Not conviction.
Not reform.
But retreat—cloaked in propriety.
I leaned forward slightly.
“The committee has fulfilled its duty,” I said evenly. “The evidence has been reviewed. Amendments considered. To withhold the matter now would serve no one—least of all this House. I therefore move that the proposed legislation be advanced for debate before the full House of Lords.”
Redmayne spoke at once. “Seconded.”
I called for the vote.
The response was immediate—and stronger than before.
“Aye,” came from several corners of the table.
The nays, when they came, were few—and quieter.
“So ordered,” I said, bringing down the gavel. “The measure will proceed to the House.”
Chairs shifted. Men gathered their papers with an air of relief rather than triumph. No one lingered.
As the room emptied, Redmayne paused beside me. “They would rather act than be seen doing nothing,” he said softly.
“Yes,” I replied. “That will have to suffice.”
He hesitated. “For now.”
“For now,” I agreed.
When I stepped into the corridor, the chill of stone and shadow closed around me. Westminster carried on as it always did—measured, dignified, untouched by the urgency of those beyond its walls.
Yet, the vote had shifted all the same.
Not because the committee had discovered conscience. Not because the suffering of working men, women, and children had finally been granted its due weight. But because the Floralia scandal had erupted into public view—because the press had exposed the rot with ink and illustration, and society had been forced to look.
Men who had scoffed at reform only a fortnight ago now feared their names appearing in print. The House feared ridicule. It feared outrage. It feared that it might be painted—rightly—as a grand edifice built atop indifference.
I ought to have felt satisfaction. The measure I had fought to advance would now reach the full House.
Instead, I felt only disgust. It had taken notoriety and the threat of scandal to compel action. Not principle. Not compassion. Not justice.
Outside, London stirred. Presses rolled. Voices rose. And somewhere along the river, consequences were already unfolding.
The bill would move forward. Whether justice would follow for those young women only heaven knew.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Petunia’s Birthday Party
By the time the first guests arrived, Rosehaven House had surrendered completely to Petunia’s authority.
Streamers had been hung—some crookedly, some perilously low—at her direction. The long table in the ballroom was laden with cakes, seed buns, and a truly alarming quantity of sweets. Paper crowns sat waiting in neat rows, though I knew full well Petunia would not permit just anyone to wear one. Rank mattered. Birthdays were serious affairs.
She herself stood at the center of it all, resplendent in a pale blue frock and a sash that read “Birthday Princess”, overseeing proceedings with the solemnity of a general before battle.
