Page 12 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Lord Linfield looked completely stumped by the likes of Lady Elizabeth Byrd. He leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows high and his palms splayed across the white tablecloth. Irene, again, clacked her fork against the side of her plate, digging through her yams. It seemed that she’d lost all concentration where the conversation was concerned. After long days at The Rising Sun, Bess knew Irene was apt to fall into a kind of trance. One that necessitated food, only.
“So, we find ourselves in a bit of a conundrum, I would say, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Linfield said.
“Why is that?” Bess asked. Her heart had begun to flutter in her throat. Why was he looking at her in such a manner? He seemed to look at her like she was the first creature he’d ever seen in his life.
“Because I wanted to bring you here this evening to pick your brain, to see if I might learn something from you in order to deliver better speeches,” Lord Linfield continued. “But it seems that we might not be able to get along.”
Bess felt her mouth itch with a coming grin. But she shoved it away, lifting her chin. “You know, asking me to do such a thing might taint my position as L.B. And, you must know, becoming L.B. has been an aspiration of mine for several years. Much as it has been yours to follow in your father’s footsteps.”
“You know that any and all help you might give me I would pay for,” Lord Linfield told her. “And the payment for your writing talents would be handsome. I can assure you of that.”
Bess drew her fingers through the curls that had flourished from her up-do. She felt that she was standing in the sun, so beautiful was this conundrum. Someone else—beyond The Rising Sun—wanted to pay her for her writing work.
“I will have to think about it,” Bess told him evenly, drawing her eyes back towards Irene. She remained unhearing, smearing her fork across the last bits of her yams. “For as you know, my allegiance remains with The Rising Sun. And those essays have been astronomically popular. You must understand that your failing ties up with my well-being.”
“Ha. Yes, I tell you, my failing might correspond with the lack of homes, of food, of happiness of thousands and thousands,” Lord Linfield told her, leaning closer.
Bess stared at him, feeling awash with passion. Perhaps her brain was simply sloshing from the few sips of wine she’d had. But she found herself murmuring, “Lord Linfield, I will take these words to heart. And I tell you, I will think long and hard before I make my decision. You have been heard.”
“I understand. Please, write me when you’ve come to your conclusion,” Lord Linfield said, still staring at her.
For whatever reason, for Bess, looking into his eyes was akin to looking into a fire. Her stomach stirred with warmth. Within seconds, she turned her eyes away from him, pushing away another wave of emotion. It didn’t belong to such an occasion. It was far too intense.
Bess decided not to finish her dinner. The air was taut with tension, and she felt unable to breathe through the rest of it. She excused herself, and Irene—who hesitated, her eyes filled with thoughts of dessert—and allowed Lord Linfield to escort them to the door. One of the maids scurried up with their coats, which they slipped over their shoulders. A carriage boy had escaped to grab their carriage. Lord Linfield bid them both adieu, saying—in words that seemed rather genuine—that it had been incredibly pleasant and enlightening to meet them.
“I have to say, the night turned in a way I didn’t expect,” he said, his eyes still lingering on Bess. “But I pray it’s the beginning of something great, for both of us.”
His words echoed around Bess's mind as she and Irene sat in the back of the carriage, drawing closer to their home. Irene chuckled, placing her hand atop her food-filled belly bulge, which looked strange on her normally flimsy, tall frame. Bess realised she had hardly eaten a single morsel, yet didn’t care. Her stomach felt far away from her. Her thoughts swirled.
“What are you going to do, then?” Irene asked her, her smile stretching wide.
“I’m not terribly sure,” Bess sighed. “That money would be quite handsome, wouldn’t it?”
Irene stifled a yawn. “Absolutely. Although, as you said, it might taint your pen name …”
“It’s not as though I would be making the speeches for him,” Bess said. “Just giving him tips. Perhaps writing bits and pieces here and there. In the end, the politics would be his own. And my opinions on those politics wouldn’t shift, despite my involvement.”
Irene nodded, her face growing solemn. Outside, they clacked alongside another carriage, in which a married coupled bickered too loudly. “You know what you’re meant to do, Rita, and you overstepped your station …”
“How terribly boring to be married,” Irene said, her eyes glittering.
“And what of poor Lord Charles?” Bess asked. “Don’t you think that’s what will happen at the end of all this? The dances. The courting. The flowers.”
“Don’t be foolish, Bess.” Irene sighed. “Lord Charles wants a young girl without a career. A girl willing to close down everything to stand by his side as a wife and a mother. And I’m simply not willing to do that.”
Her eyes grew shadowed and sad. She turned back to the front, giving Bess a view of only her profile—the curve of her nose, the way she bit her lip when she was anxious. Anxious like now.
“You know, you’ll always have me. Me and that paper,” Bess told her, her voice low.
“Just never give up on yourself,” Irene told her. “Even if you take the money. Remember that you’ve built up your life, after devastation. And no one can take that away from you unless you let them.”
Bess took these words to heart, turning them over in her still-empty stomach as they arrived home. Once there, she followed Irene to the door, where she watched her unlatch it and creak it open. Once inside, Irene lit a match to a candle and hobbled towards her bedroom, delivering a sad, “Good night.”
“Thank you for coming with me, Irene,” Bess told her, calling down the hallway. “Thank you for always sticking by my side.”
For in essence, Irene had been there since the beginning of the end—when Lady Elizabeth Byrd had been just a debutante, a stunning, young and brash woman, willing and able to fall in love and open her arms wide to whatever that love would entail for her. Irene had been similar, Bess supposed, but always with The Rising Sun in mind, and thus less apt to fall head over heels.
Bess leaned heavily against the edge of her bed, looking out the splotchy window. London seemed a perpetual drizzle, a near-constant percussive beat dribbling against the pane. She held her arms across her chest, trying to remember what it had been like to be wrapped in a man’s arms. Conner had only been her fiancé, of course, and thus they hadn’t had time alone. But during those moments when they’d been allowed to twirl across the dance floor—she’d been wrapped in the image of decades and decades of his arms around her.
