Page 7 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Up on stage, another politician had begun to speak. The crowd around them hushed, listening in. Lord Linfield sauntered from the crowd, sensing Marvin close behind him. At the nearby bar, he spun around and leaned down to Marvin’s stature, arching his brow. “What do you say, Marvin? Can you possibly find a way to contact L.B.?”
Marvin shook his head, sounding sad. “I suppose I can speak with the secretary. She must be in charge of all the bills and things. She’ll have his address, I suppose, and could get a message to him …”
“Wonderful,” Nathaniel said. He reached into his pocket, drawing out his speech. He slid the paper out on the wall and then splayed it on a pub table outside. He readied his quill and his ink, which he kept in his pocket, and crafted a quick note for the secretary and L.B. himself.
“Dear L.B.,” the note began, “it’s come to my attention that you’re difficult to contact. However, it would be my pleasure to request your attendance at my home for dinner. I’m impressed with your wit and your writing talents and wish to pick your brain. Eternally yours, Lord Nathaniel Linfield.”
Nathaniel folded the page and sneaked it into an empty envelope before addressing it to “L.B.” and passing it back to Marvin, beside him. He drew his chin higher before delivering a final, “Thank you very much for your service, Marvin.” Then, he strode down the road, not caring to stay another moment more to watch the political speech behind him. His head spun with worry about what he’d just done.
For, with the letter, he was admitting something enormous: that he actually cared about what this “L.B.” wrote about him. That he actually cared that someone was tearing into him. This was the most vulnerable he’d been in quite some time.
And now, what if L.B. really did come to his home? What if he really did arrive to tell him just exactly what he thought of him: that his political career was dead in the water? That he wasn’t worthy of his father’s position? Could Nathaniel handle something like that?
He wasn’t entirely sure. But he remembered when John had told him the week before: that, perhaps, it might be worthwhile to hire some sort of writer. That, perhaps, he couldn’t completely trust his own “talents.” He had the passion, the fire. He just needed someone to help him translate it.
Perhaps that’s what L.B. could do for him.
If he didn’t punch him directly in the face, first.
Chapter 5
Bess shuffled into The Rising Sun office moments before Marvin and all-but dove to the other side of the secretary’s desk. Flushed, she drew her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ears. Seconds later, Marvin—flustered, his cheeks bright red—fell into the offices. He drew his hat from his head, muttering to himself. Bess could just barely make out what he said.
“Thinks of me as some kind of servant, when in actuality, I’m the voice of my generation …”
Bess reached for her quill and began to make notes to herself about the speech she’d just seen Lord Linfield give. He’d been a bit louder this time as if he’d thought blurting the words would make them more impactful. This was simply not true. She snickered to herself as she wrote, already coming up with a particularly wrenching way to phrase her essay. “It’s as if God himself was shouting down from the mountain, saying only that it was time for tea,” she scribed. “Use more impactful language to go with the screaming, dear sir …”
To her surprise, Marvin ambled directly to her desk, rather than returning to his. He smacked an envelope on her desk, huffing. “I don’t suppose you know who this L.B. is, do you?”
Bess blinked up at him, almost in shock. She’d heard Marvin grumbling about L.B.’s essays in the previous weeks, had even heard him demanding of Irene to tell him about L.B.’s real name. Of course, she’d given him no information whatsoever. She’d told him, with arched eyebrows, that L.B.’s work should ignite a fire in Marvin. “Your writing has been lacking, dear Marvin,” she’d tittered, opening the door as she said it so that Bess herself could hear. “L.B. is a promising new writer. Why wouldn’t I give that writer a platform?”
But at the time, Irene had given Marvin no indication of who L.B. was, and Bess had generally gotten away with sneaking around to the various political speeches, writing her essays and slipping them beneath Irene’s door before they went to print. At this rate, Bess hadn’t assumed that Marvin could possibly figure out her identity.
Now, she gaped at him, marvelling. Perhaps old Marvin wasn’t such an idiot, after all.
But of course, within moments, she realised that he hadn’t figured anything out. He looked at her with blank eyes, seemingly incredulous.
“Did you hear me, Bess?” Marvin demanded. He tapped his fingers atop the envelope, leering. “Did you hear me ask about L.B.? It’s like I can’t get a straight answer around this office, and I’ve about had enough.”
Bess gripped the envelope, drawing it towards her chest. She nodded, giving Marvin a strained smile. “Who’s asking?”
Marvin rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose it matters much to you, Bess, but the political leader Lord Nathaniel Linfield has requested that I pass along this letter to L.B. You probably haven’t had a chance to peruse the papers these days, have you? I can’t imagine a woman of your ilk would manage.”
“You’re terribly correct, Marvin,” Bess sighed, fluttering her eyelashes. “It’s rather difficult, what with all the secretarial duties at this paper. But of course, I can pass this along to this L.B. of which you speak.”
Marvin drew his head tighter towards her, his eyes glittering. “You know, I would give almost anything to know …”
“I’m sworn to secrecy, Marvin,” Bess said. She slipped the envelope beneath the accountant ledger and folded her fingers together, staring up at him. “Now, I don’t mean to insist, but I really must return to work.”
Marvin peered down at the pad of paper before Bess, arching his brow. Bess remembered, with a jolt, that she’d been organising her notes for Lord Linfield’s speech. Immediately, she drew her hands across the writing, forcing a wider smile.
“Marvin, are you doing something different with your hair?” Bess asked, her voice bright.
Marvin tucked his fingers along the edge of his scraggly hairline, his cheeks growing pink. He stuttered for a moment before answering, “Oh, I mean. No, Bess. I haven’t done anything differently …”
“Well, you look quite handsome,” Bess said. She reached for the accountant ledger, drawing her lips into a round O and beginning a strained whistle.
Marvin took the hint and bumbled away, muttering to himself. Bess tapped her quill on the accountant ledger, her heart racing. Why in the world had Lord Nathaniel Linfield requested that Marvin send L.B. a letter?
