Page 31 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Irene was at the kitchen table when Bess arrived, dressed and fresh-faced. She tipped her spoon into her porridge and stuck out her tongue at her friend. “Going to go save the world, are you?” Irene asked.
“One day at a time.” Bess sighed, grinning.
“Come along. Have a bit of porridge, won’t you? You’re becoming skin and bones. Spending long nights staying up writing that Lord’s speeches, on top of your other work,” Irene began.
Bess gave her a dark look before tossing her eyes back.
“If you’re not going to care for yourself, then at least let me do it.” Irene sighed. “I can’t very well have you fainting. You’re one of my best-read writers at The Rising Sun. It’s a pure professional move, ensuring you’re quite all right.”
Bess nabbed a bit of bread from the counter, winking at her friend. “You’re too good to me,” she said.
Bess scuttled down the road. It was a Saturday morning in the drabbest neighbourhood in London, and the sunlight made the chaos look almost Technicolor. Homeless people hobbled along, their hands wrapped in bandages and their eyes downcast. Bess gave them meaningful looks, the occasional smile, remembering those days when it felt that nobody ever looked at her. During those days after her father had run off, and her ruin had gone back to the many people he and Conner had swindled, she’d felt more alone than she could possibly understand. She’d marvelled at the loneliness, how one day you could be a debutante, an electric woman of the world who everyone wanted to sit next to. And the next, you walked down the road to downcast eyes, to people who were suddenly genuinely unwilling to call you a human.
The homeless shelter had been running for the previous ten years. When Bess had begun her work there, she’d noted how many children had scampered into the midst, just skin and bone, hungry for scraps. “Where are all these children’s parents?” she’d asked the then-operator, Ms Thomas. “It just breaks my heart to see them. They don’t utter a single word of hello. It’s as though they don’t trust the world. Although I suppose, why should they?”
Ms Thomas had chosen her words carefully, and for good reason. The older woman, since deceased after a horrific influenza ripped her from the world, placed a hand on Bess’s lower arm and whispered, “Darling Elizabeth. Bess. In fact, you have far more in common with these children than I think you know.”
“What do you mean?” Bess had asked. She hadn’t spoken at length of the affairs with her father and Conner, certainly not with Ms Thomas. Although she sensed it was apparent. Whispers travelled so far in London.
“Darling, these children. They’re generally the sons and daughters of people who committed crimes.”
Bess had staggered forward, nearly tumbling into the table before her. “Murder, you mean,” she said, stitching her eyebrows together. “Something enormous. All of these children come from parents—”
“No,” Ms Thomas had affirmed. “Unfortunately not. In fact, darling, many of these children’s parents are dead for some of the most frivolous acts. Stealing food for their families, when they couldn’t possibly buy enough. Stealing clothes for their backs for the same reason. Petty crimes, met with such unfortunate actions. It’s as if the government wants to snip the lives of as many people as possible, without readily thinking of the children they ultimately affect.”
After this conversation, Bess had felt a burning fire in her belly. She’d torn forward on her quest to better the world, crafting a separate set of rooms at the homeless shelter just for these children. When she’d begun it, she’d fallen into conversation with some of the angrier children, the children who were well-aware of what had happened to them. They were scrappy, wearing clothes that scratched their necks. Their fingernails were long and brown, often with blood edged between. They’d grabbed the porridge she’d poured for them, eyeing one another with lack of trust. “Why ain’t we in with the other folks?” one had asked her, his eyebrows low. “Did we do something wrong, hey?”
“I’m quite certain you’ve done nothing wrong,” Bess had told him. “In fact, this is a safe place for all of you to come. To speak to one another, to eat, to play and to laugh.” She’d eyed the next room, watching as the adults shouldered up to the counter for their slops and soup. “The people in there, they’re good people. They truly are. But you’re children, yet. Which means you deserve your own time.”
The children hadn’t warmed up to her quickly. In fact, she’d heard them muttering amongst themselves throughout the first several weeks. Ms Thomas had at one point told Bess that she’d made a decent try at the program—that perhaps it was time to hang it up, allow the children to return to the adults and keep their heads down. “They just want to hide. And you’re not letting them,” Ms Thomas had said, her voice low.
