by Abigail Agar
Perhaps that was why he was pressing her, just now. Perhaps he’d learned of her reputation and was considering taking away his offer.
“All right. Let’s see it, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Linfield said.
Bess walked the full path to her desk, drawing the several pieces of paper up and splaying them across the desk. When Lord Linfield stood beside her, she felt awash with a strange fear. She placed her hands behind her back, linking the fingers. Her nostrils filled with the smell of him: the woods, his musk, something entirely masculine that she couldn’t quite name.
She wouldn’t tell Irene about this bizarre feeling in her gut. Wouldn’t tell her that she almost couldn’t speak around Lord Linfield. That her tongue felt heavy and strange. It was like giving herself away.
Lord Linfield studied the speech for a long time. The room was tense with silence. Bess remained with her eyes towards the wall, not wanting to look at her own words while he did. Perhaps she would catch some mistake. Perhaps she would realise what she might have done better.
But finally, after what felt like a small eternity, Lord Linfield nodded his head—just once. He cut his chin back towards Richard, and then raised his eyebrows. He let out a small laugh, then a cackle, one that made Bess’s heart stop for a moment.
“It really is something,” he said, both to Richard and to Bess.
“Something?” Bess demanded, surprised that she could even articulate this one word.
“Something,” Lord Linfield said, a smile broadening between his cheeks. “I really can’t believe I ever tried to articulate my own thoughts on paper, Lady Elizabeth. For this, this is masterful, in comparison. Mine were words formed from the mind of a child, perhaps. And you’ve allowed my opinions to really breathe.”
The compliment was enormous. Bess pressed her lips together, feeling tears spring into her eyes. She blinked up at him, at the incredible handsomeness of his face—his swept-back blond curls, his mighty, firm shoulders, his large hands that seemed so powerful and sure. She imagined, for the first time, falling into him. She would place her cheek atop his chest and listen to the firm beating of his chest. She hadn’t imagined herself touching another man since Conner’s death, and yet …
No. She pushed the thought away, telling herself she could be content with this praise of her intellect. Nothing more.
“That is very kind, Sir,” she said, bowing her head. “Terribly kind. I look forward to tomorrow afternoon when I see you deliver the words. Know that they’re all from your mind, just created in a more …”
“Artful way,” Lord Linfield said, returning the heaviness of her gaze. “I won’t forget it.”
Lord Linfield folded the pages of the script and slotted them into an envelope before heading back towards the door. Outside, night had fallen fully, draping its black blanket atop London. Carriages scuttled past and candles flickered from the restaurant across the way—looking cosy, yet foreign. It was always someone else’s cosiness, Bess reminded herself. She was always on the outside, looking in.
“I suppose I’ll see you in the crowd tomorrow,” Lord Linfield said. “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth.”
Bess remained standing as the door clicked closed behind Lord Linfield and Richard, as they began their trek towards their yonder carriage. Bess watched the horses as they lifted their hooves, impatient. Richard and Lord Linfield disappeared in the belly of the carriage. Perhaps they were discussing her, as the rain began to patter across the top of the carriage. Or, perhaps they weren’t. Perhaps she’d already been forgotten.
That was more likely, Bess told herself. It had to be so.
Chapter 10
Lord Linfield awoke the following morning to find that Lady Bess's speech had swept across the room of his office, caught up in wind from the storm. The pages had swirled left and right, tossing against the far brick wall and coiling up along the crack beneath the door. Nathaniel groaned, beginning the horrific task of collecting them. Had he left the window open the previous night? It must have been him. He cursed himself, inwardly, and flipped through the pages. He’d been up until far past midnight, trying to practice Lady Elizabeth’s words. But he’d felt inarticulate and stupid, unable to translate what he so dearly wanted to say.
Why was this so difficult for him?
There was a knock on the door. Nathaniel didn’t speak for a moment, unsure if he wanted to face anyone. But the rap came again, and Nathaniel called out.
“All right? What is it?”
Richard appeared in the doorway. Nathaniel felt a moment’s embarrassment at his previous rage. He turned his eyes to the ground, remembering that his father—Richard’s previous employer—had hardly ever grown angry with anyone. He’d been committed to being level-headed and sure, always quick with a kind word. Perhaps Nathaniel didn’t have that in him.
“Sir, I’m sorry to trouble you,” Richard said. “Your mother’s told me she expects you downstairs for breakfast this morning. She says you’ve been avoiding her.”
“I haven’t been avoiding her,” Nathaniel said, another wave of anger rising up in his chest. “What is she even—” He paused, stabbing the first of the speech pages over the top of the others. He wasn’t entirely sure if they were in order quite yet.
“Sir, what happened?” Richard asked. He blinked down at the damp pages, incredulous.
