Page 61 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it,” Irene said. “And, if I can speak out of turn, since you began this arrangement with Lord Linfield, you’ve come out of your cage a bit more. You’ve allowed yourself to live, to grow, to think bigger thoughts. You’ve taken risks. You’re more like the Bess I always thought you were before Conner. Why wouldn’t you want to be her? Why wouldn’t you want to be honest with the world and be her all the time, in public life?”
Bess pressed her lips together. She hadn’t a proper response to Irene. To rebuke what Irene said would be a lie, as Bess, too sensed she was far more like “herself” since she’d begun writing speeches for Lord Linfield.
“I don’t know if you’re in love with him.” Irene sighed. “But I know that you’re slowly falling back in love with yourself. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to see.”
Irene shot up from her chair, gathering up the pages of Bess’ essay. She arched her brow, giving Bess a funny smirk. “Darling, I have to head to my study and read the rest of your work. I hope you’ll give real thought to what I said.”
“And do what?” Bess demanded. “Go and meet Lord Linfield’s mother? Put myself at the mercy of Society once more?”
Irene spun towards the steps. Her voice slowly disappeared as she moved away. “You’ll know what’s right, Bess. I know you will. I just hope you don’t wait too long to make a move. As I said, this is the only life you have. It’s not over yet. Don’t give Conner so much power that he buries you along with him.”
Irene’s words spun through Bess’ head, leaving her to toss and turn throughout the night. When she awoke on Sunday morning, she walked like a ghost through the kitchen and study, realising both Irene and Peter had stepped out. It was just past nine in the morning, and Bess felt that if she sat in her home waiting for something to happen, she might go stir crazy.
Bess dressed quickly, donning her hat and stabbing her tiny feet into her boots. Within minutes, she was rushing down the road, taking the familiar route to the London cemetery. It was a path she took every two months or so, a path she walked dutifully, her eyes to the ground. En route, she stopped at the flower shop, purchasing mums. She found it difficult to meet the flower shop owner’s eyes during this process, as she knew she would find only pity reflected back. She wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted that pity, or if she even deserved it. For, did she truly love Conner any longer? Did she still relate to that past?
Bess walked up the slight hill towards the cemetery steps. She forced her shoulders back, lifted her chin. Her hands were bone-cold around the base of the mums. She cursed herself for forgetting her gloves, but decided to endure the pain. She hobbled through the cemetery, ducking around mighty stones and reading the familiar names. They were men and women she would never meet, would never know. Yet, because she’d visited Conner’s grave so frequently, she felt in-tune with her own projected ideas of these people. Gregory Miller, who’d died twenty years before she’d even been born. Timothy Eliphant, who’d passed on when she’d been twelve years old. His wife had died just three months later, as had their apparent daughter, Penelope. Bess’ heart felt squeezed at this thought. Who had had to bury that entire family? Had they left anyone behind?
Conner’s grave was nothing special. There hadn’t been a reason to purchase anything nice, given the fact that he’d been hung at the gallows and owed countless high-society folk more than one hundred thousand pounds. The stone was simplistic, flat-faced. CONNER GARVEY. Bess traced her fingers across his name, along with the year of his death. 1813. That date seemed impossibly long ago.
“Conner,” Bess murmured, her eyes dancing around the graveyard to ensure that nobody else was there. “Conner, I know you never really knew me. I know you never truly cared for me, beyond what I could deliver you. You never knew my mind, and you certainly never knew my heart. In my foolish, idiotic way, I loved you. I almost wish I could take it back. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, now.
“It’s the shame I felt, after your death, that’s more or less destroyed my life,” Bess continued. “But I’m wondering, now, if that shame is something I’ve constructed for myself. Perhaps it’s something I can fight. Perhaps it’s growing too heavy, too old. Perhaps it no longer matches who I want to be.”
In the distance, a black dog ran out between two gravestones. The dog paused, looking frozen as it stared at Bess, and Bess stared back. Bess rose up from the grave, her shoulders quaking with shivers. Once, she’d heard of a childhood friend being attacked by a wild dog in the midst of London. The dog had torn open her arm, staining her dress and leaving a permanent scar.
A dog in a graveyard. It felt like a kind of omen. A warning.
But within moments, the dog swung around and scampered away, leaving Bess with the gravestone, with her ex-fiance, and her memories.
The memories seemed particularly lonely.
“It’s your fault, you know,” Bess stammered, glancing back towards Conner’s name. “I was a young girl, and I put my entire trust in you. How could I not? I thought you were special. Handsome and smart and alive. I thought your ideas were brilliant. But now, I know I can put trust in only my own mind.”
As she spoke, she recognised the distance between her current and her former self. She felt herself stretched out over decades, continually living with the decisions she made in the here and now. And, with a jolt, she realised that if she didn’t do something about Lord Linfield, she would regret it until the day she died.
“One has to seize one’s life,” she murmured, positioning the mum directly beneath Conner’s name. “One has to fight for what one wants. And honestly, darling, you were never going to be the one I wanted. Not after I grew up a bit. Not after I learned who I was.”
Bess stood from the grave, making her hands into fists. She felt the skin growing scabbed from the chill. But she turned back towards the London streets, feeling a fresh affirmation of self. Why shouldn’t she demand what she wanted? Why shouldn’t she face Society? They’d strung her up in every way, except the literal version. She’d been through enough.
And now, she had to fight back.
Otherwise, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 26
Nathaniel didn’t hear from Lady Elizabeth throughout much of the early part of the week. He was expecting a speech from her, and when it arrived—articulate, whip-smart as ever, he toiled over the words, trying to deduce if there was some sort of secret message within. Something that told him his feelings for her were matched.
Wednesday evening, Nathaniel met with Everett for a drink after a rather dull, rather tense dinner with his mother. Lady Eloise had insisted, several times, that he inform her more about his apparent “love interest.” To her incredible disdain, he refuted her words, telling her that she needed to “leave well enough alone.”
“I’m joining Parliament. I’ll be every bit the man my father was,” Nathaniel said, his eyebrows low. “I just can’t promise those grandchildren you so yearn for, and I’m sorry for it. Perhaps I’m not the sort of man to father children. Perhaps I don’t have the love for it.”
At that, he’d shot up from his chair at the dinner table, dropped his napkin across his half-eaten beef, and strutted from the room. In his mother’s eyes, he saw anxiety, fear, and sadness at the state of Nathaniel’s life. She so wanted him to have a partner, nearly as much as he, himself, wanted Lady Elizabeth to be that partner.
Everett appeared at his home that evening, stretching his fingers across his coat to flick off the rain. “Only a few weeks till Christmas, my boy, and it seems that every day gets darker and bleaker,” he said, although his smile was wide and almost childlike. “You’re looking rather doom and gloom, aren’t you?”
Nathaniel struggled not to roll his eyes. He led Everett up the steps to his father’s study and perched on the edge of the desk, watching as Everett helped himself to the selection of whiskies. He shrugged one of the tops off and poured both of them thick drinks, making his eyebrows bob up and down. “You’ll never guess what I did,” he offered.
“No, I suppose I won’t,” Nathaniel said, lending a heavy sigh.
