Page 4 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
From her desk, Bess could hear Marvin complaining about the upcoming speech, his voice high-pitched and straining. “The man’s clearly just a shadow of his father. Doesn’t seem to have a single thought outside what his father put in his head. I mean, honestly, these rich men. They think they can just decide upon a position and land in it, without making the hard commitment that their fathers were forced to …”
Nobody seemed keen to answer Marvin, but Bess inserted this knowledge into her own brain—eager to see what her own opinion would be, after the speech. And just after 12:30, she made heavy eye contact with Irene, who was seated in her office, her quill toiling over a white sheet of paper, before nodding and rising from her desk chair. It was time to go.
Bess donned her hat and marched from The Rising Sun office. Once outside, London seemed more chaotic than ordinary—its carriages bumbling past; its women chattering with wild, flashing hands; its men smoking tightly-rolled cigarettes and grunting, stretching long legs across the slippery cobblestones. Bess joined the chaos, walking towards the square in which the political speech was meant to take place. Everything within her buzzed with excitement. With every step, she reminded herself that this life—one of a journalist, of a real, opinionated writer, was the one she was always meant to have.
Of course, it had been a difficult road, prior to this. The thought of it passed through Beth like a shadow, as if she could never go more than an hour or two without reminding herself of the past.
She’d been a girl much like the others her age—oh, she could list their names, could even remember the way they’d laughed and bantered together as they’d gone through the courting season, several years before. There’d been Lady Ellen and Lady Rachel, Lady Tatiana and Lady Penelope. They’d flounced one another’s dresses, curled one another’s curls. They’d giggled with one another, gossiped. Of course, Bess had always felt she had a “private” side of herself, one involved with books and writing and intellect. But at the time, she’d set that all to the side, with her sights on creating a world with a husband, with crafting a good pair. It was simply what was “done.” And she was willing to do anything for love.
She’d been such a silly woman, back then. And when Connor Garvey had asked her to dance, bowed deep—casting his dark blue eyes towards hers—she’d fallen into him, emotionally, mentally. As they’d danced their first dance, her mind had skipped ahead the next five, ten, fifteen years. She could imagine him by her side.
Of course, she hadn’t imagined what would happen next.
Bess spotted the crowd in front of the speech platform and darted down the cobblestone road, not wanting to be late. Marvin had left for the speech a bit before her, and she was anxious, her eyes stirring through the crowd to ensure that she didn’t stand anywhere near him. Marvin was competitive, an anxious, snivelling guy. She could imagine the brash way he would sneer at her, if he spotted her: “How dare you think that you could write like me?”
Bess crept towards the front of the crowd, reaching into her bag to draw out her notebook. Around her, people crowded, tittering about the upcoming event. “You know, I really did love his father,” one man blurted, stretching his fingers across his moustache. “I have to assume the son will have similar politics, although, of course, it’s never clear.”
Bess’s eyes turned towards the stage, where a handsome man was scanning a piece of crumpled paper. He was rather tall—perhaps half a foot over six feet, with blond hair that whisked past his ears and curled lightly. His shoulders were broad; his arms muscular. He looked nothing like the other, bumbling politicians that Bess was accustomed to seeing, and seemed almost as though he’d rather be far away from the city, walking alone. His eyes turned towards the edge of the stage, where a short, squat man gestured to him. It was time for him to go on.
The squat man tapped towards the centre of the stage, raising his arms. The crowd’s wild tittering, so much like birds, gradually drew to a halt. Silence formed over them, creating a kind of bubble. Then, the squat man spoke.
“Greetings!” he called. “Good afternoon to each and every one of you. As many of you know, when Lord Nathaniel Linfield announced to me his plans to run for Parliament, I was absolutely thrilled. HIs father, God rest his soul, was a remarkable friend of mine. And I know for a fact he’s passed along a brilliant mind to his son. Now, without further ado. Lord Nathanial Linfield …”
The squat man—who, Bess discovered later, was the Tory-member John Lodgeman—began to clap, leading the rest of the crowd to follow suit. Then, Lord Linfield sauntered to the front of the stage, sliding his crumpled paper across the podium. He cleared his throat, drawing his eyes towards the crowd. The clapping gave a final roar before completely falling away. Then, there was only silence. It was almost like a vacuum. Bess could hear nothing. All eyes were upon Lord Linfield, expectant. Everything hinged on him.
Finally, the man opened his lips. He addressed the crowd, his voice a bit too loud, a bit too brash. It was already clear that Nathaniel hadn’t made many speeches in his life. Immediately, Bess cringed.
