important as substance.
“Gentlemen, if we might turn to the matter at hand,” I said, rapping the gavel once against the table.
The low hum of conversation subsided, though not without reluctance. Half the committee preferred the sound of their own voices to mine, but as chairman of the Select Committee on Industrial Safety, I intended to be heard.
The twelve peers assembled represented every shade of vested interest—from mining to textiles, from shipyards to railways. Of them, perhaps three believed in the bill’s purpose. The rest had come armed with objections, convenient statistics, and a hearty contempt for reform.
“My proposal is straightforward,” I began. “Enact legislation requiring basic safety measures for workers operating industrial machinery, including ventilation in weaving rooms where dust thickens the air.”
Lord Weatherby, who owned textile mills in the north, shifted in his chair, the buttons of his waistcoat straining at their moorings. “Ventilation? You want factory owners to open the windows and let the heat out? They’ll freeze in winter.”
“They’ll kill them faster in summer,” I replied evenly. “I’ve seen men and women stagger from the looms, coughing like chimney sweeps, their lungs so thick with fibers they can scarcely climb the stairs by week’s end. Too many never recover. Too many end up in paupers’ graves before they see forty.”
A brief silence followed—not from sympathy, but because a few of them had never considered that the pale faces leaving a mill at dusk might be walking toward death as surely as if the machinery had sheared off their hand.
Not to be outdone by his crony, Lord Denholm gave a small, dismissive snort. “Illness is regrettable, but unavoidable; and progress has its cost. If they cannot endure the work, there are always plenty more to take their place. After all, sooner or later, everyone dies.”
“Not before their time,” I said, my voice sharpening, “when a few safety measures can extend their lives.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room—throats cleared, papers shifted, shoulders straightened. Men unaccustomed to being challenged had a way of fidgeting when guilt brushed too close.
And then a voice from the far end of the table—Lord Pennington—broke the uneasy quiet. “So what do you propose, Steele?” His tone carried the brittle politeness of a man already preparing to disagree.
“I propose safety protocols. Mandatory guards on belts and gears. Hoods on cutting blades. Brief demonstrations for new workers. Monthly inspections. Ventilation—natural or mechanical—in weaving rooms and other enclosed spaces where dust collects. And a notice posted by the time clock stating these rules, so any man or woman may point to it when they’re not being followed.”
Weatherby gave a short, scornful laugh. “You’d have every worker in England turning into a foreman.”
“If that means fewer funerals, so be it,” I said.
A faint sound from the far end of the table drew my attention. Lord Greystowe, who had not spoken once since the meeting began, leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on me while engaged in deep thought. He was the kind of man who preferred to observe and take stock before committing himself. His stillness today made him harder to read than the blusterers.
Lord Pennington folded his hands over his stomach with exaggerated patience. “And I suppose we’re to pay for all this?”
“You already pay,” I replied. “For men maimed on the floor. For women who cannot return after losing a hand. For the constant churn of new labor when experienced workers die before forty. Safeguard the workforce, and you safeguard your profits. A trained man is far more valuable alive than replaced.”
A derisive snort came from Lord Denholm. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to balance a ledger.”
