Page 14 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Then, she moved back to her office and slammed the door behind her. Each and every man at the office stared at Bess, and at the closed door, marvelling at this strong and empowered partnership. Inwardly, Bess smiled to herself, feeling firmer in her belief of herself than ever before.
Chapter 8
Lord Linfield took to the woods the following day with Barney. His boots crunched over the twigs, crackling them into pieces before slogging through the mushy leaves. Barney hustled at his side. At times, the pup flew too far ahead in the woods, leading Nathaniel to whistle him back. “Come on, boy,” Nathaniel said, whispering as he scratched Barney’s neck. “Don’t go too far ahead.”
The previous evening had intoxicated Nathaniel with its strangeness. He’d assumed the masterful writer, L.B., would arrive at his home, awash with philosophical prowess and ready to dive into an hours-long debate about Nathaniel’s speeches, about his abilities and lack-thereof. But instead, L.B. had been a gorgeous woman, with more intellect than he’d ever credited a woman with. He’d been unable to sleep for the majority of the night. Had he really asked a woman—a woman, unmarried and giving of her life to the service of a newspaper—to instruct him on his speeches?
He supposed he had.
When he arrived back at the house, his assistant, Richard, was waiting for him in the upstairs study. Richard was a few years older than Nathaniel and had actually come to the estate to work for Nathaniel’s father, just a year before Nathaniel’s father’s untimely death. The man was stoic and grey-faced, never rash with a joke or easy to laugh or banter. But he was trustworthy and firm, a mainstay in Nathaniel’s life.
Richard pressed an envelope atop the desk, moving it towards Nathaniel. “A pageboy came to drop this off this early afternoon,” he said. “It’s addressed to you, sir.”
Nathaniel peered at the familiar writing, knowing, with a jolt, that it was from L.B.—Elizabeth Byrd herself. He swallowed sharply, thanking Richard. “And, did you bring the paper?” he asked, feeling his stomach clench.
“I did indeed, sir. Although I must remind you, you become terribly upset when you read it. I think it might distract you from the task at-hand. You must begin preparations for next week’s speech,” Richard told him. “I dare say you’re growing better and better each time.”
“Certainly,” Nathaniel sighed, feeling strangely exhausted by the topic. “Although I’m afraid the progress isn’t coming quite fast enough.”
Richard excused himself, leaving Nathaniel with the letter. He placed a peanut on his tongue and chewed it slowly, reaching into his desk to draw out a letter opener. He stabbed it against the side and shoved it, tearing the paper and allowing the letter to filter out.
“Lord Linfield,” the letter began. “I’m writing, first and foremost, to thank you for the stunning dinner. My boss, the incredible editor Irene Follett, has stated, beyond shadow of a doubt, that it was the very best dinner she’s had in ages—and wouldn’t refuse another opportunity to dine with you.”
Lord Linfield chuckled to himself, remembering the way Irene had swallowed nearly half of her turkey in petrified anxiety, watching as the tension rose between himself and Bess. He continued reading, drawing his tongue across his teeth.
“I’ve thought long and hard regarding your offer to assist you in your speechwriting. I haven’t arrived at a set conclusion as of yet but would rather like to arrange a meeting with you to discuss the terms. Perhaps you understand that as a single, professional person—regardless of gender—I must create boundaries for myself.
“Unfortunately,” the letter continued, “I don’t find the offices of The Rising Sun, nor my current quarters appropriate for this rather secret coordination. I would appreciate calling upon you again if it’s at all agreeable. I know, for Ms Irene Follett, and for myself, it would be a Godsend. Eternally yours, L.B.”
Lord Linfield didn’t wait a moment more to find his own quill and begin to address a letter in return. As he wrote, he felt strangely as if he was writing to that fictional L.B., still, rather than that bright-eyed Lady Elizabeth Byrd. But he wasn’t entirely sure how to address a woman of her smarts, as ordinarily he dealt with woman akin to, say, Lady Theresa—or all the other women his mother had brought to meet him.
It was simply a dialogue he wasn’t accustomed to.
“L.B.,” he wrote. “It would be my highest honour to receive someone of your incredible talent back at my home, tomorrow evening, at 7 p.m. sharp. Please tell Irene to come hungry. Yours, Lord Linfield.”
Lord Linfield sneaked the letter back into an envelope, then addressed it to L.B., knowing full-well that she needed to keep her identity a secret, just as he needed her to, as well. In the back of his mind, he reminded himself that he couldn't possibly be known as “that politician” who’d been “brought down” by a political essayist. Nor could he be known as the politician who’d taken speechwriting advice from a woman.
Even if that woman was the brilliant vessel that was Lady Elizabeth Byrd.
As her name ran through his head once more, he felt a strange adrenaline as if this was a name he recognised from the past. Had he once met her, during one of the Seasons? Had he perhaps danced with her, asked her questions, felt her hand in his? He couldn’t recall. There had been countless debutantes, countless parties, and countless potential pairs. “Lady Elizabeth Byrd. Lady Elizabeth Byrd.” He curled the words over his tongue, over and over again, knowing he sounded like some kind of lunatic.
How could he have possibly had a woman like that, with a brain, and not noticed? He marvelled. Of course, he knew it was impossible to remember.
He finished the letter and placed it at the edge of his desk, where, he knew, Richard would collect it in the morning and ensure it was received at its proper destination. Then, he sat back, trying to stir his mind around to find the proper words for his upcoming speech. Surely, if Elizabeth did decide to help him, he should give her the bare bones of what he wanted to say. And something within him wanted to impress her—especially since he’d been such a lacklustre speech-giver every other time she’d spotted him.
But each time he placed his quill to paper to rewrite his speech he scrunched up his nose with hesitation. He spent the majority of that afternoon in a similar state, lost in the chaos of his own head. Often, he wanted to return to thoughts of his father’s death to verbalise his opinions on capital punishment and against the Judgement of Death Act. In essence, the Judgement of Death Act gave people like the highwaymen who killed his father better chance of survival, even after committing such a wretched, life-altering deed. Thinking of them, now, his hands drew into fists. He felt awash with anger. How he yearned to find those men who’d ripped his father’s life out from under him! How he yearned to make them pay.
But it was difficult, putting this all into a speech that felt concise and clear. He sighed, tossing his quill back atop the desk and watching it bounce. Outside, the light had given in to the darkness—creating a smeary, grey, eerie look across the exterior gardens.
It would be another night of little sleep. It was already clear to him.
The following evening, Lord Linfield dressed in one of his finer suits and raked a comb through his tousled blond hair. He took fine care, in the mirror, sweeping a finger across his thick eyebrows and trimming his beard. He remembered that another woman his mother had brought to the house, perhaps three months ago, had muttered about his beard when he’d sent her away—when it had been clear that she wouldn’t be more to him but a passing memory. He hadn’t cared at all.
Lord Linfield was grateful that his mother had yet another occasion outside of the house that evening, ensuring that she wouldn’t be dining with the three of them. He didn’t want her to think he was in any way courting either of the women, nor did he want her to know precisely what he was up to. He couldn’t admit to his mother, of all people, that he yearned the support and guidance of a woman writer.
In fact, just asking for assistance at all was ordinarily something Nathaniel didn’t do. His mother knew that better than most. She would surely ask him if he was feeling all right.
The answer would be: He didn’t fully know himself.
