by Abigail Agar
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.
The first woman introduced herself as Irene. Irene Follett, she said. And the second, just Elizabeth. This gave him no indication which of them belonged to L.B., or what their relationship was. Nathaniel felt strangely haughty. Was L.B. trying to trick him? Was he playing him for a fool?
“So. Let me ask you. Where is the marvellous L.B.?” Nathaniel asked, walking towards the head of the table and perching upon the chair. As he did, one of the maids rushed forward and filled all three glasses before them with wine. Nathaniel cleared his throat, adding, “We’ll be needing a fourth glass, I suppose.”
The two women exchanged glances. Then, the shorter one—the one called Elizabeth, piped up. “Actually, we won’t require another glass. Thank you so much.”
Nathaniel tilted his head, peering at Elizabeth, whose eyes filled with light and humour. Nathaniel lifted his glass, a thought rising up in him. As he did, Elizabeth and Irene both brought their glasses into the air for a toast. Nathaniel’s lips twitched slightly as he spoke. “Cheers to both of you on this particularly chilly evening.” His eyes darted back towards the doorway as if he half-expected to find L.B. waiting for him, watching him. But there was no one there.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth offered, sipping a bit of wine. “Perhaps you already know Irene Follet.” She gestured towards the woman beside her. “Her father was a long-time owner of The Rising Sun. In recent years, she’s taken over as editor.”
Nathaniel’s eyes burned towards the woman, incredulous. Irene sipped her wine, matching his gaze. It seemed she had none of the tittering idiocy of the normal girls that his mother brought to him for dinner. He leaned back in his chair, turning his eyes towards Elizabeth.
“I see,” he said. “And what does t
hat make you, Elizabeth?”
“Actually, my friends call me Bess,” the woman said, her smile stretching wider. “And for the previous years, I’ve worked as top secretary at The Rising Sun.”
“But, as you might be guessing, sir, that’s not the full story,” Irene said, not bothering to set her wine glass back on the tablecloth. Her eyes turned from Bess, to Nathaniel, and back again.
“As secretary, you must have a good sense for the wordsmiths that contribute to the newspaper,” Nathaniel said, lifting a single eyebrow high.
“Certainly, sir,” Bess said.
With terrible timing, the cook’s assistants scurried into the dining room with their platters of food, pouring helpings onto the two women’s and Nathaniel’s plates. Nathaniel gazed, half-stumped, at the orange yams as they piled up. His initial thought—that one of the women could possibly be the writer of such colossal essays—was foolish. He knew that, now.
“Please, enjoy,” he said, addressing the women. “Although, I dare say, I’m quite upset that L.B. didn’t make his appearance tonight. I so wanted to go over his writing abilities. Perhaps he’s told you, I’m running for Parliament. I stumble and falter when writing the speeches. I can’t possibly squeeze out the meaning L.B. does. The way he uses words is absolutely striking. It’s almost pure poetry. If, of course, he wasn’t speaking in insults about me, I might read them more often.” Nathaniel half-laughed at this joke, wondering if it sounded pathetic to pick fun of one’s self. Even in front of these little nobody women, he still half-regretted his words.
It was just like his mother said: he so craved being alone, in the woods, with only his dog Barney at his side. He wanted nothing more. He felt suddenly like a fish out of water, completely out of his element. He stared at the women, waiting for them to respond.
Irene turned her eyes towards Bess, smirking. Nathaniel felt sure they were picking fun of him. He set his fork back on his plate and drew his fists to the top of the tablecloth, peering down at them. Bess continued to stare at her uneaten turkey. The air was thick with tension, but Nathaniel couldn’t be certain of why.
“So, tell me,” Nathaniel scoffed. “Because I can’t take it any longer. Why on earth did L.B. send you two instead of coming himself? Is this some kind of joke he’s trying to play on me? Did he tell you that he’s done making a mockery out of me on paper and wanted to, instead, make a mockery of me in person? This is really low, even for someone like L.B. Really, incredibly low …”
Lengthy silence followed. Nathaniel’s tongue felt heavy. He so yearned to blare that the women were required to leave, that they were no longer welcome. But he could already sense that, given that action, L.B. might write something even more damaging to his career. He felt trapped by this horrendous man.
Finally, Irene spoke.
“You must know that L.B. would never want to make a fool of you,” she began. Her fork slid out over her yams, then stabbed into them. She wasn’t eating much, either, but she’d already taken a hunk from her turkey—as opposed to Bess, who remained staring at her food.
