Page 5 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
L.B. was regarded as nobody except the words on the page. L.B. hadn’t nearly married an incredible con artist; L.B.’s father hadn’t wronged her and joined forces with that evil man. No. L.B. was only a writer, an intellect. Nothing more.
Chapter 4
Lord Linfield arrived home the evening after his first speech, feeling deflated and strange—as if his skin was a bit too tight on his body. He entered the foyer and removed his coat, turning his eyes towards the staircase. How he wished he could escape up it, dive back into his father’s study. Anything in the world not to face his mother that evening.
But he heard her from the sitting room, calling his name. “Nathaniel!” she chirped.
Nathaniel drew his shoulders back, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He sauntered down the hallway, his head still full with the jeers from the men in the crowd. His hands had turned to fists; he’d felt his heart thumping in his throat. He’d yearned to toss his own insults back at them, but knew, beyond anything, that such behaviour would completely taint his political career. It would taint it even more than his current ability to give speeches—or lack of ability, that was.
Lady Eloise was seated in her reading chair, a book splayed across her lap. She gave Nathaniel a slight grin, creating soft creases around her mouth. “Come sit with me, son. Before dinner.”
Nathaniel couldn’t imagine anything more horrific than having to sit with his mother and explain just how wretched his first political speech had been. He knew what the answer would be: that it was simply not Nathaniel’s route to become this politician. “Your father was a wonderful orator. And it’s just not your future, Nathaniel. It’s time to return to courting. We’ll find you a woman that suits. I know it.”
Of course, his mother hadn’t uttered those words, not truly. But Nathaniel could feel the sentiment echoing in the air around them. He took a step back, tilting his head. “Mother, I simply can’t bear to remain indoors this evening,” he said. “I think I’ll head out to the woods with Bernard.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lady Eloise said. “It’s nearly dark. And dinner’s almost prepared …”
“I’m simply not hungry, Mother,” Nathaniel said. “I apologise.”
“Nathaniel!” his mother cried. She burst up from her chair, moving towards him. Already, Nathaniel had begun to amble back down the hallway, his feet itching to don his boots and head out of the house. “Nathaniel, now, I’ve waited here all day to hear what became of your speech. You really won’t give an old woman the report?”
“Perhaps another time, Mother,” Nathaniel said, pausing in the centre of the hall. “Perhaps another time.”
His mother seemed to recognise that she couldn’t push the issue. She remained in the doorway, her eyes dark and studying him. Nathaniel hurried up the steps, taking long strides towards his bedroom and diving into the wardrobe, finding his sportsman clothes. Within minutes, he was trudging back towards the side door—his shoulders back and his heart racing. If he waited another moment more in that stuffy house, he knew he would go wild with anxiety.
Lord Linfield collected his dog, Barney, from the stables and then stretched his legs towards the yonder woods, where he followed his familiar path towards a thin stream. Barney shuffled along at his side, his nose towards the ground and his paws dipping into the mud. Lord Linfield dropped his hand along his dog’s head, feeling almost absent-minded. Despite the chill of the air around him and the twinkling stars above, he still felt stuck in fear and anger at his horrific speech-making. He felt that the world was stirring around him, calling him a fool.
Worst of all, he felt that he’d scorned his father’s good name.
At the creek, he paused, turning his attention back to his dog. He dropped to a squat, drawing his hands around his dog’s face and scrubbing his throat. The dog panted with pleasure, allowing his tongue to fall from his lips.
“My name is Lord Nathaniel Linfield,” Nathaniel murmured to himself and to Barney. “And I’m running for Parliament.”
Even to his own ears, he sounded lacklustre and idiotic. He knew he wasn’t—knew, in fact, that he was more well-versed on the topic of politics than most of his peers. He truly did have the political mind of his father and had spent the majority of his teenage years arguing with his father, learning from him. HIs mother had often slammed her sitting room door angrily, telling them that they should take their affairs up to Parliament. “You’re just like your father,” she’d scoffed—not unkindly, although with irritation.
