Page 3 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Lady Theresa and her cousin, Lady Sarah, gaped at him. Outside, a carriage eased past, with the horses’ hooves crumpling across the cobblestones. Lord Linfield wished he was anywhere else—walking the streets of London alone, or marching his boots across soggy land in one wood or another. But instead, he was trapped at yet another meeting of yet another woman who he couldn’t possibly live with for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t that Lady Theresa was horribly wrong. It wasn’t that she wasn’t lovely, for she truly was. But when Lord Linfield glanced in her direction, he felt as though rocks formed in his stomach. He felt only dread.
“I have an announcement, Mother,” he declared then.
His mother waited before forming her lips into a round O. All three women gaped at him as if he were a strange performer. He cleared his throat once more before proceeding. He’d already pushed himself this far.
“I’ve decided that I will follow in my father’s path,” he continued. “I will follow his footsteps into Parliament, as a leader within the Tories.”
He’d dropped the words, and now, he couldn’t take them back. He blinked at the women, waiting for some kind of response. Silence hung heavy in the dining room. In the midst of it, one of the kitchen maids sprung through the door, holding onto a large platter of turkey. Steam erupted from the dead bird, curling towards the ceiling. She dropped it in the centre of the table before offering a slice to each of the members of the table. Each declined. When she retreated, Lady Eloise turned her attention back to her son.
And, to Nathaniel’s surprise, she spoke with a flickering smile.
“Darling, I haven’t heard you say this before. How long have you been considering such a thing?” she asked.
“For quite some time,” Nathaniel lied. He felt awash with the pleasant feeling that although they were shocked, each woman regarded him with intrigue, impressed. “I know he left this world and cannot continue to do his fine work. The work he set out to do,” Nathaniel continued. “And as I’m his only son, it’s up to me to carry on for him. I know it’s the right thing to do.”
Lady Eloise bowed her head. She dotted her napkin just left of her eye as if retrieving a tear before it could muss up her make-up. Lady Theresa tapped her palms together, lending very, very quiet applause.
“My goodness, Nathaniel,” she tittered. “I didn’t imagine I would be privy to such information, straight from your lips this evening. What a remarkable achievement, and the perfect way to honour your father.” She paused, her eyes slipping from Nathaniel’s, back toward his mother’s. It was clear she was trying to deduce what was meant to happen next.
“Yes, well. I shan’t waste another moment,” Nathaniel said. He stood from his chair, walking towards the door.
His mother gaped at him, aghast. He knew that if Lady Theresa and Lady Sarah weren’t present, she would exclaim to him to sit back down that very instant. But he was at the mercy of his very sudden, very sure decision. He couldn’t possibly toil another season through the quadrilles and the debutantes and the tiring conversation. It was all so meaningless, so void of any life and colour. Memory of his father’s speeches had ignited a fire in his belly. And he felt charged with adrenaline to get his campaign going.
He just hadn’t any idea of where or how to start.
That night, Lord Linfield sat at the desk of his father’s study, staring down at an incredibly bright, still-blank piece of paper, his quill in his hand. He’d decided to write a letter to his father’s most-trusted friend and ally in the Tories, John Lodgeman, who himself worked in Parliament. He remembered long nights, his father and Lord John sitting up, arguing, their words cutting out through the black air. They’d quarrelled, only with regard to the best ways to find progress. Lord Linfield knew that John was his father’s most trusted ally. “That’s simply why we bicker. We see everything eye to eye and care about everything more than anyone else. We have to challenge one another,” his father had told him once.
He wrote the leader, explaining his decision, and then sealed it with wax, using his family’s seal. Then, Lord Linfield sat back in his chair, the letter poised for an early-morning delivery the following day, and gazed out his window. He remembered the dismal look Lady Theresa had given her cousin during the moments after he’d announced his run for Parliament and couldn’t help feeling a grin stretch across his face. No, he hadn’t wanted to make that girl feel hopeless in the wake of her singledom, of course not. He simply thought it was ridiculous that he could ever fill the hole of “husband” or “father” for anyone as, well, simple as Lady Theresa.
