Page 48 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Lady Elizabeth walked to the paper, her head swimming with images of the boy’s face—so eager for a future he hadn’t been able to envision before. So lost in a daydream, she nearly fell in line of a rushing carriage. Someone pulled her to the side, just in the nick of time, and gave her a stern talking-to. “You really should look where you’re going, lady!”
Once at The Rising Sun, Bess scribbled out the last of Lord Linfield’s speech, struggling with keeping in line with everything that the Tories stood for. Her leanings were becoming more and more liberal. She pressed her quill hard against the page, halting herself from writing anything regarding the Judgement of Death Act. It was a conversation she and Lord Linfield were still bound to have. She imagined herself articulating all her main points to him—explaining to him the events of the previous years when she’d fallen in love with the con-artist Conner and had to watch him swing back and forth … When she’d fallen into employment with the homeless shelter and realised that London played host to countless children without parents, due to punishments that far out-weighed the crimes.
But imagining those conversations she longed to have with Lord Linfield made her heart beat wildly in her chest. She swallowed hard, shot up from her desk and marched towards Irene’s office. She peered in through the window, watching as Irene blared at one of their newer writers, a boy of no more than 22, who cowered before her. “You really went to university? I can’t imagine anyone who’s read a single book in their lives could ever write so poorly. This is preposterous.”
“Please, Ms Follett. You really can’t fire me,” the poor kid sighed, just barely loud enough for Bess to hear through the window. “My mother, she …”
“As if I could possibly care a pinch about your mother,” Irene said, her eyes like a cat’s. “Please, don’t be so foolish as to think that. It’s belittling to both of us. Now, darling, please run back to your desk and write me the best argument you possibly can for why I should allow you to keep your column at The Rising Sun. Have it to me by the end of the day.”
The boy stood up from his chair so fast that it flung out behind him, tipping this way and that. He stuttered his thanks and then rushed out the door. Irene watched him with a strange mix of humour and anger. Then, she traced her eyes up to find Bess’s. She gestured for Bess to enter.
When she did, she closed the door behind her and let out a long sigh. “My goodness. You really tore into him,” Bess said.
“Well, if you have a better idea of how to make these younger writers learn, then please, tell me,” Irene said, lowering her brows. “I can’t afford to pay for another know-nothing writer. Like Marvin? I should have fired him years ago. The time for cutting the fat is always, Bess.” She paused for a moment.
Bess righted the flung-back chair and perched on the edge, sanding her hands over her knees. It felt strange to speak, as her brain felt several miles away—lost in that Lord Linfield daydream.
“Peter should be stopping by soon to drop off our lunches,” Bess offered, filling the silence.
“Goodness, that boy,” Irene said, chuckling. “He’s certainly eager, isn’t he? And didn’t you see the way he was looking up at Lord Linfield and Lord Beauchamp last night? It felt as though he could worship them, don’t you think?”
Bess felt her lips shiver into a smile.
“He looked at Lord Linfield certainly as brightly as you have been,” Irene said, speaking slower.
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Irene,” Bess stammered. “He’s only an employer. Nothing more.”
“Well, I have to say. The previous few articles you’ve written about him for The Rising Sun have been more or less stellar,” Irene said, her eyes sparkling. “I can feel them verging towards thinly-veiled love letters …”
“Irene!” Bess said. She felt a wave of anger through her belly. She was just like that young writer out in The Rising Sun main office, scribbling out the reasons he should remain on staff. “You really know what to say to rile people up today, don’t you?”
“It is my task to speak the truth,” Irene offered, shrugging.
Bess just rolled her eyes and returned to her desk, forcing herself to focus on her many tasks of the day. This first day of Peter’s assistantship raced into the next, and then the next, until finally, at the end of the week, Bess prepared herself for Lord Linfield’s next speech.
It was early December, and Bess bundled herself up midway through the day—praying that her fingers wouldn’t be too chilly to scribe notes for herself. The staff writers at The Rising Sun were particularly bleary-eyed that day and hardly glanced up at her as she prepared to leave. When she reached the door, she made final eye contact with Irene, who nodded firmly. Bess just rolled her eyes, recognising the expression as one almost mocking her. “I know how you feel about him,” Irene seemed to say.
Or perhaps that was just a projection. Bess wasn’t entirely certain.
As Bess walked across the downtown cobblestones, her feet hobbling over the occasional cracked stone, she spotted Peter at the nearby market. Although it was only his first week, he’d already become a prime haggler, ensuring that he, Bess, and Irene had the best cuts of meat and cheeses for the finest prices. The previous evening at dinner, Irene had said that Peter had the brain of a businessman. At this, Bess had affirmed that even if he had the brain of a businessman, he had the heart of a writer or an artist. Peter’s cheeks had burned with embarrassment.
He certainly wasn’t accustomed to being spoken of in such a grand way.
Bess didn’t want to pester him during his haggling session. She ducked past, falling in line with the crowd that drew itself around the stage. In the midst of so many people, Bess could forget about the chill for a bit. Instead, she busied herself eavesdropping—relishing the words people said about Lord Linfield and his run for Parliament.
“When I first saw him at this very stage, many weeks ago, I said to Lord Tyler, I said, absolutely not! What a horrendous speaker he was. Absolutely atrocious. My own wife could have done better,” one man said, his voice boisterous and round.
Bess felt the strangest sensation of being filled with a secret. The secret was round and warm within her. She grinned, drawing out a pad of paper and waiting. The crowd filled in behind her, becoming thick.
“He really draws quite the crowd these days,” another man said, his voice raspy. “Although I don’t know that I trust he doesn’t have a wife. What do you make of it?”
“The man must think he’s too good for such propriety, that’s what I think,” another said. “It’s ridiculous, at the age of 32, not to have a family of your own. Why, I already had four children and another on the way at that time! Doesn’t he value all that’s come before? Doesn’t he value how things have always been done?”
“But isn’t there something to be said of a fresh perspective?” another offered.
“Shhh!” Someone shushed the two loud-talkers as a tall, gaunt man pounded across the stage and lifted his hands. “Be quiet! It’s nearly time.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ladies,” the gaunt man began. “As you know, today we will have another round of speeches for the men running for Parliament. Lord Nathaniel Linfield will begin, and then we’ll have Lord Zachary Tomlin, along with a brief song from the chamber singers. I expect your complete respect throughout the speeches. Thank you.”
