Page 54 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
And perhaps with Lady Elizabeth Byrd’s empathy, he would find a way.
And perhaps, en route to assisting England, he would find his way to Lady Elizabeth’s heart. Somehow, that seemed even more complicated than anything else.
Chapter 23
It was Saturday. The very Saturday Lady Elizabeth and Lord Linfield had planned for their excursion together. And it was as though God himself had been alerted of such an occasion, as he’d parted the grey clouds and splayed bright blue sky above the rooftops over London. It was a rare sight in the haze of December, so close to Christmas. In her little shack-like home, Lady Elizabeth shivered, her hands over her mug of tea. It was almost as though things would be all right.
Peter scrambled around the kitchen. Midway through his first French book, he’d decided he was fatigued of studying and that he so yearned to perfect a scone recipe. And thus, he’d begun to bake—stirring and speckling the countertop with flour. Lady Elizabeth drew her arms above her head, making her shoulders crack.
“It smells marvellous, Peter.” She sighed. Her brain spun from a morning of non-stop writing. It hadn’t occurred to her to be hungry until just now, as she spotted him placing a platter of baked scones onto the counter.
“Thank you, my lady,” Peter said, grinning so that his crooked teeth cut out over his lips. “I had hoped that Lord Linfield might want to try one when he arrives.”
Peter had been dutiful in his new job, ensuring that Lord Linfield received the address to their home and then prattling about, cleaning the nooks and crannies. Lady Elizabeth had told him that she felt sure Lord Linfield wouldn’t wish to spend much time in their little “perhaps TOO cosy” house, but Peter hadn’t been able to comprehend this. After all, until very recently, he’d been completely homeless. What was wrong with their shack? It was warm and dry and well-stocked with beds and food. Perhaps it was true; perhaps the boy had a point.
Throughout the previous days, Lady Elizabeth had put her pen to paper and begun to write a philosophical essay, largely drawing from her work at the nearby shelter and her conversations with Peter. She was attempting to remark on what made a life truly beautiful. And, as Peter pointed out, it certainly wasn’t money. As Lady Elizabeth had once had immense wealth, herself, she felt like a worthy figure to present her opinions. And the words flowed freely, beautifully. When Irene had peeked over her shoulder the previous evening, she’d remarked that the writing was even better than the majority of her political texts. “There’s more heart to it,” she’d said.
“What time will he arrive?” Peter asked then, pressing his palms together in an anxious motion.
“I suppose he’ll be here any moment,” Bess said.
A jolt of fear passed through her. A crinkle appeared between her eyebrows. The previous evening with Lord Linfield had generated within her even more of an alarming sensation—one that told her she regarded Lord Linfield as a suitor, rather than an employer. It wasn’t anything she would ever do anything about, for she knew the ultimate ending of such a romantic endeavour: she would be a simple wife to a Lord, a Countess. And she wouldn’t be allowed to do all the marvellous work she felt she’d only just begun. The work at the homeless shelter. The work at The Rising Sun. The work that made up her very being; it would no longer be hers if she gave herself over to love.
At least, that’s what she thought.
But it didn’t mean she didn’t ache to see Lord Linfield. And when she heard the rap on the door, she shot up from her chair so fast that it rattled to the ground behind her. Peter scampered to the door, reaching it before her and whirling it open. Lord Linfield stood on the other side, tall and dapper. He wore a thick black hat and a regal-looking coat. The dark eyes that peered down upon Lady Elizabeth glinted, showing some kind of unreadable emotion. Did it match the romantic feeling Bess felt throttling in her own heart?
“Good afternoon, Lady Elizabeth. Peter,” Lord Linfield offered, removing his hat.
Bess’ eyes traced down his leg, watching as his rather expensive Italian-made shoes swept over the door stoop and into their foyer. For a moment, she was horrified that a man of his stature would see where she and Irene had made their home. But she fell backward, allowing him space to move forward. And his face held none of the judgement she might have attributed to him.
“What a cosy place,” he said, making his smile wider.
“I’ve prepared scones!” Peter cried before darting into the far kitchen and lifting the platter. The platter was still piping hot, causing him to drop it back on the counter. He rubbed his finger, frowning. “Oh dear me. What an imbecile.”
Bess scuttled into the kitchen after him. “Are you all right, Peter?”
“You shouldn’t really make such a fuss about me,” Lord Linfield said, coming up behind. “Truly.”
Peter hadn’t fully damaged himself, and all the attention seemed to make his pain dissipate. “Nonsense,” he offered. “Please, sit. I’ll serve you.”
Lady Elizabeth found herself perched on the very edge of her normal chair, whilst Lord Linfield sat on Irene’s. He glanced down at the pages before her, the intricate scrawl of her writing.
“I don’t suppose you’re working on writing you actually care about?” he asked, his voice rising.
Bess blushed. “I told you. If you decided to come with me today …”
“And I have. So you must be,” Lord Linfield said. He brought a tentative hand into the air and nabbed the edge of a paper. “May I?”
“If you must,” Bess said. Her cheeks grew hot. “I can’t imagine it’ll be much of anything quite yet. I’m so early in the first stages. It deserves several rounds of edits before any eyes read over it.”
But already, Lord Linfield whipped the page before him. Peter strutted up behind him and placed a plate with a scone and a bit of cream to his left. Lord Linfield thanked Peter without looking away from the page. Peter added a second plate beside Bess and then nibbled at his own while standing and pacing the kitchen. The silence felt like its own entity. Lady Elizabeth prayed that Lord Linfield wouldn’t scoff, wouldn’t say something that would make her regret ever putting pen to paper.
But finally, he turned his eyes back to her. He sniffed, then gripped the edge of his scone and tore it. His face was largely unreadable.
“What? What is it?” Bess demanded, her eyebrows lowering. “Please, don’t make a fool of me. I wouldn’t have allowed you to read it if …”
“No, no, no,” Lord Linfield said, his smile widening. He chewed the last of his bit of scone before passing the paper back to her, slipping it into place beside the others. “If that’s any indication of your talent, Lady Elizabeth, I can’t imagine that all of London won’t be in uproar. Truly. I haven’t read anything so insightful in ages. Not even in the previous speech you sent me.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I feel most fortuitous that I ever discovered your writing, Lady Elizabeth. Being allowed to speak your words aloud has been a brilliant privilege.”
