Page 46 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“Ah, Everett Beauchamp. I haven’t seen him since he was a much younger boy,” his mother said. “Although word is that he’s been an incredible force in Parliament.”
“He’s still very much that boy,” Nathaniel said. “Although he’s had heartache. He’s travelled the world.”
“I can imagine,” Lady Linfield said, stretching a string high. The needle glinted in the candlelight. “Although I must tell you, I’ve heard rumours that he’s been a tentative proponent of the Judgement of Death Act. As you know, I’m staunchly opposed to such a thing. As are you, I presume.”
Nathaniel swallowed hard.
“It would be beneficial to speak with him more regarding his position,” his mother said, her voice firm. “Especially when you appear in Parliament. I imagine you’ll have quite a heavy say in the goings-on, given your father’s reputation.”
Nathaniel opened his lips, preparing to speak. He imagined himself asking just why his mother felt the Judgement of Death Act was such a horrendous thing. But of course, this negated everything he and his mother had spoken about regarding his father’s murder. What devastation they’d been through since that day! He couldn’t take it back.
“You must know, darling, that if that Act passes, that means your father’s memory will become very small,” his mother continued, sounding so sure of herself.
“Not with us, Mother,” Nathaniel blared.
His mother spun her head quickly towards him, no longer keeping her embroidery in view. “Excuse me, Nathaniel?” she asked, arching her brow high. “Do you mean to say you might stand up for the Judgement of Death Act? Do you mean to say everything your father worked for, his very name, will be voided if you take a seat in Parliament?”
Nathaniel felt smacked. He took a small step back towards the hallway, his mind racing. “That isn’t what I meant, Mother.”
They stared at one another for a long moment, both seemingly steaming. But Nathaniel took another step back, and then another, his heart heavy with the realisation that—if he was going to give himself to Lady Elizabeth (something he felt sure he could never possibly do, not feasibly, not in this life), then he had to uphold her position on the Judgement of Death Act.
But of course, that meant going against his mother’s wishes. It meant, in his mother’s eyes, going against the memory of his father.
And this thought kept him awake at night until the winter birds cast wild tweets from the tip-tops of skeletal trees, just outside his window, and the sun brought blurry light across the moors and through the gardens. He felt ill, unsure.
He had none of the confidence of a man in Parliament. But he had to prepare for yet another speech. And he rose from his bed, scrubbing his head with aching fingers, ready to face yet another day.
Chapter 21
Bess stirred beneath the sheets, somewhere in the haze between waking and sleep. Again, she heard a scratch, then a knock on the door—presumably the noise that had woken her in the first place. Her brain searched for reasons for the noise. But within seconds, she heard it.
“Lady Elizabeth? Bess?”
The words were tentative, voiced from a young boy perhaps midway through puberty. After scrubbing her eyes another moment, Bess shot upright in bed, remembering: this was Peter’s first morning at her and Irene’s home.
“Yes, darling Peter. I’ll be right there!” Bess called.
Peter rapped his knuckles against the door once more, clearing his throat. “Please, Miss Bess. I was wondering. What would you like for breakfast?”
Bess chuckled to herself. She swept the bed sheets from her little legs and scurried towards the door, where she cracked it open to find Peter fully dressed, his cheeks red from scrubbing. He grinned at her, showing browning teeth. Bess made a mental note to find a dentist for him if they were ever going to save his teeth.
“Darling, you’re looking well-rested!” she said to him, giving him her most genuine smile in return.
“Thank you, Miss Bess. I truly cannot remember the last time I slept so well,” Peter offered.
“The bed downstairs is well-suited to you?” Bess asked. She scrubbed the corner of her eye, still feeling unbalanced and foggy.
“It is marvellous,” Peter said. He smacked his palms together. “And, as your personal assistant, I wish to make you breakfast. Please. I’ve checked with the local merchant, the shop across the street. Fresh products. Wonderful things. Bacon? Eggs?” he asked, his eyes alight.
“You can cook those things?” Bess asked.
“Absolutely, Miss Bess.” He paused for a moment, turning an embarrassed gaze to the ground.
“I suppose you’ll need a bit of money?” Bess asked. She reached for her purse, atop the wardrobe, and pulled out several coins. “This should do, I would think. Make sure you cook enough for Irene, now.”
“Irene’s already left for the paper,” Peter said. “Tried to convince her to stay, but she looked a bit anxious.”
“Yes, I see.” Bess sighed. “Well, I’ll be leaving in about an hour’s time. Do you think we can make the breakfast in time?”
