Page 20 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
But instead of wallowing in self pity or worry, he trotted back upstairs, retrieved the pages Lady Elizabeth had written for him, and dressed in an immaculate suit. The carriage would arrive out front just after the noon hour, and he would be ready—his hat centred upon his head, his chin set. Unlike the other days of his speeches, he had the necessary tools.
And surely, when he was in front of all those people, his lips would find the confidence he so needed. He would assure them that he was every bit the man Parliament deserved.
The crowd buzzed as Nathaniel shoved the carriage door open, in downtown London. He looked out over a sea of black hats, of umbrellas that protected those hats from the drizzling London rain. He swallowed sharply before turning back towards Richard, still seated in the carriage. The men had spoken very little throughout their journey downtown. Yet now, Richard gave him only a firm nod—one that reaffirmed everything he’d said to Nathaniel earlier that morning.
Nathaniel’s stomach clenched, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten enough that morning. He placed his boot on the cobblestones below, then followed suit with the other, before striding towards the platform the organisers had set up for the following afternoon of speeches. Nathaniel paused at the edge of the platform, gazing across the board at another man who was running for Parliament, a man with far more conservative views than himself. He was Theodore Piper, and he was a few years older than Nathaniel, with circular glasses and a big, burly belly that protruded out over his pants. Most notably, Nathaniel and Theodore agreed about one thing: the Judgement of Death Act. The very act Lady Elizabeth had demanded that he change his mind about.
As if he could possibly do that. As if he could possibly taint his father’s memory in that way. Still, Lady Elizabeth’s voice rang through his head. Telling him that it was a wretched truth that his father was no longer around. Telling him that this one murder, this one horrendous act, shouldn’t decide the fates of so many, many other lives. Telling him that his father wouldn’t have wanted it this way.
It was true that Nathaniel’s father had been a believer in the Judgement of Death Act. He’d said that people make mistakes, and that didn’t necessarily make anyone strong enough, or able enough, to change the fate of their existence. “We’re not God,” his father had said several times, either booming the words over a mighty audience or just whispering it to his own son. At the time, Nathaniel hadn’t seen anything wrong with the sentiment. In fact, he’d found himself bragging about it to his friends, explaining that his father had far more empathy and insight than the majority of the world leaders.
Now, after seeing his father buried in the ground, Lord Linfield felt incredibly differently. How could he not?
Theodore spoke first. His speech was one of conservative values, of upholding the memories of the past and not giving in to any “devilish ideas” about the future. Lord Linfield watched the crowd’s reaction to Theodore’s words, watched them try to hide their yawns and their whispers to one another. It was clear that Theodore didn’t invigorate them. Not the way Lady Elizabeth’s words surely would.
At least, they would do wonders. If he could only say them correctly. With certainty.
And he wasn’t entirely sure he could.
Theodore stepped away from the podium about ten minutes later, to a spattering of applause. Lord Linfield took his place, towering over the crowd. The applause roared for a full ten seconds (something Nathaniel attributed to his father’s memory, rather than his admittedly horrific speeches and standings in the polls). As they clapped, Nathaniel peered over their heads before finally stumbling over Lady Elizabeth.
There she was: her cheeks bright red from the chill and her hat a bit crooked over her russet curls. She was scribbling upon a pad of paper, taking notes about Theodore’s speech, perhaps. Lord Linfield held his eyes upon her for a long moment until her eyelashes batted up and she spotted him, too. They held one another’s gaze for a moment before Lord Linfield heard a screeching whisper to the right of him. “Is he ever going to begin?” the voice demanded.
“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel began. He was surprised to find that his voice sounded smooth and certain, despite the anxiety growing in his chest. He reached into his pocket and drew out the speech before splaying the pages across the podium. “It’s a pleasure to be speaking to you today. Perhaps you’ve been privy to the information that I’ve had a few—shall we say—ill-conceived speeches. I’d like to believe this one will be different.”
Was this really him? He felt suddenly smooth, suave, as if the audience was rapt with attention. He even heard a few people chuckling at his joke.
Lord Linfield returned his eyes to Lady Elizabeth’s prose. He began to articulate her rather beautiful sentences. The first few went well, until he flipped the page. Then, he discovered that he hadn’t arranged the pages in the proper order! He flubbed his words, shoved his eyebrows tighter over his eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry. It seems that,” he began, stuttering. He returned his gaze back to the crowd but was unable to find Lady Elizabeth there.
“What has gotten into him?” a voice hissed from the other side of the stage.
“He really gets off on being good-looking,” another voice said. “It’s the only reason he’ll get this spot. I’m sure of it.”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared. Again, he hunted for Lady Elizabeth as he swished through his pages. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, sputtering. “It seems that I, um. Anyway, as I was saying about taxation. We really need a proper—”
“Get off the stage!” a voice called. “We don’t need to hear you rambling any longer!”
“I thought you said you’d be better!” another voice said. “You promised us that, but you can’t deliver? What else are you going to attempt to deliver? Can we possibly trust you?”
Nathaniel took a heavy step away from the podium. He felt awash with rage, at both the crowd and himself. His voice boomed across the crowd, showing his distaste.
“People of London, if you’re going to belittle a man, a single man …”
“Oh, come off it, Lord Linfield!” someone cried, picking fun at him.
Lord Linfield rushed away from the podium, crunching up the pages of Lady Elizabeth’s speech. He’d embarrassed himself; he’d belittled her perfectly-crafted words. And shame made his shoulders slump forward.
He was an imbecile, in the eyes of the people of London.
And he knew he was an idiot in the eyes of Lady Elizabeth, as well.
He couldn’t possibly have that. He couldn’t stand to allow himself to be seen in such a manner. With a jolt of passion, he reminded himself who he was: the son of his father, the Lord Jonah Linfield, the 6th Earl of Darmouth.
He was so much more than this flubbing lunatic on the stage.
Suddenly, the rage made him spin back towards the podium. He crossed the board, gripped the podium, and peered out across the crowd. “Attention,” he said. He reached back into his pocket, grabbing the notes Lady Elizabeth had made for him. He turned to a random page and began to spew the words, trying his darnedest to articulate. And, to his disbelief, he landed most of the words. The crowd was hushed before him, seemingly eating up his every word. And when he finished that page, he turned to another random one—knowing full-well they were out of order, at this point, and not caring at all.
