Page 30 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“I’m certain I already had those skills, myself,” Lord Linfield said. “Just took a bit of coaxing to draw them out.”
He paused for a long moment, recognising how asinine he sounded. He coughed once, then turned his face towards his window. He could feel Richard’s eyes upon him, seemingly judging him.
Lord Linfield stayed up nearly half the night, tossing and turning, thinking only of the newspaper’s release the following day. What on earth could Lady Elizabeth possibly say about his speech? It had been inspirational, powerful in the right parts, slow and steady, just as she’d instructed. But he recognised that he was at the mercy of her quill. Whatever she penned the following day could have a dramatic change on the popular opinion of him.
He blinked awake just after dawn when light oozed grey between the trees. He peered out from his window, stretching his massive arms over his head. Before dressing, he peered at himself in the mirror: the muscles that were so sculpted across his stomach, the thick chest, the coarse hair across it. When he’d been a younger man, the debutantes had been largely chasing after him—whispering about him when he’d crossed their paths. “I think he looked at me!” they’d whisper to one another, giggling with anxiety. “I think he wants me. He’ll surely ask me to dance!”
“Why can’t you take an interest in a single one of them?” His mother had sighed, time and time again. She’d chosen several women for him, including Lady Theresa, and yet he’d never latched onto them. He’d always seen them as empty shells, void of any real meaning besides having children, besides becoming “Lady Linfield,” whatever that meant.
Lord Linfield dressed and strolled down to the breakfast table, where he encountered his mother sipping tea and nibbling a piece of toast. She flashed her eyes up at him, grinning in a rather secretive way.
“Now, tell me,” his mother said, watching with cat-like eyes as Nathaniel sat on the other side of the table. “Tell me. What is it I’m hearing?”
“You’re going to have to be less cryptic, Mother,” Lord Linfield said, arching his brow.
Lady Eloise slid a napkin across her lips, seemingly enjoying playing with him in this manner. “I’ve just received word from one of your father’s good friends. Sir Isaac.”
“Oh, yes,” Lord Linfield said. He teetered forward, pouring himself a glass of coffee from the large mug before him.
“He says he finds your speeches are becoming more and more promising,” his mother said. “Finds that you might be the very man the Tories are looking for. Now, wouldn’t you like to tell me—what on earth has changed?”
Lord Linfield tipped his head to the right, looking at his mother with an incredulous expression. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Nathaniel, you know as well as I do that you’re not a natural, shall we say, people person,” his mother said, leaning closer over her plate. She dropped her toast over it, and then folded her fingers before her. She looked as though she was conducting an interview.
“I don’t know any world where that doesn’t sound like an insult, Mother,” Nathaniel said. He stuck a piece of toast between his teeth and then chewed slowly, feeling his heart beat wildly in his throat.
“You know, I know perfectly well you’ve had guests about the house,” his mother said then. “It’s not as though I don’t know the goings-on when I’m not here.” Her eyes drew into slits, staring him down. “But I know you wouldn’t court a woman, here at the house, without me. That would be outside the bounds of propriety.”
“Absolutely not,” Lord Linfield said, shaking his head. “It’s been workers for The Rising Sun, if you must know. Political journalists …”
“Ah,” his mother said, looking even more intrigued. “Is that so? I don't know a single reason why you might be trying to befriend journalists from The Rising Sun, especially given that they tend to pan you, don’t they?”
Lord Linfield stood from the table, knocking his chair so hard with his legs that it fell to the ground and rattled back and forth. He lifted his toast, and then another piece, from the platter, and turned towards the door. “I really don’t know what you’re on about, Mother, but I must take my leave. I’m due for a jaunt through the woods with old Barney.”
“You can’t hide whatever you’re up to from me, my dear Nathaniel,” his mother said, her voice chasing him out the door. “You know that.”
Lord Linfield dressed in his proper hiking outfit and sprung from the estate, finding his dog, Barney, near the carriage house and hailing him with a quick whistle. The dog rushed up beside him, panting, his tongue lolling from his mouth. When Nathaniel stroked behind the dog’s ears, he felt a stab of compassion for the animal—knowing that Barney understood him more than most humans did, and that, unlike his mother, Barney wouldn’t talk back.
