Page 8 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Bess waited until the end of the day. She watched as Marvin and then the other writers retreated for the door, drawing their hats upon their heads. Only she and Irene remained in the office. Irene was hunkered over a notebook, slashing through text with a large quill. Her eyebrows remained furrowed, creating deep wrinkles above her nose. Bess wondered how far away her brain was from any thoughts of Lord Charles, who she’d danced with at the most previous ball. When Irene had returned home, she’d been all but floating, her eyes alight. It seemed like an Irene in love was an Irene more apt to smile, to joke, to giggle.
Of course, as she was a businesswoman first and foremost, Irene dismissed any romantic thoughts until after work.
Bess scurried up to the door of Irene’s office and poked her head in. Irene pointed her finger towards the ceiling, telling Bess, “Just a moment.”
Bess waited, pressing the envelope against her chest. Suddenly, she shoved all apprehension to the side and ripped open the envelope, choosing not to wait for her friend’s approval.
Inside, the note read, “My dearest L.B.” Dearest! Imagine that. And then, it proceeded to invite her to his home for dinner. Impressed with L.B.’s writing talents! Impressed with her essays! How incredible. How absolutely unexpected.
Bess read and reread the short letter and marched back towards her desk, knowing she needed to return a message to him. As she reached for her quill, her head swirled with memory of what Lord Linfield looked like. Sure, he seemed like a blubbering fool up on stage, when he spoke. But in every other sense, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever encountered in her life. That blond hair, swooshed back over his ears; those burly, muscular shoulders—it was almost enough to make her swoon.
Of course, she wasn’t apt to be the kind of woman to just “swoon” all over the place. In fact, that was something Conner had frequently said about her. That she was a woman with a firm mind; a woman who could “keep up” in conversation and articulate her precise thoughts.
He’d said that, perhaps, to make her not fully aware of what he was doing behind her back. Build her up and then tear her down. Conner had ruined her life forever.
She shook out the cobwebs of her mind and returned to the task at hand. She reached for her quill and a fresh piece of paper and began to scribe. But seconds after she’d swirled out, “Lord Linfield,” she remembered with a jolt that she couldn’t possibly write as herself. Who on earth would “appear” at Lord Linfield’s home if the “man” he assumed was L.B. simply didn’t exist?
Irene appeared in the doorway of her office, tilting her head. “What is it?” she asked, her voice echoing strangely through the empty Rising Sun building. Outside, the sun was dwindling, casting grey light through London’s tight streets.
Bess pondered for a moment, blowing air up towards the curls that had escaped her hair bun. She dropped the note that Nathaniel had written her on the top corner of the desk and pushed it towards Irene, who reached for it, read it, and then read it again. As she did, her lips stretched into a wide grin.
“Look who has all the power?” Irene said.
“Power over what?” Bess asked, laughing with surprise.
“He knows you’ve been lambasting him. He probably looks for the paper every day after his speeches, wanting to know exactly how you’re going to destroy him,” Irene said. “He wants to look into the eyes of the writer who sees him so clearly. And that writer is you.”
“Ha. But I can’t very well appear before him as I am,” Bess said. “It’s clear he thinks I’m a man. Even Marvin came in here, grunting about whoever that man L.B. is …”
Irene shrugged. “I don’t think that’s any trouble at all. Why not surprise him? Make him learn something?”
“Learn what, exactly?” Bess asked.
Irene leaned over the desk, making her eyes into slits. “Make him learn that you, as a woman, have a way with words he could only dream to have. Make him learn never to belittle women again.”
Bess nodded. As Irene paced her office, seemingly lost in thought about her own article she was meant to write that evening, Bess scribed the letter to Lord Linfield.
“Lord Linfield,” she began. “It’s remarkable to hear from a fan, such as yourself. You’re one of the leaders of your political party, a borderline celebrity, if I may, and the fact that you look down upon us ‘little people’ and see any sign of intelligence, well. It means the world.”
Bess stared down at the prose, her head pounding. Would he understand her sarcasm? Of course, he wasn’t necessarily a current leader of his political party—but his father had been which made him a celebrity in his own right. She chose to continue to write, feeling like she was playing with fire.
“I would love to take you up on your offer for dinner. I’m available tomorrow evening. I look forward to swapping ideas with you regarding politics and writing. I know we will have a prosperous conversation. How could we not? Eternally yours, L.B.”
Bess folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope, smearing the seal of The Rising Sun newspaper to close it. As night sneaked over them like a thick blanket, she sent the letter with a newsboy, ensuring that it arrived at Lord Linfield’s in time for his own nightly meal. Then, she slipped on her coat, placed her hat atop her head and waited, tilting her weight back and forth, as Irene prepared for their walk home.
Outside, the early-evening London drizzle created an eerie ecosystem, one that made her and Irene whisper to one another as they walked. Bess felt like the world had shifted around her with the arrival of that letter. And now she’d cast her own letter back to him. What would possibly be the result of such a thing? What could she possibly say, given the opportunity to sit at Lord Linfield’s table and give him a piece of her mind?
At the door of their home, Bess swirled towards Irene. “You’ll escort me, of course, won’t you?” she demanded. “Tomorrow, if he agrees.”
Irene grinned, flashing white teeth above her thick scarf. “Darling. What has gotten into you?”
Bess reached for her hat, sweeping it from her head as she unlatched the door. Inside, the air was stark and chilly. Irene marched in behind her, tittering. “You’re acting as if you’re courting this man,” she said with a laugh. “Lord Nathaniel Linfield. Ha. Can you imagine? According to your articles about him, I can’t imagine a bigger idiot, you know.”
“I’m certain he’s not an idiot,” Bess said. She slid her fingers along her lips, grinning to herself. She hadn’t imagined she would have such power, at the helm of her essays. “But I suppose we’ll discover that tomorrow.”
“We will indeed,” Irene said. “If we don’t freeze to death. Let me put on a pot of tea.”
Chapter 6
