Page 47 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“Absolutely, Miss Bess.”
Peter scampered off to the shop across the street while Bess cleaned up, donned a dark green dress, and took a short glance at the mirror. The mirror had a strange dent to the left, making her unsure, often, if her face was a bit crooked or not. She imagined herself seated alongside Lord Linfield with such a crooked face—surely not the type to grace the wife of any man from Parliament. Reality or not, she knew she wasn’t the type meant for him.
Besides, the thickness of her thighs and hips was certainly a problem. Not that she ever looked down on her curvaceous form. In fact, she found it womanly and youthful, in many respects, yet knew that many men preferred thinner women, women with cinched waists and breasts that seemed never to fall.
The smell of bacon and eggs crept up the steps, guiding Bess back down to the breakfast table. She’d prepared Peter’s bed in the far corner of the room, and she was pleased to see that he’d made it up already—stretching the sheets to the pillow and sliding his hand across them to smooth them.
As Peter prepared their breakfast, he moved with rapid, erratic motions, his elbows becoming sharp as they reared back and he flipped the bacon in the skillet. “I’ve made you coffee!” he called to her, dropping the skillet back atop the flame. He placed the mug of coffee before Bess atop the table, beaming.
“This is remarkable, Peter,” Bess said, feeling gratitude like a wave, crashing over her. “Really. I can’t remember the last time anyone took care of me like this.”
Of course, Bess did remember the days of her father’s servants. She’d awoken every morning to large breakfast platters, with more food than she could possibly consume by herself. The variety had been astounding: fresh cheeses, fruits already cut and gleaming, yogurts from the local farmer’s cows, cereals aplenty, along with meats and eggs. When her father had been around, prior to the days of his insane con-artistry, she and her father had sat at the breakfast table for many hours, sharing anecdotes, speaking about what they had read. She’d adored her father, had gazed at him across that platter of French cheeses and marvelled at his way with words. He’d been a poet, an intellect, a man who understood numbers and money.
He also knew how to manipulate people. And he’d manipulated Bess, as well. She’d allowed it to happen.
She’d been too young, perhaps, to know the difference.
But it didn’t matter.
Peter scrubbed the bottom of the skillet, removing the eggs and bacon and smearing them across first one plate, then another. “You know, Miss Bess, I really couldn’t have imagined a better evening than the one we had previously,” Peter said.
Bess noted that he seemed to be trying on a more proper accent. But why? Was he trying to match the men from the evening—Lord Beauchamp, Lord Linfield?
“Oh?” Bess asked, giving him an intrigued smile.
“Those men. One of Parliament, didn’t he say?” Peter began.
“Yes. Lord Everett Beauchamp,” Bess said, her tone coaxing.
“And the other is running for Parliament, correct?” Peter said.
Bess nodded. Peter looked oddly sheepish, asking these questions. “I do apologise. This isn’t a world I know much about,” he continued, his voice bouncing slightly. “Although I’m terribly envious of them. They seem like men who—who have always had something bigger to work for. Men who fight for what they believe in. I suppose I’d like to be that kind of man,” Peter continued.
Bess levered her fork beneath a bit of egg, considering Peter’s words. She tried to imagine being a young boy of fourteen, a boy from the streets—who came from absolutely nothing—looking up at Lord Beauchamp and Lord Linfield. It must have felt akin to looking up at giants.
“Of course, I don’t expect I’ll ever be in Parliament,” Peter continued. “Goodness, no. I’m a boy from the streets, and I know that to be true …” He trailed off, looking deflated. His skin took on a strange shade of grey.
Bess reached across the table with her free hand, sliding her fingers across Peter’s cheeks. He grinned at her, again anxious.
“I must be speaking so foolishly,” Peter stammered.
“Absolutely not,” Bess said. “In fact, you’re inspiring even me to keep going, to be better.”
Peter and Bess both looked away from one another, both seemingly awash with too much emotion. Bess, for her part, was just so grateful the boy was still alive, and that she could help him in this way. In some respects, this gave her life more purpose.
“And the breakfast?” Peter finally asked, grinning broadly.
“Absolutely wonderful,” Bess said, breaking from her reverie to stab another piece of bacon between her lips. “Oh, goodness. I really should be running to the paper.”
Peter flung up from his chair, looking flustered. “And what should I do today, Bess?” he asked. “I’m prepared to begin work.”
Bess prepared a very simple list of tasks for Peter, knowing that he would perform them dutifully. The tasks were split between the paper and things at home. Bess watched as he peered over the list, jotting notes for himself alongside. When he blinked up, he said, “This surely won’t take the entire day, Bess.”
“I know that,” Bess said. “But I assume that will give you time to work on your studies. To read. To write.” She paused, tilting her head towards the corner of the room. “You know, I have a wide selection of French texts, including a dictionary and a language manual. If it pleases you, you could be well on your way to learning a new language—and perhaps becoming one of these intellectual men you so respect—within six months.”
Peter gaped at her. “But Bess …” he murmured. “You can’t mean …”
“Please, Peter. Just think of your life as a book. You’re about to write the next few chapters. What do you want them to say?” Bess said, knocking back the last dredges of her coffee. She slipped her coat over her shoulders, sliding her hand atop Peter’s shoulder and giving him a final, genuine grin. “Enjoy.”
