The division had been called, but the decision was far from final.
Phillip knew enough of politics to understand that a single speech, no matter how stirring, could not sweep away centuries of tradition. Parliament did not move like a galloping horse. It moved like a fortress, slow, heavy, grinding forward only when enough men had pushed from within.
For days, debates raged in the chamber. Phillip was not permitted inside, save when summoned to clarify a technical detail. Instead, he haunted the lobbies and corridors of Westminster, pacing marble floors until his boots ached.
Each time the chamber doors opened, messengers and clerks spilled out with snippets of argument. Some whispered of "reckless folly," others of "glorious empire." Phillip caught fragments:
"Too expensive…"
"…safer than canals…"
"…a gamble with the treasury…"
"…a chance to lead the world."
Every phrase was like a hammer blow on his nerves.
At night, he returned to the Duke of Wellington's townhouse in London. He sat in the study, poring over ledgers, refining figures, redrawing maps. Henry Carter remained in Shropshire to oversee the yards, sending letters twice a week with updates on steel output and repairs.
One night, Phillip confessed his worry aloud as he bent over the desk. "They could still turn against me, Father. Hawthorne has half the chamber eating from his hand."
The Duke leaned back in his chair, arms folded. His weathered face gave little away. "Hawthorne commands fear, Phillip. But you command vision. Men remember what they felt on that machine. You cannot unmake that moment. Patience. Parliament is slow, but not blind."
Still, patience was not Phillip's gift.
Weeks turned into a month.
In Shropshire, the men asked Henry each day when the order for locomotives would come. "Is Parliament with us, Master Carter?" they pressed, wiping soot from their brows. Henry only shrugged. "Ask me again when London decides."
Phillip felt the weight of their hope like a chain around his neck.
By mid-April, pamphlets began to circulate through London coffeehouses. Some praised the "Iron Road to Prosperity," claiming Britain would outpace its European rivals in the continent. Others mocked it as "Wellington's Folly," warning of bankrupt peasants and ruined canal barons.
Phillip walked into one such coffeehouse near Fleet Street and nearly burned his fingers on the ink of a fresh broadside. It showed a cartoon: a puffing locomotive painted like a devil, spewing smoke over farmers and horses while Phillip, caricatured with a long nose and greedy smile, shoveled coins into its firebox.
Laughter filled the room as men pointed at the sketch. Phillip folded it carefully, slipping it into his coat without a word. If ridicule was the price of progress, he would pay it.
Finally, in late April, word came: Parliament had fixed a date for the vote.
Phillip returned to Westminster, his heart pounding as if he were marching to battle.
The debates stretched for hours. Sir William thundered again about "ruinous expense." Merchants countered with promises of doubled exports. Lords fretted about land rights, while younger MPs dreamed aloud of soldiers riding to the coast in a single day.
Through it all, Phillip sat silent in the gallery, fists clenched on his knees. His father sat below, a sentinel of calm.
Then, the Speaker rose.
"Gentlemen," he intoned, "the question before the House: shall His Majesty's Government enter into contract with Imperial Dynamics System for the construction of a national railway, the costs to be shared between the Treasury and the said company, profits to be divided as agreed in charter?"
The chamber held its breath.
"The division will now proceed."
The process took hours. Clerks moved through the benches, tallying every aye and nay. Outside, Phillip stood beneath the stone arches, staring at the gray sky until his eyes blurred.
At last, near dusk, the Duke emerged. His face betrayed nothing until he reached his son. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he said simply:
"It is done."
Phillip swallowed hard. "Done?"
"The ayes carried the vote," the Duke confirmed. "By a margin wide enough that no one will dare contest it. Parliament has accepted your proposal. Britain shall have its rails."
Phillip returned to Shropshire at the end of April.
The yard erupted when he dismounted his horse and spread the signed charter across a table in the workshop.
"It's real," he told them, voice carrying above the roar of the furnace. "Parliament has agreed. Imperial Dynamics will build Britain's railways!"
The men cheered, some throwing their caps in the air, others pounding hammers on anvils in a clang of victory.
Henry Carter clapped him on the back, still grinning through his soot. "Well, my lord, I hope you enjoy a little sleep. You've just promised this lot ten years of the hardest work of their lives."
Phillip laughed for the first time in weeks. "Aye, Henry. But it will also be the greatest work of our lives. Now let us build our country a railway shall we?"
And once he said that, he murmured to himself. "Clara, if you are here, you would surely notice it."