“I can’t know that. I can only know that he’s made me the laughing stock of this city, in the past weeks. And now, when I offer him an invitation to my home, and he accepts it …” Nathaniel scoffed.
Nathaniel sensed a bit of scuffling beneath the table. Perhaps one of the women had kicked the other, although he couldn’t be quite sure. As a result, Bess turned her eyes back to Nathaniel. Again, they were filled with light, with humour.
“What is it? What is going on in this house?” Nathaniel demanded, feeling as though all the answers were far above his head.
“Come ON, Bess,” Irene sighed, drawing her fingers across her cheek.
“Perhaps it should be you who tells me, Irene. For you’re the editor of The Rising Sun, no? It must have been you who hired this L.B. character to write for you. It must be you who knows his identity, if there’s anyone …” Nathaniel said.
Bess finally brought her chin upward. Nathaniel was surprised at the quick motion and returned his gaze to the woman before him. Again, her fork twirled over her turkey without diving in.
“Your speeches, sir. They show that you’ve spent the majority of your life outside the realm of politics, no?” Bess began, her eyes darkening.
Nathaniel scoffed. “I see you’ve been reading a few too many L.B. articles yourself, my lady.”
Bess continued as if she hadn’t heard, “It’s remarkable to see a man of your stature and intellect march around on stage as if he’s never taken the floor. What is it you’re demanding of these people, Lord Linfield? It seems to me you’re meant to be demanding their trust. But why on earth would they trust you when you cannot even link three sentences together without looking like it’s the end of all times?”
“I don’t know what has gotten into you, Lady Bess, but it’s clear that you’re outside the bounds of reason …” Nathaniel began angrily.
But at that moment, Bess bolted up from her chair. Nathaniel realised for the first time that she was sweating. A bead of sweat trailed down from just above her ear, at her hairline. He tossed himself back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He waited as Bess drew her eyes back to his.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she said. Nathaniel was surprised to hear that her voice was still firm and stoic despite the adrenaline that seemed to propel from all that she was. “For I’ve entered your house under incorrect assumptions. And I shouldn’t muddle your head a moment more.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Nathaniel demanded.
Again, Bess cleared her throat. “You see, it is I, L.B.—Lady Elizabeth Byrd. It’s the pen name I gave myself after Irene asked me to write a column. I didn’t imagine that the column would take off, as it was my first. But, as you said, many on the streets of London have begun speaking about my words—MY words. And I can’t imagine stopping, now.”
Nathaniel felt as though he’d been smacked. He gaped at this gorgeous woman—at her firm curves beneath her dark green dress, her russet hair that curled out of its bun, at her sharp, dark eyes. How could it be possible that such lively words could spew from this woman’s quill?
“I don’t understand,” Nathaniel said, turning his eyes back towards Irene.
“It’s not so difficult to understand,” Irene said, scoffing. She muttered, mostly to herself, “Perhaps he really doesn’t have the intellect to run for office, in the end …”
“Shhh.” Bess rolled her eyes and returned to her seat. This time, she didn’t remove her eyes from Nathaniel’s. “Really, Irene, that’s unkind. I told you, I know Lord Linfield to have the bones of a brilliant campaign.”
“The bones?” Nathaniel demanded.
“What was it you said in your letter, Lord Linfield?” Bess asked. “You said you wanted to discuss my writing talents. You said you wanted to pick my brain. Is that correct?”
“I mean, that was before …” Nathaniel began.
“Before what?” Bess asked, her grin widening. “I can’t imagine anything is different, now that you know I’m a woman. I’m still the hand and the brain behind those essays, Nathaniel.”
Nathaniel was no longer hungry. He shoved his plate away, sipping the last dregs of his first glass of wine. Within moments, another maid appeared and poured another helping. She kept her eyes downturned. In these moments, Nathaniel felt strange and far away from his own mind. For whatever reason, in these moments, he was able to shove off the ordinary fear he had when in front of a crowd—the very fear that so often caused him to flub his speeches. When he spoke, he was more articulate than he’d been in months.
“Here’s the thing, Bess,” he began. “I grew up watching my father’s political career. I admired everything that he was: from his speechmaking to his balanced decision-making, to his ability to read a room before speaking, to his essay writing. He was remarkable in every sense of the word. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I do not have the skills he once had. Ho
wever, I also know that I carry within myself a deep, moral belief in people. I want my life to involve helping those people to a higher, better society. And in order to do that, I have to jump through the meaningless hoops of speechwriting, of shaking hands with the right people, of putting myself at the mercy of journalists like you.”
