Page 13 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
The decades they would never live together, now that he was dead.
“Remember that you built up your life, after devastation,” Irene had told her, reminding her of something Bess could never possibly forget. The whispers had swirled around her months before the wedding, wondering if Bess had any inkling of what her father and her fiancé were truly up to. “She must be an idiot,” someone had muttered once, as Bess had marched past. But back then—when she’d been a young, lovely thing, her head had been clogged with thoughts of matrimony, of children.
She resolved never to fall into such a trap again.
Indeed, she had built up her life at The Rising Sun paper. She’d become a powerful pen-holding warrior, one of strong opinion and incredible bravado. She wouldn’t necessarily give it up, if she began working for the likes of Lord Linfield.
In fact, she argued to herself, working for Lord Linfield would give her even more power, as she would be making money. Her own money. It was a thought that thrilled her, after her wayward fall from fortune.
Back before her father had latched onto Connor, and their scheme had ruined them, Lady Elizabeth Byrd had been a member of high society, unquestioned. She sighed, remembering the grandeur. The sheets beneath her in bed had been of the finest silks. The china had been reminiscent of that which they’d dined upon at Lord Linfield’s: nearly priceless in value. All the food, the wine, the balls, and the ball gowns themselves had been miraculously beautiful, “the best that money can buy,” as her father had frequently said. But after he’d run off, leaving her to reckon for the sins of her now-deceased fiancé and himself, he’d left her with nothing.
Now, the sheets beneath her were cotton. The shoes on her feet were scuffed and ageing. She had little money for a shoeshine, something that felt near-insanity, given that back in the old days she hardly wore the same pair twice.
When Irene had learned about her father and Connor’s affairs, she’d appeared at the steps of Bess's father’s mansion, her hands clenched into fists and her cheeks red and blotchy. Initially, Bess had stammered to the maid that she wanted no guests. “Please, send her away,” she’d said, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I can’t possibly handle anyone right now.” In Bess's eyes, nobody could possibly understand. Especially not Irene, who’d been by Bess’s side throughout the first Season.
But Irene had stormed into the mansion, her eyes fiery. She’d smashed her fist against Bess's bedroom door, blaring out, “If you let this destroy you—if you let these idiot, horrible, evil men destroy you—then they win. Even in death, Connor will beat you. Even in his abandoning you, your father will win. Don’t let them.”
The words had echoed in Bess's mind. She’d reached towards the doorknob, swinging the door open between them. Irene had walked through the rain. She looked nearly worse for wear than Bess herself. Immediately, Irene flung herself towards Bess, wrapping her into the kind of hug only sisters could possibly share.
Bess had broken down in that moment. She’d stammered, “I can’t believe he did this to me!” not fully knowing which man she was speaking of.
“I’m going to take care of you, until you can take care of yourself,” Irene had told her. “But know that you can do it. Your father and your fiancé’s ways of dealing with the world involved swindling, robbing people blind. They involved ruining people for no good reason beyond evil. But yours, Bess? I’ve known from the beginning that you’re terribly kind. That you’re smarter than you could possibly know. You won’t let this defeat you. You won’t let it swallow you whole.”
The following morning, Bess arrived back at The Rising Sun, ready to perfect her upcoming essay regarding Lord Linfield’s recent failure of a speech. Irene met her gaze from across her desk, tilting her head towards Marvin. Marvin had begun pacing the room, muttering to himself. Another writer, a man named Quintin who covered the comic strip, approached Bess’s desk, his eyes bright with humour.
“What is going on with Marvin?” Bess asked.
“He can’t stand being outdone by this L.B. writer,” Quintin said. “I wanted to ask you. You don’t know who the writer is, do you? I swear, it’s driving me crazy. The writing is better than most of the stuff we’ve published since I took on this position.”
Quintin turned back, leaning heavily against Bess’s secretary desk. They watched Marvin as he skated through another round of pacing, his chin drawing tighter against his chest.
“Some men just can’t handle the pressure of failure.” Quintin sighed. “Good thing I’m just a comic drawer, hey? Not so much ego tied up in that.” He reached across the desk, grabbing Bess’s quill and twirling it in his fingers.
Bess felt her throat grow tense. Why on earth was Quintin acting this way? She felt a flash of anger, one of wanting to grab her pen back and tell him to move away from her desk. She remembered, again, what Irene had said to her. She had built this life. She couldn’t allow men—men who belittled her, who never gave a single thought to a woman having any thought beyond a man’s—to walk all over her.
“Excuse me,” Bess said, her voice dropping.
Quintin didn’t pay attention to her. He tossed her quill into the air and then caught it with two fingers. He wagged his eyebrows at her. Bess couldn’t tell if this was some sort of schoolboy flirtation or simply a man trying to waste his time and hers.
“I do apologise, Quintin, but I have to get back to work,” she stammered. The blood rushed up to her cheeks. “I really do have to insist.”
Quintin gave her a strange, rather ominous smile. He smacked her quill back atop her desk, leaning heavily over the top of her. “You know, you’re getting up there in years. Old Bess. I have to imagine many men haven’t been knocking on your door, what with all the drama with your father. You’re going to be washed up soon. Ever thought you might not have children? Huh?”
Bess jumped up from her desk chair, grabbing the quill and pointing it towards him. Marvin had spun towards her, his eyes flustered and lost. It seemed he didn’t entirely know what he was looking at. Quintin delivered her a soul-crushing smile. He knew he’d beat her, that his tongue was faster and his insults deeper.
“Excuse me?” Irene said, her voice firm. She appeared in the doorway between her office and the greater one and was lending a dagger gaze to Quintin. “What seems to be the problem?”
Bess drew herself to her highest, five foot two height. She wished she could demand her heart to stop its anxious fluttering. It seemed to be a different specimen. Something she couldn’t trust.
“It seems that Quintin’s revealed a side of himself that we can’t terribly trust, here at this paper,” Marvin called from behind.
Bess blinked at Marvin, aghast. Marvin slipped forward and then shoved himself between Bess and Quintin. Quintin snivelled at him, leering with almost golden eyes.
“You expect me to be afraid of two women and a washed-up political writer?” Quintin stammered. “Because you know better than that, Marvin. You know if you were any better, you’d be writing political essays at a proper paper—and not this drivel this idiot woman shoves out.”
Quintin threw his hands into the air, marching backwards towards the door. All eyes of the staff were upon him, seemingly entering his body like daggers. As he walked, all the blood seemed to drain from his face. When he reached the doorway, Irene spat words, “Your comics were like the works of a child,” before thrusting herself forward and closing the door in his face.
The noise echoed through the office, chilling Bess to the bone. She remained standing while Irene whirled towards her, her cheeks bright red. She lifted her finger at Bess, whispering, “I told you. I always have your back.”
