Page 32 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Of course, all that had changed when his sister had died of cholera the previous winter. All the light had whooshed out of Peter’s eyes. He’d stopped appearing at the shelter and had returned to stealing—using the tactics he’d honed as a child. Once, when Bess had been working at The Rising Sun, Lady Margaret had rushed into the offices, blaring out that Peter had been arrested. “He’s asking only for you,” she’d said. “He says he won’t go with anyone else.”
Bess had arrived at the police station only fifteen minutes later, huffing and sweating. She remembered feeling that her skirts weighed more than one hundred pounds that day. When she’d rushed into the police station, she’d spotted Peter in the corner of a cell—his face in his hands. Her heart had nearly broken for him.
“And who the hell are ye supposed to be, me lady?” one of the officers had asked, his words scornful. “Blimey, you’s a pretty thing.”
Bess had lifted her chin, glaring at the man. She longed to articulate just how much she despised him at that moment, but she knew that was a detriment to the task at hand. She nodded her head towards little Peter in the cell, saying, “That’s my nephew there. I’m going to need his release immediately.”
“It’ll cost ye a pretty penny,” the police officer had said, sniffing. He rustled his finger beneath his nose, a disgusting portrait of a fat police officer.
“I’ve got the money,” Bess had said.
She flashed through her wallet, drawing out nearly half her week’s wages for the boy. When she slapped it on the desk between her and the officer, she’d felt a punch in her gut. But in no capacity was it the wrong decision. When she heard the cell door unlatch, when she heard the soft footfalls of Peter—at the time devoid of purpose, feeling lifeless and strange after the death of his sister—she knew giving the money was worth it.
After that, she’d started gifting Peter things. Small things, like books, newspapers, magazines. Always, the gifts were literary or artistic in their base, as she felt she wanted to instill in him some sort of purpose. Gradually, he’d grown more open with her about what he’d read, guiding her to the side of the shelter house to describe to her his feelings regarding a particular text. His opinions were sound and electric, the stuff of a much older man.
Now, Peter tapped his empty porridge bowl atop the table between them and gave her a shaky, if true, smile. Bess winked at him. “I don’t suppose you tore through that essay I gave you last week, did you?” she asked.
Peter leaned heavily across the table, giving her a sneaky look. “Finished it up in a few hours, mate. What will you put me through next? I’ve been chomping at the bit for something else.”
Bess raised her finger into the air, mouthing, “One moment!” and then reached for her bag. She dumped out two books onto the table, beaming at him. “They were two of my favourites when I was your age.”
Peter reached for the books: one on philosophy and the other a fantastical story of love, loss, adventures, and pirates. He nodded slowly, his bony fingers turning the books over and over. “Looks good. Looks really good.”
“When I was reading them, I was training to be a debutante, if you can believe it,” Bess found herself saying, almost stuttering over the words. “I was meant to be practicing my different languages—Latin, Greek, German, French. But instead, I would sneak off to read. It was a difficult time. My father told me I’d never find a husband.” She giggled, rolling her eyes back. Peter knew her history, better than any of the other children.
“I think books are better than husbands,” Peter said.
“I always knew you were wiser than most adults,” Bess said.
Peter paused at the table, shifting his weight. His eyes looked a bit hollow, a bit lost. “Bess, I wanted to ask you. Ask you something.”
Bess turned towards Lady Margaret, arching her brow. “Do you mind if I take a moment to sit with Peter? We have a few things to discuss.”
Bess and Peter moved over to the corner of the room, standing against the brick wall as the long, snake-like line of children, all affected by their parents’ deaths due to petty crimes, sneaked through the shelter. Peter muttered, “It’s like they just keep coming. No matter how much time passes, the law will never change.”
Bess remembered her pact with Lord Linfield. She swallowed, her throat feeling tight, wondering what he would say if he could see this scene, just now. Wouldn’t he sense just how foolish it was not to uphold the Judgement of Death Act? Wouldn’t he sense that people like Peter were far more important, more worthy of love and trust, than any revenge against some ruthless highwayman?
“I hope one day it will,” Bess offered, although her voice was doubtful, her words far away.
“You know I’m nearly ageing out of your shelter, Bess,” Peter said. He shifted, stabbing his hands into his pockets. “I can’t imagine how far gone I’ll be when that happens.”
“You know how to take care of yourself,” Bess said. Her heart had begun its strange pattering, feeling very far away. “You know that even though you have to rely on yourself, I’m here for you whenever you need to talk. And the homeless shelter, it’s really not so wretched …”
“It’s not the warm blanket this place has been, the past five years,” Peter stammered. “Frankly, I’m not sure I can see myself. See myself going on, after this.”
Bess whirled towards him. She grabbed his upper arms, her fingers stabbing into his thin skin. He winced slightly, but it was clear he liked the attention. It was clear he needed someone like her, seeing him. Knowing he was still alive.
“Don’t talk like that,” Bess said.
She was grateful that the children in the shelter were rampant and wild, speaking over the top of one another. Nobody could hear her and Peter, couldn’t sense the tension. She sighed, trying to halt the tears as they formed in her eyes.
“You’re a brilliant man, Peter. You’ve always been a man, and had to be.” She paused for a long moment, searching his face. “Why don’t you, hmm.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she could make it work. “Why don’t you work for me?”
Peter paused, gaping at her. As her heart raced, faster and wilder in her chest, Bess fell more and more for the spontaneous idea. “Yes. Absolutely. I can’t imagine another way,” she continued. “You absolutely must come to work for me. I’ve fallen into a new position, you see, and I’m terribly unorganised. Secretarial work during the day, a bit of writing on the side in the night.” She paused, her mind cluttered. “If you could be my secretary of sorts. Cleaning my house. Arranging my carriage rides when it’s required that I journey to a client’s home. Picking up the odds and ends of my life …”
She drifted off, watching Peter’s expression as he listened. He flashed his grey teeth, looking brighter than the sun. With a jolt, he smashed the back of his hand across his mouth and laughed to himself, shrugging. “You really think I could fall into your world like that, Lady Bess?”
“Peter, I’ve never seen anyone take to the books I lend them the way you have,” Bess said. “It’s remarkable. In fact, each and every week, I look forward to coming to this very shelter and speaking to you about them. But—”
