“Every vote will see us closer to accomplishing our goals.” As two lads loaded luggage onto a carriage, Hilary stopped. “In other words,” he went on, “we need you to do your level best here.”

“To be sure,” Lenox responded and nodded with what he hoped was appropriate comprehension and solemnity.

Of course, what all this meant was that they wanted Lenox to spend money. The vast majority of parliamentary campaigns were self-funded or else funded by powerful local interests. Lenox was happy to lay out his own money, as his father and brother had. Still, Hilary’s message was, even if friendly in delivery, clear in intent. As Lenox already knew, their Conservative opponent, a brewer named Robert Roodle, was quite willing to lay out money on votes. Still, Lenox felt confident that the bank drafts in his pocket would be sufficient to argue his case (for broader civil rights and a firm but reasonable international policy) to the people of Stirrington.

That morning had been a busy one. First Lenox had dressed, as the harried servants packed; then the budding politician had written a brief but loving note to Lady Jane next door, begging her tolerance for his hasty departure, and a similar, more somber note to McConnell, promising his swift return and sending his dearest wish that Toto would recover quickly. Graham, it was decided, would follow on the evening train. Then a dash through dawn to the train station, followed by long hours of travel and conversation. Lenox was ready for lunch and a moment to breathe, in whatever order he could get them. Alas, the first was makeshift, and the second they skipped.

Their first destination was a pub, the Queen’s Arms, which dated to Queen Anne’s reign. They were going there to meet Lenox’s political agent, his chief local strategist and the man whom Lenox and Hilary hoped would deliver a large block of business voters, Mr. Edward Crook. It wasn’t a promising name.