They ran through the woods together, Lord Linfield and his quiet companion, before returning to the mansion around the time Nathaniel knew the paper would be coming in from the city. He paced his study, still in his forest gear, his hands wrapped behind his back. Sometimes, he felt a stab in his gut, something that told him Lady Elizabeth would probably pick fun at his current, anxious behaviour. He was a Lord, for God’s sake, and yet he was acting like some sort of crazed child. He needed to calm his racing mind. Needed to stop thinking of Lady Elizabeth. Yet each time he closed his eyes, he felt he could visualise her before him. He imagined what it would be like to wrap her smaller hands in his.
As they approached a clearing, Barney spotted a rabbit and erupted from the grass—springing forward more like a wolf than a dog. Lord Linfield burst alongside him, rushing fast as Barney attempted to wrap the rabbit’s neck with his teeth. The rabbit sneaked through some underbrush, flitting off into the next world, while Barney tore into the thick weeds. Barney’s neck caught in the weeds, and he let out a wild whine, one of fear. Nathaniel dropped to his knees beside him, his heart nearly bursting with compassion. The dog looked up at him with big, glossy eyes, lending him another whine.
“Shh. It’s quite all right, old boy,” Nathaniel murmured, surprised at the softness of his own voice. He began to unravel the dog’s hair from the brush, picking out the thorns and undoing the vines. Barney allowed his tongue to loll from his mouth, and he panted, giving Nathaniel a large smile. “I told you,” Nathaniel said. “I told you I would take care of you.”
Finally, Nathaniel undid the final vine and released his pup, which lurched up from the ground and batted at Nathaniel’s cheeks with his tongue. Nathaniel fell into laughter, there in the midst of the woods, all alone. He swept his hands across Barney’s neck and back, his heart feeling squeezed. In these moments, when his dog gave him such grand and sweeping suggestions of love, Nathaniel was awash with the feeling that he wanted to give this kind of love to children, one day. That somewhere down the line, he wanted to play with his children upon the grass, laugh with them, chase them silly until they fell to the ground in fits of giggles. But this time, the image was filled with another figure—one of his future wife.
His smile deflated a bit when he realised that his unconscious mind gave him an image of Lady Elizabeth, in place of that figure. He shoved it away, rising to his feet and giving a final pat to his dog. Barney again gave him a sombre expression, one that told him that his trust was in him, wholly. “Old boy, I think it’s time to return home. Perhaps a bit too much activity for one day,” Nathaniel said.
Chapter 15
Lady Elizabeth awoke on Saturday morning awash with light. Deep in the night, she’d awoken and stretched the curtains to one side, choosing to daydream her precious hours away and stare into the gleaming light of the cobblestones, reflecting back the moon. It was an unfortunate thing, these nights: when she was riddled with regret, due to the misfortune of her previous life. Always, she ached for the presence of someone beside her at night: someone to hold her as she shook, as she feared for the creeping loneliness of older age. At 28 years old, she was a borderline hag, a woman with little worth, in society’s eyes.
“And yet, I can write. And that is what I have. What I’ve always had,” had been her final resolve, before allowing herself to slip off to sleep.
In the next bedroom, Bess could hear the shifts of Irene as she hobbled about, perhaps cleaning up or searching for something. Bess reached up, made her hand into a fist and tapped on the wall, grinning to herself. Within seconds, Irene tapped back. They created a kind of pattern, then: Bess tapping, then Irene tapping, until both girls devolved into giggles. Whatever happened in the chaos of the world, they had one another on the other side of their walls. That was all that mattered.
Bess dressed in a very simple frock, bringing her hair back into a small bun. That morning, as she did many others, she planned to volunteer at the nearby homeless shelter, passing out soup and bread to the poor. It was something she’d committed to several years before, just after she’d watched Conner hang for his crimes. Something within her had died. And she’d so ached to get it back that she’d turned to performing better acts. Acts that might ensure that the world could become a better place.
