Page 9 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Lord Linfield received word from L.B. just after dinner, when he sat in his father’s study with a spread of speech papers in front of him—all of them sketches and drivel, none of them lending any sense of promise or purpose. His quill remained motionless atop one of the papers, half-filled, while he tore open the envelope, feeling a strange mix of rage and excitement. Who on this planet dared to dismiss Lord Linfield’s speeches in such a grand way? Why did Nathaniel wish to address him personally? Was he asking for trouble, bringing the likes of L.B. into his home? Probably.
The letter said that L.B. could, in fact, attend dinner the following day. Nathaniel knew he couldn’t go back on his word at this rate. He slipped the letter into his back pocket and marched towards his mother’s sitting room, his chin high. When he appeared at the door, he knocked at the doorway, gazing at the arched, swan-like neck of his mother, who busied herself in needlework by candlelight.
“You know, Mother, that’s really wretched for your eyes,” he told her, his voice warm.
Lady Eloise swirled her head from her work, giving him a slight smile. It was rare that she looked so bright-eyed and alive in the years after his father’s murder. Nathaniel loved catching glimpses of that past mother, the mother he’d grown up with. It was such a rarity, these days.
“I dare say, you’re looking wretched, darling. Didn’t you eat enough for dinner?” she asked him. She pointed to the chair across from her in the sitting room.
Nathaniel wandered in, collapsing in the chair and drawing his right ankle to his left knee. He and his mother met eyes for a long moment. He knew she was studying him, trying to assess his mental and physical well-being. She always did this, saying she had an incredible gift for knowing what was on the tip of his tongue before he even addressed it.
This time, however, she threw Nathaniel off.
“It really is getting to you, isn’t it?” she murmured, her eyebrows lowering.
“What?” Nathaniel asked.
“The political run,” she sighed. “It’s tearing you apart. I wasn’t going to say anything, Nathaniel, but I’ve been reading the papers … If it’s true what this L.B. is saying in The Rising Sun …”
“Haven’t you also read the account from the other writer?” Nathaniel demanded, his voice growing harsh. “He seems to think I have a few good ideas in mind …”
“Darling, it’s not that you don’t have good ideas,” his mother continued. “It’s simply that it seems you don’t know how to address them to a crowd. Darling, since you were a child, you were more apt to be outside, alone, and quiet—your thoughts to yourself. And now that you’re an older man, I don’t believe you’re any different. And this run to Parliament, well. It doesn’t necessarily suit you.”
Nathaniel’s cheeks flashed red. He leaned towards his mother, studying her. His tongue felt apt to strike out, declaring her a woman who didn’t know what she was talking about. But who on this planet knew him better? Nobody, and he knew that.
“Darling, I can see you’re angry,” his mother said with a sigh. “But it’s terribly true. I think it’s best that you return to courting, as we initially discussed. It’s expected that you marry rather soon, you know. I want to look out my window and see my grandchildren playing, before I die. Won’t you give me that?”
Nathaniel thrust himself from the chair, pacing back and forth in front of her. His mind was awash with anger, and he saw black and white spots in his eyes. How could he fully translate himself to his mother, just now? Shouldn’t he be able to speak in front of her—even if he couldn’t orate in front of a massive crowd?
“Mother, I haven’t come here to discuss anything regarding my future,” Nathaniel finally uttered, stuttering slightly at the back-end of the sentence. “Rather, I’ve come to announce that I’m having a guest for dinner tomorrow evening.”
Lady Eloise peered at him, removing her spectacles and clicking them against her cheek. “May I ask who this guest is?”
“If you must know, Mother, the guest is none other than this writer of which you speak,” Nathaniel said, his voice creeping louder and louder. “Of course, L.B.’s actual persona is unknown to me. I’ve asked around the city, and it seems nobody truly knows who the man is. Rather than feel attacked by an invisible stranger, I’ve made up my mind to know him and to demand why he feels so sure that he needs to tear me apart, every single week.”
Lady Eloise slipped her spectacles back on the perch of her nose, returning to her needlepoint. She tried to hide a strange smile, even as she spoke. “Wonderful, Nathaniel. I’ll be taking my leave tomorrow, as I’m having dinner with Lady Mary. That will give the two of you plenty of time to discuss this—shall we say—issue.” As she stabbed her needles back into the needlepoint, she sighed. “And if he does, in fact, find a way to convince you to return to your life of courting and long, quiet walks in the woods, then better for him. I think L.B. and I agree that your place isn’t in Parliament. But of course, I imagine we’re both anxious for you to prove us wrong.”
Enraged, Nathaniel marched back up the steps to his father’s study and again pored over his collection of half-muddled sentences and ideas—all of which he was attempting to string together in a speech the following week. As night crept on, as midnight edged ever closer, Nathaniel struggled longer, harder. He wanted to be able to show something to L.B. tomorrow, something that showed he was improving. But still, memory of L.B.’s previous essay rang through his ears:
“If this man thinks for a moment he can flub his way to Parliament, he better think again.”
The following evening, Nathaniel dressed in a fine suit and strung his Italian shoes on his feet. The cook was making stuffed turkey and yams, and the smells swirled up from the kitchen, herbed and hearty. Lady Eloise bid her goodbye to Nathaniel before departing to Lady Mary’s, and Nathaniel marched a strange pattern around his father’s study, waiting for L.B.’s arrival.
At just seven, one of Nathaniel’s maids arrived at the door of the study with an announcement.
“Sir, your guests have arrived,” she chirped, bowing her head.
“Very well. Please, let them in to the dining room. I’ll be there shortly to greet them,” Nathaniel said, his eyebrows furrowing. Had L.B. really brought his wife along with him to dinner? That hadn’t been what Nathaniel had had in mind. He’d imagined a long, arduous night of arguing, of declaring himself not the imbecile that L.B. had made him out to be. He hadn’t imagined trying to please two parties like this. In fact, it made him feel like a fool that he, himself, didn’t have a wife to show.
Of course, that wasn’t his mission in this life.
Nathaniel marched down the staircase towards the dining room, his heart beating so wildly in his throat he thought it might tear out and bounce on the marble floor. When he reached the doorway, he was shocked to see two women seated at the dining room table. Immediately, another wave of rage crept over him. Had L.B. really brought two guests along with him, unannounced? This simply wasn’t done.
Nathaniel administered a smile to both women. They stood, grinning back at him. There was one rather short one, another rather tall one—slender, with limbs that seemed just a bit too long for her form. The other was curvaceous and beautiful, with russet hair and these deep-as-a-hole dark eyes. Something within those eyes seemed to glitter at him, demanding something.
Nathaniel cleared his throat, conscious that he was being strange, so quiet. He reached for both women, his hand outstretched to shake their hands. “Hello and good evening. I am Lord Nathaniel Linfield. Marvellous to welcome you into my home.”
Nathaniel shook the hand of the taller woman, first, before landing upon the other, lighter-haired woman. Her handshake was oddly firm, almost powerful. He paused, gaping at her for a moment, struck with her beauty. It was a rarity that Nathaniel was ever awash with any sort of feeling for someone upon their initial meeting. But he immediately shoved the thought away, knowing full-well that one of these ladies—perhaps this particularly striking one—was the wife of L.B. himself.
