Page 6 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
When he reached the restaurant, his face was pale. John Lodgeman had The Rising Sun spread out on the table before him. He sipped at a beer, and his eyes looked up at Lord Linfield—oddly hollow. He tapped the paper, flicking it.
“If only you could speak like this L.B. can write, hey?” he began.
This was possibly the worst thing John could have said. Nathaniel struck his hand out to a passing waiter, demanding a beer and a menu. The waiter returned moments later looking strained and set the beer atop the table. Seconds later, Nathaniel had already downed half of it, filling his empty belly with the bubbly liquid.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” John said, peering at Nathaniel from behind his thick glasses. “These political writers, they always have something to say.”
“L.B. makes me look like the worst kind of idiot. Like merely a shadow of my father,” Nathaniel blurted. “I can’t possibly let him get away with this. Why didn’t they just print the one by Marvin? Marvin seems to get it.”
“Ha. This guy? I used to know him,” John said. He folded the paper back together, dropping it to the side of the table. “He’s an imbecile, you know. Most people in the political community know that he’ll simply say the easiest thing, just to please whoever’s around. I’m surprised The Rising Sun hasn’t fired him. In fact, it seems they’re trying to push him out, with the appearance of this L.B.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Nathaniel sighed.
John leaned across the table, arching his brow. “You know, it really was difficult to watch.”
“I know, I know!” Nathaniel said, his eyes burning with anger. “It’s not as though I couldn’t feel the awkwardness. I’m avoiding my mother at all costs, knowing she’s about to suggest I head back to the world of courting. Seems my only real purpose on this planet, for her, is to court and marry and procreate.” He sat back, guzzling the rest of his beer.
John leaned back in his chair, drawing his arms across his chest. He clucked his tongue, which made his moustache twitch slightly.
“What?” Nathaniel demanded. “I have to tell you, John. I really cannot stand to do anything but this. I believe this is my calling, my passion. It’s just these speeches. And I absolutely must represent myself well.”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m on your side,” John said, his voice lowering. His eyes turned around the crowded restaurant before centring back on Nathaniel. “I was wondering if you’ve considered hiring someone for a bit of help.”
“A bit of help? What on earth are you talking about?” Nathaniel asked.
John shrugged. “You might want to consider hiring a speech writer. Just someone to get you started. You haven’t done much public speaking before. And you have nowhere to go but up, my son.”
The men fell to other topics after that, for which Nathaniel was incredibly grateful. He fell into an easy banter with John, one that reminded him a bit of his conversations with his father, before his death. John didn’t often bring up Nathaniel’s father as the topic appeared to pain him. But at the end, when they dotted their mouths with napkins and sucked the very last of their beers, John mentioned that he really did think Nathaniel’s father would be proud of his decision to run.
“Politics were his life, Nathaniel. And if you find a proper way to represent him and carry on his work, then, in a sense, those highwaymen didn’t rip him from this earth. In many ways, he will move through you. And as we’ll all pass on from this earth, one way or the other, perhaps it’s better that you make use of your time in this manner. I can’t imagine it another way.”
Lord Linfield had another series of speeches over the next week and a half. None of them were quite as miserable as the first, yet, he knew, they fell flat as pancakes. The crowd no longer jeered at him. Rather, they looked at him with flat, grey eyes beneath their umbrellas during the rainy afternoons as if they were just waiting for him to finish. As Lord Linfield peered out at them, his voice faltering and stuttering, he tried to pinpoint which of the journalists might be L.B. Could it be the blond man with the darting blue eyes near the corner of the stage? Could it be the man with the top hat, who seemed to sneer at him each time he flubbed a word or phrase?
At the end of a particularly unfortunate speech, Nathaniel ambled from the stage, his heart hammering. When he reached the cobblestones below, a middle-aged man approached him, his smile so wide his lips nearly cracked. He reached forward, his voice bouncing.
“Hello, there! Lord Linfield, it’s a pleasure for me to introduce myself. I’m political writer for The Rising Sun, you see, and …”
“Wait just a moment,” Lord Linfield said, his eyebrows lowering. “How dare you approach me in this manner? After lambasting me, making a mockery of me …”
“No, no, no, Lord Linfield,” the man said, his eyes growing wet with a moment of fear. “Absolutely not. You’ve got it all wrong, you see. For in actuality, I’m the writer and essayist Marvin Tartman …”
Oh. Of course. The idiot writer, the other one. Nathaniel bowed his chin, listening for a moment as Marvin prattled on and on. “I really do think that your speeches have something, Lord Linfield,” he said. “I really believe that you’ve got a fire about you. A light.”
“Then why on earth has your colleague been tearing my speeches apart?” Nathaniel demanded, his nostrils flared. “Why on earth is your colleague making such a fool out of me?”
Marvin stuttered, turning his eyes to the ground. His cheeks turned a bright red. “You can’t imagine that I have anything to do with L.B., Lord Linfield.”
“How couldn’t you?” Nathaniel demanded. “You must work just desks away from him.”
“In fact, sir, I’m not sure who L.B. is,” Marvin offered.
Nathaniel felt enraged. Perhaps Marvin, now, was trying to make him look like a fool. But Marvin’s cheeks turned even brighter red, showing that, in fact, he wasn’t lying.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s filled me with a similar rage, I’m afraid, as it seems my editor—a horrible woman, you should know—has begun publishing some other man in the political section. It was my understanding that I would be the sole political writer at The Rising Sun. And now, after all my years of hard work …”
“Is there any way I could meet this L.B.?” Nathaniel demanded.
Marvin stuttered, again looking down towards his shoes. Nathaniel sensed that Marvin wanted nothing to do with this L.B. But he pressed him again, demanding, “You must know a way to get to him. You must know how I can meet with L.B. and give him a piece of my mind.”
