Page 16 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“Isn’t that enough of a reason for you?” Nathaniel demanded. “I feel that it’s incredibly personal. It’s beyond personal. It’s my father, the very man for whom I’m running.”
“What would your father say about such an act?” Bess asked him. “I can’t imagine that he’d be terribly against it. Your father was a good man, Lord Linfield. And the world would be a much better place if he was still here with us. But that doesn’t change my mind regarding this issue.”
Nathaniel shoved his platter of food away from him. He felt apt to march from the table and tell Richard to see the women out. But then, he remembered the speech he’d been meaning to write, how the pages remained blank upstairs. He remembered what a fool he’d looked, both to this brilliant woman before him and the rest of the onlookers. How they’d muttered at him, affirming what he’d always known: he was no orator. And he looked like a fool. Nay, he looked like nobody they could ever trust.
Irene continued to stare at both of them, half of her roll poised in the air. The butter had fully melted into the roll. Nathaniel couldn’t imagine being hungry again, so wild was his anger.
Bess leaned forward in her seat, looking almost conspiratorial. Irene gaped at her, seemingly shocked that she might be so forward as to be the first one to speak after this lengthy silence. Bess tilted her head and then said, “Listen, Lord Linfield. I didn’t mean to enter your home and insult you.”
“You’ve certainly done enough of that in print,” Nathaniel said, scoffing.
Bess’s smile faltered. She lifted her fork and tapped it against the side of her plate. “It was never my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings,” she said.
“Don’t belittle me to mere feelings, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Linfield said. He forced himself to remain in his chair despite every itch to thrust it to the ground and storm out.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Bess sighed. “All right, Lord Linfield. I will propose something, in the interim. You don’t necessarily have to agree to it.”
Lord Linfield blinked several times, unable to believe that this woman—this, by all accounts, moderately beautiful (yet with a spark behind her eyes that most didn’t have, that was certain) woman, could possibly put him in his place.
But he hadn’t any other option but to listen. He leaned closer, nodding his head. Beside them, a drop of butter oozed from the tip of Irene’s roll. It felt like time had stopped.
“My proposal is this,” Bess continued. “I will write your speeches for you, Lord Linfield. I will do as you say, with the first two contractual obligations, as mentioned. But of the third, I propose that we continue a discussion over the course of the next weeks or months.”
Lord Linfield arched his brow, almost incredulous that this woman could possibly think he would ever change his mind about something so completely integral to his life.
But, with this agreement, he didn’t have to decide upon anything. He would have a stellar speechwriter, and he wouldn’t have to tell anyone that he’d hired her. He bowed his head, stood, and reached his hand across the table between them. Elizabeth grabbed his hand, with almost the strength of a man, and shook it.
“I suppose we’ve found an accord, Lady Elizabeth,” he said.
“I”m grateful to work with someone with such set beliefs,” Bess returned, surprising him. “For it’s better to have a man with morals, with obligations, with strength of self, than to write speeches for a man with little spine. That said, I do believe I’ll change your mind.”
“We shall see,” Lord Linfield said, surprised to feel his heart pattering faster. Sweat dotted along the back of his neck. What had gotten into him, about this woman? It couldn’t be feelings. He’d never truly had them for anyone, regardless, and he didn’t actually know if he believed in love.
Wasn’t that so much of the reason for pursuing this career in Parliament? Pushing off what his mother said about settling down? Pushing off growing old?
Lord Linfield showed the women the door, after both he and Bess had hardly touched dessert, while Irene had scraped her plate clean. He bid them both adieu, finding himself lingering in eye contact with Lady Elizabeth. When he clicked the door closed, he remained in the foyer with his hand pressed against the wood for a long moment: as if he was trying to take the door’s temperature. In reality, the women were probably already far down the road, atop their carriage. And he felt only the frigid wood beneath his fingers.
Chapter 9
“Didn’t you see the way he looked at you?” Irene asked. It was early in the morning, about five days after the last dinner with Lord Linfield, and Bess had given Irene strict orders not to discuss the matter with anyone—least of all Bess herself. But often, Irene felt as though she was coming out of her own seams, falling into herself, if she couldn’t discuss what was on her mind. And now, holding the tea kettle high above Bess's mug, she finally said it. “He looked at you like you were the most important creature in his life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bess said, rolling her eyes far back in her head. “And, need I remind you I said that we couldn’t discuss this.”
“You’re absolutely no fun, Bess,” Irene said, pushing her bottom lip out to pout. “I’ve kept quiet on the issue. Let you have your little space to think. But Bessie, my goodness, I feel destroyed here! Every day I have to slave away, making edits for some of the biggest imbeciles on the planet.” She paused for a moment, arching her brow. “Even now that Marvin has quit. Rather, he’s never returned after that little tirade. Ha.”
Bess had stared at his empty desk for a few days, wondering if he might reappear. But he hadn’t, and instead had sent a letter in his wake—one that said, very simply, that he would never write for such a simple and stupid newspaper ever again. “He’s never really been very nuanced, has he?” Irene had sighed, smashing the letter up between her palms.
“You know I can help you with that editing,” Bess said, trying to yank the subject away from Lord Linfield.
“On top of your secretarial duties? Absolutely not,” Irene said. Then, she placed the kettle back on the counter, bringing her eyebrows together tightly.
“Then hire a new secretary,” Bess said. Then, she stuttered, realising her mistake, “Although, I suppose that would give me away, wouldn’t it?”
“You can’t think for a moment that you’ll let me get off topic,” Irene said, her nostrils flared. “Regardless of your position—secretary, not secretary, whatever you wish—Lord Linfield looked at you like much more than his speechwriter. He looked at you like he’s wishing to whirl you around the next ballroom. Some men appreciate a woman with brains. Perhaps he’s one of them.”
Bess sputtered, glaring at her friend before crossing the room and donning her hat for the day ahead. She felt she was moving in extra-fast motion, trying to run away from Irene’s opinions. “He hardly knows me. And didn’t you see how angry he got with me?” She sighed. “Besides, you know as well as anyone that I’m not a part of that world any longer. And if Lord Linfield is true to his word, he isn’t, so much, either. He’s committed to this run to Parliament. Not the debutantes.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a debutante, are you?” Irene said, chuckling. She dripped a bit of sugar in her tea, her eyes glittering. “You’re a seasoned, nurtured, intelligent woman. Maybe that’s the kind of woman he’s looking for.”