It was a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, who had changed everything for Bess’s program. One afternoon at the shelter, the girl had marched up to Bess, murder in her eyes. She’d smacked her fists on either side of her waist, stared her angled face up at Bess’s, and demanded, “Why do you want to help us? You clearly from good blood, Miss. You clearly all cleaned up and well and all that. Why don’t you go back to your mansion and leave us be, hey? You know the rest of the state, it leaves us be. And you will, too.”
Bess dropped to her knees before the girl. The other children hovered over their bowls of stew, watching with cat-like eyes. When Bess spoke, she did so in a tender voice, praying that the meaning would translate.
“I understand the world has turned its back on you,” she’d whispered. “I understand that right now, it doesn’t feel that anything will ever feel all right again. I know I don’t live on the street. I have enough food to eat. But the state has ensured that I will never see my family ever again, just like you. And you know what? I miss them. Even though I’m terribly, terribly angry at what they did, I’m so, so sad.”
The girl had gaped at her for a long moment, her nostrils flared. When she opened her mouth, Bess noted that the girl had browning teeth. She would surely lose them before she was ten years old. Behind her, the other kids had begun to creep up, giving Bess incredulous looks. Perhaps they were unaccustomed to any adult being completely honest with them. To many, they weren’t just the scum of the earth. They were the sons and daughters of the scum of the earth.
“Now, who wants to play a game of football?” Bess had asked in the gaping silence. She’d reached around her back, tossed a ball into the air between them. She’d shot her foot out beneath her skirts, preparing to kick it to one of the boys. “Because I’m terribly tired of all this talking. And I think it’s time to be children again.”
Since then, Bess had developed quite a reputation, especially amongst the children who had lost their families after their crimes. Since Bess had accepted the position as secretary at The Rising Sun, she’d had to cinch down her hours at the shelter, but she’d instated several prime men and women in her place—three of which had similar situations to Bess. One volunteer, a woman named Lady Margaret, had been left at the alter by a swindling fool, attempting to take her family’s money. When she’d caught him, he’d fled, but not before murdering her father when he’d tried to stop him. When Lady Margaret smiled at Bess, Bess felt the ghosts behind that smile. She felt the ache in her heart.
Could either of them ever find love again?
Bess marched into the shelter, finding herself in a cluster of wild children in the midst of feeding time. It was breakfast, and the children clambered in from the streets—those who chose not to stay overnight (something that was always an option), with growling bellies and lips apt to tell a million raucous stories from their lives on the streets.
Lady Margaret and another volunteer, a younger chap named Edgar, were manning the breakfast table and listening to the stories, their faces rapt with attention. Lady Margaret spotted Bess first and flashed her hand with a wave, shrugging. “It’s quite insane here today,” she called over the hubbub. “Saturday, I suppose. Plus, the sunshine.”
“Understandable!” Bess called back.
Several of the children recognised Bess and swirled towards her, tossing their arms around her legs and holding her tight against them. “Bess! Bess!’ one child, a boy named Oscar, called. “Look at what I found!” He flashed a card out from his pants, the Queen of Hearts, and grinned madly. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means good luck will befall me, hey? It means good things are coming my way.”
Bess gave a long look at the card, nodding her head quickly. She always tried to make sure that she gave power to each and every emotion felt by one of the children at the shelter. It was an individual game, wherein if you allowed a single person to slip in the cracks, you lost. Each of them mattered. Each of them had a different story, a different tale of loss.
Other children made their way to her, even as she strapped on an apron and began to slop porridge into bowl after bowl. As she only volunteered on Saturdays and the occasional evening, they had several tales to describe to her. The stories were always a bit hard to hear, for Bess, who often spent many of her hours at The Rising Sun worrying about the children. “Out there on their own,” she’d once verbalised to Irene, tears streaming down her face. “You know, if I could, I would adopt all of them.” To this, Irene had said only, “You can’t save everyone, Bess. You can only keep yourself standing, so that other people may cling to you when they fall.”
One of the older boys, one named Peter, was nearing 15—which meant he would soon have to transition to the adult-only room. His eyes had a hollow look to them as he approached this age-up. Bess remembered meeting him when he’d been only about ten, turning into a petty thief like his father. He hadn’t a choice, at the time, and had had to steal bread and fruit for his sister, who was a few years younger than him. Bess had taken him aside at this age, telling him that he could come to the shelter any day of the week for assistance. Peter had been hard and resilient, speaking like a man much older than himself. “I have to take care of my sister. I don’t care about myself,” he’d scoffed.