Lord Linfield didn’t return to his home until he knew his mother would be latched up in her bedroom, not apt to come back down the hall to pester him. For dinner, he scrounged up a few rolls and a bit of cheese and meat, deciding to hole up in his father’s study and try to write a better speech—or at least the kind of speech that wouldn’t cause him to flub his lips and stutter. But as he nibbled at his roll, his mind raced. He felt it nearly impossible to draw out his thoughts properly and craft them into a cohesive speech.
Frustrated, he put himself to bed, resolving that he would try again in the morning. He hadn’t another choice. He couldn’t return to his old life of debutantes, just following the trajectory of many other men his age. He wanted his life to mean something, as his father’s had.
The following day, the thick grey clouds above London parted, delivering a strange sunlight that glimmered over the puddles and cobblestones. Lord Linfield journeyed to the centre of London, with plans to meet with John Lodgeman regarding his run for Parliament. The man had hardly been able to look him in the eyes after Nathaniel’s “speech.” Rather, he’d mumbled something like, “You’re lucky you’re good looking. Better looking than your father, even. That will go far.”
The words had felt like a smack across his face.
A half-hour away from his appointment with John, Nathaniel paused at a newspaper boy. The boy flapped his newspapers through the air as if they were flags, flashing them through the sunlight. Nathaniel reached into his pocket, drawing out a coin, which he then flipped into the boy’s cup with a fluid motion. The boy smacked a paper into his palm, saying, “Thank ye sir, have ye a pleasant day!” He revealed rotting teeth, all of them brown, despite the boy’s age of perhaps eight or nine.
Lord Linfield walked towards a little corner bar, where he ordered a coffee and parted the newspaper to the politics section, standing outside near a high table. Immediately, he noted that there were two articles regarding his speech the previous day. One of them—by a man named Marvin Tartman—explained his excitement regarding Lord Linfield’s run for Parliament. But the article was largely regarding Marvin’s appreciation for Lord Linfield’s father and said nothing of Lord Linfield’s speech itself.
For a moment, Lord Linfield was grateful. Perhaps people like Marvin would allow Lord Linfield a bit of extra time to generate his political “voice.”
Unfortunately, The Rising Sun had also published a counter to Marvin’s article. This was a rarity, as, Lord Linfield knew, The Rising Sun usually only posted a single opinion. He drew his face closer to the crinkling paper, feeling sweat begin to pool along his neck.
The article started out pleasant enough. The author introduced himself as “L.B.,” a political essayist, new to The Rising Sun. The writing was sharp and clever and witty, incredibly unlike the rather sloppy writing of Marvin in the column above.
“I followed the political career of Lord Linfield’s father, Lord Walter, for many years—as did the Tories and non-Tories of our little haven, here in London,” the essay said. “The man was a remarkable orator, with a clear, concise message, which always assured and ignited passion in his constituents. I arrived, like many other journalists, to see Lord Linfield for the very first time—assuming that he would be similar in both stature and speech to his dearly departed father. However, I can tell you two things for certain: Lord Nathanial is a brilliant-looking man, handsome in the finest order and far better looking than his father—God rest his soul. And the second thing I can affirm to you, now, is that Lord Linfield seems to lack every single orator skill his father had. I do not know if there’s a single logical thought back in that man’s head. I can only tell you that he didn’t reveal himself to be anything remarkable …”
Lord Linfield flung the paper to the ground to the side of the high table, his heart hammering and his hands drawing into fists. What was this “L.B.” playing at? What in the world did he expect? Of course, Lord Linfield wouldn’t deliver the sort of speeches his father had, his first time up. And now, this L.B. had decided to write his first political essay for The Rising Sun—his first ever!—to tear through Lord Linfield, belittle him. Make him look every bit an idiot.
A horse stumbled across the cobblestones, nearly tearing through the newspaper on the ground. Nathaniel frowned at both the horse and his rider before darting back down the road—his cloak swirling out behind him. He would be five minutes late to his lunch with John Lodgeman, all because of this wretched article. His palms sweat; anger made his throat clench tight.
