Page 60 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Peter gaped at them both, clearly out of his element. He scuttled towards Bess, reached down and gripped her hand. With as much force as his slender body could muster, he tried to pull her from the ground. The motion was so humorous, so childlike, that Bess immediately fell into a state of giggles. She shuffled to her feet, knocking a tear from her cheek, and gave both Irene and Peter a light shrug.
“Darling,” Irene sighed. “You know you’re crying, don’t you? Crying and laughing at once. It’s a mighty feat. If the writing doesn’t work out, perhaps you could become an actress?”
Bess didn’t answer, although she gave Irene a slight eye roll. She sauntered back to the table and perched on the edge of the chair beside Irene, her head swimming with Lord Linfield’s words. Irene ordinarily knew what to say to calm down her racing heart, but it seemed that even she was at a loss, at this point.
Bess decided to fill the silence with the events of the day. That was what one did during times of confusion, right? Just recount stories. It’s how people forced themselves through life.
“We took him to the shelter,” Bess finally offered, her voice like a string. “He really took to the children. I think … I think he finally understands why the Judgement of Death Act is so important to me.”
Irene pursed her lips. Peter reached for the French dictionary on the counter and began to flip through it, perhaps trying to look as though he wasn’t listening.
“So that means you’ve told him absolutely everything,” Irene said. “Everything about Conner. Everything about your past.”
“I did,” Bess whispered.
“And what was his reaction?” Irene asked.
“He seemed to understand. He seemed to have more empathy than most other men,” Bess whispered. “You should have seen the way he looked at me. He looked at me with, well. With more compassion than Conner ever did. He looked at me like he actually saw who I was …”
“And why shouldn’t he?” Irene uttered, stretching out her face into a wide grin. “He’s spent countless hours with your words. He knows your mind better than most others. Only four or five people know that you’re the writer L.B. on this planet, and he’s one of them, Bess.”
“Yes, but what does that mean?” Bess asked. Her face scrunched up slightly. She stood up from her chair once more and began to pace near the fire. It crackled and spit, casting ashy bits of wood to the edges of the hearth. “What does it mean that he knows me? I can’t possibly be his wife. No matter how many times that thought has bubbled up in my mind, I know it cannot be so.”
“And why not?” Irene asked, tilting her head. “It’s not as though he would put you in a corner.” She splayed her hands across the essay Bess had written, arching her brow. “This text, Bess … I’ve only just begun reading it, and I already sense its importance. It deserves space in The Rising Sun. It deserves time spent arguing over your opinions and texts. It deserves serious thought by the people of this country. You’re the person who spawned this. And you’re not the sort to allow someone like Lord Linfield to stick you in a Countess position, to live out the rest of your days within the bounds of Society.”
“How am I supposed to translate that to Lord Linfield?” Bess stammered. Her cheeks were enflamed. Everything in the room felt too hot. Even her neckline seemed to scrunch around her neck, making it difficult to breathe. “Just because I see this—this impossible look in his eyes, doesn’t mean he wishes to make any sort of leap with me. Just because I sense this beautiful future before us, doesn’t mean …”
Bess scowled, her mind leaping back to those gorgeous first months with Conner, when she’d felt protected, charged, fully open for a future with him. She’d imagined the babies she would birth with him, the long, cosy nights in the marriage bed, the sicknesses and the bickering and the forgiveness, always returned to.
“I always fall into a daydream. And perhaps that daydream doesn’t have any backbone in reality,” Bess murmured.
“Yes, but you won’t know where you stand unless you try.” Irene sighed.
Outside, the wind whipped against their little shack. A horse let out a wild whinny. The world seemed strangely sinister and darker than normal. It was certainly a tapestry Bess didn’t long to join. She allowed her shoulders to fall. “It’s just been such a difficult time,” she whispered. “And I don’t imagine it will ever get easier. Not with Lord Linfield. And certainly not without him.”
Peter spun towards the far end of the room, drawing out a bottle of wine from the lower cabinet. He poured both Irene and Bess a glass with a quivering arm. He placed the cups before them and excused himself, his eyes looking injured and fatigued. Bess placed her hand upon his bony shoulder, recognising she was making the boy uncomfortable.
“You’re excused for the night,” she said. “You can run up to my room, if you like, to read or study your texts.”
Peter eyed his own bed, just to the side of the kitchen. But he nodded, recognising that this night was different. Bess and Irene needed to hammer out details, emotions, discuss writing and emotion and the passage of time. He scampered towards the steps, giving Bess a final, burning gaze, before hobbling up to the second floor.
“That boy would do anything for you, you know,” Irene said, her voice low.
“And I him,” Bess offered.
The women faced off for a moment. Bess fell against the counter, sipping her wine.
“This writing, Bess …” Irene continued. “You deserve recognition for it.” Again, she stretched her fingers over Bess’ essay. “There’s no reason, now, why you shouldn’t list your own name beneath the title. Lady Elizabeth Byrd. A woman with one of the most marvellous brains I’ve ever encountered. A woman who rises up from the flames of her own life and builds a brand new and better one in its place.”
Irene paused for a long moment, perhaps trying to make Bess sit with this potential for a moment. “Please, think about it,” she murmured. “If everything had worked out with Conner, with your father, then you would be a wife somewhere. Probably a mother. You wouldn’t have a single moment to yourself, and that brain of yours would be wasted. And for what? To extend the line of that horrendous man, Conner Graves?”
“So you just expect me to suddenly list myself as a writer? To suddenly declare that I’ve been L.B. all along?” Bess stammered. “I’ve worked hard to hide myself away. Don’t you know that each time I run into those women, our old friends—the debutantes of old, they belittle me? They still wish me dead. They would have rather I hung up there, alongside Conner, than keep living.”
Irene’s nostrils flared. “If that’s true, then they’re far more evil than I initially suspected. In my eyes, they’re just idiots. Simply idiots. And you have so much to offer.”
Bess couldn’t comprehend what Irene was asking her to do. Face the world that had rebuked her? Ask them to respect her mind and her voice?
‘It’s taken every single ounce of strength in me to keep going. And maybe this is the best I can do,” Bess murmured.