“Greetings,” he began. “Many of you, um, many of you are accustomed to hearing my father speak. Of course, he’s been gone these past few years. Leaving me with a kind of—um. I don’t know. He was a brilliant politician, and I always looked up to him. He told the best stories …” Lord Linfield trailed off, turning his eyes towards the ground.
Bess waited, her eyebrows stitching together. Did this man even have a single concept of what politics were? Did he know that he had to have a set opinion regarding the future of the city, of the Tory party, in order to be given a place in Parliament? Around her, people had begun to titter slightly, clearly confused.
“Anyway,” Nathaniel continued. “I wanted to address the various ways in which, erm, I hope to continue my father’s work.”
“GET OFF THE STAGE!” someone cried from the far corner of the crowd.
Bess whirled towards the sound, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever this person was. But another joined him seconds later. Jeering. Laughing. Bess turned back towards Lord Linfield, her eyes large. Lord Linfield no longer looked anxious. Instead, he scrunched his speech paper into a ball and glared at the jeering members of the crowd. He looked apt to punch them in the face. Bess’s heart sputtered in her chest. Immediately, she began to take notes—already knowing the kind of essay she might write regarding this man, this impossible politician.
Against any good judgement, he continued to speak. But his words were ill-formed, and it was clear that he had only a small inkling of what the Tory party represented. Around Bess, people began to scoff to themselves and their friends, muttering that the man was only half the man his father had been.
The speech lasted only a few more minutes before John Lodgeman nearly pulled the poor Nathaniel Linfield from the stage and began a speech all his own. He hoped to maintain his Parliamentary seat, it seemed, and wanted to clear the air—ensure that the people knew he still had his wits about him. Behind him, Nathaniel Linfield remained, still glaring at the various audience members who’d jeered at him. His eyes glittered with anger. Bess marvelled that had John Lodgeman not been between them, there might have been a fight.
The crowd broke up after that, leaving Bess to hustle back to her desk at the paper. As she marched along the cobblestones, she sneaked her pad of paper into her bag and adjusted her hat. As the crowd dissipated, however, she heard her name. She spun her head so fast, her hat nearly flung to the ground. With her fingers gripping at the brim, she blinked into the glossy eyes of Marvin, who looked at her, incredulous.
“My goodness, Bess,” he said, his thick eyebrow rising high. “What on earth are you doing all the way over here? I don’t suppose Irene’s sent you on an errand?”
Bess was always a quick thinker, articulate and sharp. She flashed Marvin a sure smile and felt a lie rise to her tongue. “Oh goodness, she did. I was just marching past the political speeches and hung back for a moment. Curiosity got the better of me, you know.”
“Oh, well. Certainly. Although I can’t imagine that you could make sense of it,” Marvin said. He fell into step beside her, falling into his own monologue. “You know, that man. Lord Linfield. I knew his father quite well. And he seems to be of the same ilk. Perhaps you didn’t follow his father’s work with the Tories, but I must tell you …”
Bess marvelled at the idiocy with which Marvin spoke, now. She allowed him the occasional, “Oh, is that so?” and “My goodness, thank you for pointing that out for me!” as they marched back to the paper. But mostly, she was living in a closet in her own mind, lost in thought. She was already writing and re-writing the first few paragraphs of her essay, feeling her creativity flowing through her. It felt like no time at all before they arrived back at the paper offices. She said a final goodbye to Marvin, as he hunkered back to his desk.
To her, he called back, “Good to teach you a bit of something today, Bess. I dare say it’s a rarity to lend a bit of my craft to someone such as yourself. I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you.”
Bess just grinned, turning her eyes toward Irene. Irene smirked at her, arching her brow. They shared this secret, a secret that gave them power over this arrogant man. That was all Bess truly needed in this world. Especially after everything that had happened. She just needed a personal bit of power; no recognition. She wanted nobody to know her name.
For, several years before—only months before she was meant to marry Conner Garvey, her name had been on the lips of so many, many people throughout London. The scandal had nearly destroyed her. “Lady Elizabeth Byrd, don’t you know. What a pity it would be to be her! I dare say, the poor thing. She didn’t see it coming, did she? The moment she introduced her fiancé to her father, she should have seen the world swallowing her up. My, my. What a pity! What a horrible pity.”
But she was stronger now, assured in her singledom. She was a writer, a journalist—a woman of fine opinions and beautiful words. She didn’t need anyone else but herself. And with her pen atop her paper, she began to write up her political opinion piece, signing the essay with a false name—L.B.