“It’s nothing, Richard,” Nathaniel said. “It’s only the problems of a pure idiot, I’m sure.”
“Sir, you know I wouldn’t be fighting so hard for you, working so hard for you, if I didn’t truly believe in the kind of work you could do for this world,” Richard said, his voice low. “And I don’t say that lightly. Your father knew me to be a diligent worker for him. In every way, it was a privilege to work for him during his time at Parliament.”
Nathaniel peered up at Richard for a long time, still seated at his desk chair. Richard’s eyes were grey and hazy, almost far away. Nathaniel realised he hadn’t given the man much thought, throughout the year since his father’s death.
“You must miss him, like I do,” Nathaniel said. He drew up from his chair, dotting each tip of his finger across the desk and leaning heavily against them. “He must have been a friend of yours, while he was only a father to me.”
“Oh, he was incredibly proud of you, Nathaniel,” Richard offered. He took a small step forward, spreading his hands wide. “He spoke of you at length. Wondering why you were content remaining in the woods when it was so clear you could be working for the people, out there.” He paused for a moment, seemingly wondering if he’d overstepped his bounds.
But Nathaniel wanted nothing more than to hear what his father had said about him. He gaped at Richard before pressing his lips together tight. He didn’t want to appear needy.
“She really does expect you for breakfast, Nathaniel,” Richard said. “She made me promise.”
Nathaniel shoved the pages of the speech into the top shelf of his desk, his father’s desk, before taking long strides towards the staircase. From the top, he inhaled the smell of a traditional English breakfast—beans, bacon, eggs, toast. It was true he’d been avoiding his mother, that he yearned for some time apart from her to cultivate whatever “look” he wanted to offer the people of England. He didn’t want her opinion, although, perhaps, he needed it.
She was the only family member left in his life. His mother, and Richard, and a few friends here and there: that was all he had. How lonely it was running for Parliament. It made you realise that the people you needed to speak with the most—the voters—could never truly be your friends. You were always on a pedestal, pretending to be something more.
Lady Eloise was seated at the head of the table, scraping butter over her toast. When Nathaniel entered, she took a long moment before batting her eyelashes up at him. She gave him a small grin.
“Well, here he is. My son, who’s been avoiding me for the better part of the past week,” she said, arching her brow.
Nathaniel bowed his head. “I’
m terribly sorry you got that impression, Mother …”
“Nonsense,” Lady Eloise said, snapping her fingers. “You were absolutely avoiding me, and that’s clear. However, now my question is, why? Please, sit.”
Lord Linfield did as he was told. Immediately, one of the maids arrived and placed a platter of beans, toast, eggs, and bacon before him. The food steamed, filling his eyes. He blinked rapidly, before reaching for his mug of tea and sipping it. He felt his mother’s eyes upon him like daggers.
“Nathaniel, today is yet another of your speeches, no?” his mother began.
Nathaniel stabbed a fork into his egg, watching as the yellow of the yolk rushed towards the beans. “What of it, Mother?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s getting terribly late in the season,” his mother continued. “And I really think, if this speech doesn’t go—necessarily as planned …” She trailed off. Her eyes seemed to burn brightly.
Nathaniel felt his cheeks flash red. “Mother, I cannot possibly tell you how much I’ve been preparing, upstairs. In fact, I was up half the night, practicing.”
“I might have heard you stuttering away up there,” Lady Eloise said, her voice stern. “As I’ve mentioned several times, I want you to have a home. A family. A wife, who will love you and support you …”
“But, Mother, I’m my father’s son!” Nathaniel said. He stuffed an egg into his mouth and chewed wildly, frowning. “You can’t think that that’s enough for me. I’m meant for bigger things, Mother. I’m meant to carry on where my father left off …”
“Perhaps I don’t want you to have that kind of difficult life!” his mother cried, smashing her fist on the table.
The table plonked around beneath her hand, seemingly lacking stability. Nathaniel gaped at her, always surprised when she exhibited such strength.
“Mother, don’t you think what Father did was worth it?” Nathaniel said, his voice low.
“I don’t know, Nathaniel. All I can tell you is I haven’t seen my one and only son more than a few minutes the past week, and that’s despicable. You’re the only family I have left, and I …”
Nathaniel bowed his head, recognising the terror in her voice. How he wished he could wrap his arms around her, tell her it would be all right. But there was an entire wooden table between them—six feet of it, in reality—and he felt powerless to her sadness.
“I’ll be careful, Mother,” he said, unsure if this was the proper response.
“Your father wasn’t necessary careless,” Lady Eloise said. She shoved her platter, turning her eyes to the far corner of the room. They glittered with tears that Nathaniel felt sure she wouldn’t allow to trail down her cheeks. It seemed she had a power over them. “He wasn’t careless. And yet, look at what happened to him! You’re going to leave this world, Nathaniel. Leave this world and allow me to grow into a decrepit and anxious old woman. Is that what you want?”
