Page 50 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“All thanks to you, I don’t have to take part in those foolish Season balls next year,” he added. “I’ll be busy with Parliament, actually having conversations I’ve always wished to have, instead of falling through dance step after dance step. You can’t imagine what a relief I have for that, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I remember the conversations all too well,” Lady Elizabeth countered. “Whenever I tried to deviate from the original course—talk about something that actually mattered …”
“It went poorly, didn’t it?” Lord Linfield offered. “For if you have anything of interest to say, you don’t belong there at all.”
Bess found herself awash with yet another memory, this time of Conner. During one of their first meetings, Bess had tried to speak to him about the Shakespearean play she’d been reading at the time. Admittedly, it had been a phase she’d been in—one she hadn’t been able to shake. But Conner had brushed her to the side, almost shrugging. “Darling, if you don’t want to dance with me, then just say so.” At the time, she’d thought it to be incredibly charming. A man had actually wanted to dance! With her!
But now, she reflected back on it and realised that instead, Conner had simply wanted to “get” with her—not know her mind. He hadn’t cared a single bit for Shakespeare, or for any other writer.
In fact, he had hardly allowed her to have those conversations throughout their courting. Even when they’d been engaged, Bess had had to play the part of a much smaller woman. She’d had to step back, watch as Conner and her father had engaged in ready banter. How their eyes had flashed as they’d shaken hands. How their bodies and minds had seemed aligned from day one.
Why hadn’t Bess read between the lines? Why hadn’t she just said something, done something?
Perhaps she could have stopped everything.
“I’ll have Richard send you a letter for more precise arrangements,” Lord Linfield said, his smile faltering.
Bess realised she was being strange, not answering his recent comment. She nodded, smearing her chilly hands across her dress. She shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.
“Wonderful,” she murmured, her voice hushed. “Truly.”
Should she make some sort of comment regarding her silence? Some sort of excuse? Lord Linfield beamed down at her, seemingly awash with emotion. But Bess couldn’t attribute that emotion to herself, no. Rather, it was surely in direct relation to the speech he’d just made. He was now a country-wide famous orator. He now had immense glory.
Bess had been briefly famous—her name whispered into the ears of countless debutantes across the moors. “Don’t end up like Lady Elizabeth. Watch who you give your dances to. Don’t you see her, now? She’s ruined. Absolutely ruined. And she’ll never become anything at all.”
Seconds later, after a very brief goodbye, she shot away from Lord Linfield, stumbling out of the crowd. She huffed, trying to get her breath back. With a jolt, she realised she’d been meant to pay attention to the current speaker at the front; she was the political writer, after all. She began to scribble down notes of what she remembered from his speech, knowing full-well that her notes were mostly centred on the back-end of his message. It would have to do. And perhaps—perhaps—Irene wouldn’t notice.
Still, it was unlike Bess to make a mockery out of her writing career like that. Irene always said of Bess that she was more prepared than anyone she’d met in her life. “If I could have you train the idiotic men at the paper, then I’m sure we would have a much more prosperous and driven office.”
Perhaps Bess was, in the end, just like every other woman. When she fell in love—not that that was what it was, of course—she had her head in the clouds, no longer aware of her responsibilities. Thank goodness she’d hired Peter. Perhaps he could pick up some of the slack.
And when Bess arrived home that evening, she saw she was correct in her thinking, as Peter had prepared an incredible feast. Bread from the nearby bakery, cheeses from the local vendor, vegetables stewing with beef. Bess realised she hadn’t eaten all day and felt suddenly ravenous. She tossed her coat upon the hanger and brought her hands together, rubbing the palms.
“Your cheeks are bright red with cold!” Irene called from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug.
“Irene! I didn’t expect you home quite yet,” Bess said. She slipped into the chair beside her, giving her a broad smile. “What with your obsession in staying at the office at least four hours after printing, for goodness knows what reason.”
“Someone has to do it,” Irene tittered. “Someone has to man the fort, ensure everything’s fully stocked and prepared for tomorrow. But thankfully, Peter helped out a bit this afternoon whilst you were at the speeches. Couldn’t have made it out of there as quickly without him.”
Peter gave a nervous smile before ripping open a piece of bread and chewing at the sharp, crusty edges anxiously.
Irene had her hair in curls down her back and shoulders and peered at Bess with fatigued eyes. She lifted her mug to Bess, cheering her. “But it seems that Peter hasn’t spent the entirety of today cleaning the floors and organising The Rising Sun,” she said, grinning. “It seems we have a mighty language force on our hands.”
Peter swallowed his bit of bread, drawing a hand over his throat. “She’s really making me blush, Lady Elizabeth. But it’s true. I spent a great deal of time of today studying your language books. French. What a gorgeous and confusing language! You know, you don’t pronounce half of the syllables.”
Bess beamed at him, incredulous.
“And it’s really a result of being with those men. Lord Beauchamp and Lord Linfield,” Peter continued. “An education is a man’s right, I think. And since I will soon be one …”
“You certainly are far more of a man than most I already know,” Irene said. Her long arm stretched over the table and gripped a knife. She smashed it into the stubby side of a piece of butter and smeared it, continuing to prattle. “As I’m sure you know, many of the men at The Rising Sun are privileged fools. And I’m a fool for not yet firing them. But you work your way up, Peter, I don’t see any reason why you can’t be a journalist in your own right. You don't want to be a Lord when instead you could be on a quest for knowledge like Lady Elizabeth and I.” Irene’s eyes flashed towards Bess, questioning. “Isn’t that right?”
But Bess was awash with another wave of emotion, remembering that in just a few short days she would be back at the home of Lord Linfield, basking in his gaze. She coughed, and then asked, “I don’t suppose I can interest you in dinner at Lord Linfield’s next week?”
Irene’s head shook slowly, almost imperceptibly. Her look seemed a mix of confusion and humour. If Peter hadn’t been there, Bess knew she would have demanded, “What on earth has gotten into you?”
But instead, Irene just shrugged, saying, “Sure. Why not? Their chef’s surely not as good as Peter here, but he’ll have to do.”
Chapter 22