He was meant for something else. At least, that’s what he’d always assumed. Now, he had to prove that fact to himself. He had a long road to go.
Chapter 3
When Bess arrived back from the shelter the following afternoon, Irene was waiting. Bess hobbled forward, gasping. Between the shelter and her work at the paper, her time was stretched thin.
“It’s all work and no play with you, isn’t it, Bess?” Irene sighed. “Regardless, I wanted to discuss something with you. You know Marvin, don’t you? Our political writer?”
Bess nodded, tilting her head. The bumbling man had written a fair share of articles about the various political speeches conducted throughout London in the previous weeks. Bess herself had been the one to edit them, as Irene was in over her head with The Rising Sun’s wide selection of output. Bess herself had seen Irene burst into tears several times, throughout the season—an act of emotion that Irene would have never allowed anyone else on The Rising Sun staff to see.
Currently, Bess was only a secretary, in title, but often her efforts flickered over to the writing and editing side. Beyond Irene, no one else at the paper was a writer; yet Irene had earned her position and her respect, as her father had started the paper nearly 20 years before and she’d grown up in the offices. People didn’t necessarily look to Bess with respect. Even the political writer, Marvin, had been thrilled at his recent political essays, many of which Bess had edited herself. When he’d been told that Bess had been the writer behind the edits, he’d scoffed, saying that no—surely the reason for the essays’ brilliance lay in his increased awareness of the political landscape. Surely, it couldn’t be all for the help of some little know-nothing, wanna-be writer. Surely.
“Well, Marvin’s meant to head-up a new speech for a man poised to head to Parliament,” Irene said. She reached for her gloves, her face becoming stoic and firm as the day crept on. She was no longer the screeching girl, discovering flowers at the door. “However, I haven’t been incredibly thrilled with his output as of late.”
Bess felt her stomach tighten with apprehension. She waited, her eyes burning towards her friend and ally and, in this case, boss.
“I can’t very well take him off the case at this point,” Irene continued. “But I’d like you to attend the event, as well. If possible, perhaps you can write a different spin on the speech. Perhaps give a different dimension to what Marvin will write.”
Bess nearly fell against the countertop with emotion. She nodded her head, trying to remain upright. Irene’s lips flickered as if she was straining not to smile. Of course, she had to know just how immense this was for someone like Bess.
“I would very much appreciate that, Irene,” Bess said, trying to ensure her voice didn’t shake as she spoke. Since she’d been a girl, she’d so yearned to be published, but had assumed it to be an act meant only for a man. That’s why Irene had been such a striking character to her when she’d met her at the age of 12. Already, at that time, Irene had spoken of her life with career in mind, rather than whatever male figure would fill her role as “husband.”
“Good.” Irene searched her, drawing her black, wide-brim hat atop her head and reaching for her umbrella. “Will you wish to write under your own name, Bess?”
Immediately, the thought of having her own name on the newspaper—Lady Elizabeth Byrd, the scorned and embarrassed ex-fiancé of the now-deceased Connor Garvey and the daughter of the runaway Thomas Byrd—filled her with apprehension. Bess shook her head, the motion almost violent, and then stuttered. “I’ll come up with some sort of pen name, if that’s all right for you.”
Nearly an hour later, the women, both 29 years old, fell into easy step as they marched up the last bit of cobblestone to the offices of The Rising Sun. Upon entering, Bess crept back towards her ordinary seat as secretary, peering out across the office at the other male writers—many of whom were balding, their heads shining in the grey light spewing in from the windows. Irene had informed her that the political speech began at one in the afternoon, which meant she would have to conduct a great deal more of her secretarial duties than she was accustomed to in the morning, so that she wouldn’t fall far behind. It was a pity, too, as Bess longed to familiarise herself with the man running for the Parliamentary seat—a man named Lord Nathaniel Linfield, whose father had been a renowned Tory prior to his death, a murder by highwaymen.