Nathaniel felt unable to answer. He remained at the table for a long, gaping silence before following suit and shoving his platter away from him. When the cook arrived to the dining room, seeing the essentially untouched food, her jaw dropped. Nathaniel read the glittering fear in her eyes. Perhaps she feared for her job—the job she’d held at the estate for the previous ten years, long before Nathaniel had considered anything more than flirting with girls and running around the woods with his mates.
“Don’t worry, Natalie,” he told the cook, shaking his head. “It’s not your cooking. It’s only our stomachs. We can’t possibly handle the world, today. Unfortunately, that looks like a complaint against your cooking.” He paused for a long moment before adding, “Please, see to it that all the leftover food is given to the poor on the streets. I can’t have this going to waste.”
Lord Linfield shot up from his chair, swiped a napkin across his lips and tossed it back atop the table. Lady Eloise remained staring into her beans.
“Good luck, today,” she told him, her voice scratchy. “I wish I could be there.”
Nathaniel believed nothing of what she said, now.
But instead of wallowing in self pity or worry, he trotted back upstairs, retrieved the pages Lady Elizabeth had written for him, and dressed in an immaculate suit. The carriage would arrive out front just after the noon hour, and he would be ready—his hat centred upon his head, his chin set. Unlike the other days of his speeches, he had the necessary tools.
And surely, when he was in front of all those people, his lips would find the confidence he so needed. He would assure them that he was every bit the man Parliament deserved.
The crowd buzzed as Nathaniel shoved the carriage door open, in downtown London. He looked out over a sea of black hats, of umbrellas that protected those hats from the drizzling London rain. He swallowed sharply before turning back towards Richard, still seated in the carriage. The men had spoken very little throughout their journey downtown. Yet now, Richard gave him only a firm nod—one that reaffirmed everything he’d said to Nathaniel earlier that morning.
Nathaniel’s stomach clenched, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten enough that morning. He placed his boot on the cobblestones below, then followed suit with the other, before striding towards the platform the organisers had set up for the following afternoon of speeches.
Nathaniel paused at the edge of the platform, gazing across the board at another man who was running for Parliament, a man with far more conservative views than himself. He was Theodore Piper, and he was a few years older than Nathaniel, with circular glasses and a big, burly belly that protruded out over his pants. Most notably, Nathaniel and Theodore agreed about one thing: the Judgement of Death Act. The very act Lady Elizabeth had demanded that he change his mind about.
As if he could possibly do that. As if he could possibly taint his father’s memory in that way. Still, Lady Elizabeth’s voice rang through his head. Telling him that it was a wretched truth that his father was no longer around. Telling him that this one murder, this one horrendous act, shouldn’t decide the fates of so many, many other lives. Telling him that his father wouldn’t have wanted it this way.
It was true that Nathaniel’s father had been a believer in the Judgement of Death Act. He’d said that people make mistakes, and that didn’t necessarily make anyone strong enough, or able enough, to change the fate of their existence. “We’re not God,” his father had said several times, either booming the words over a mighty audience or just whispering it to his own son. At the time, Nathaniel hadn’t seen anything wrong with the sentiment. In fact, he’d found himself bragging about it to his friends, explaining that his father had far more empathy and insight than the majority of the world leaders.
Now, after seeing his father buried in the ground, Lord Linfield felt incredibly differently. How could he not?
Theodore spoke first. His speech was one of conservative values, of upholding the memories of the past and not giving in to any “devilish ideas” about the future. Lord Linfield watched the crowd’s reaction to Theodore’s words, watched them try to hide their yawns and their whispers to one another. It was clear that Theodore didn’t invigorate them. Not the way Lady Elizabeth’s words surely would.
At least, they would do wonders. If he could only say them correctly. With certainty.
And he wasn’t entirely sure he could.
Theodore stepped away from the podium about ten minutes later, to a spattering of applause. Lord Linfield took his place, towering over the crowd. The applause roared for a full ten seconds (something Nathaniel attributed to his father’s memory, rather than his admittedly horrific speeches and standings in the polls). As they clapped, Nathaniel peered over their heads before finally stumbling over Lady Elizabeth.
There she was: her cheeks bright red from the chill and her hat a bit crooked over her russet curls. She was scribbling upon a pad of paper, taking notes about Theodore’s speech, perhaps. Lord Linfield held his eyes upon her for a long moment until her eyelashes batted up and she spotted him, too. They held one another’s
gaze for a moment before Lord Linfield heard a screeching whisper to the right of him. “Is he ever going to begin?” the voice demanded.
