by Abigail Agar
“Lord Linfield, I felt sure that was you!” Irene called, marching directly towards him.
Everett ambled back to stand just beside Nathaniel. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asked, giving Nathaniel a wry smile.
“Absolutely,” Nathaniel said, half-stuttering. “May I introduce Irene Follett, the mastermind behind The Rising Sun paper. Editor-in-chief. Irene, this is my very old friend, a member of Parliament, Lord Everett Beauchamp.”
Everett bowed his head at the introduction, while Irene curtsied with a flat back, her eyelashes fluttering slightly—her form that of the greatest debutante.
“What a unique pleasure,” Everett said. “It’s a rarity to meet a woman of your intellect, Ms Follett. I’ve been a long-standing reader of The Rising Sun, I’ll have you know, and have taken incredible interest in several of your political columns.” He leaned closer, squinting slightly. “Although I haven’t seen much from old Marvin Tartmen in recent weeks.”
Irene’s smile faltered. Nathaniel remembered that bumbling fool, the older writer he’d encountered at the speech on the day he’d sent the then-mysterious L.B. a letter. His eyes met with Lady Elizabeth’s, but she immediately turned her attention towards Lord Beauchamp, instead. It was as if he’d caught her in the act of something. Of looking too long.
“Mr Tartmen has left us, in fact,” Irene said, her voice a bit cold. “And good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. The man was weighing down The Rising Sun, no longer bringing any sort of insight. One must trim the fat, I believe.”
“How right you are, Ms Follett,” Everett said. “Although I dare say it’s remarkable to hear a woman such as yourself say such a thing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a traditional woman,” Irene said.
For a moment, Nathaniel felt a strange surge of embarrassment at what Everett had said. But then, he remembered that Everett wasn’t necessarily the type to look the other way at a “businesswoman.” In fact, the woman he loved had been earning her keep as a painter when they’d met. He wasn’t the type to expect a woman to sit in the corner, waiting her turn to speak.
What kind of men did that make them, then?
“And may I also introduce Lady Elizabeth Byrd,” Nathaniel said, bowing his head towards Lady Elizabeth. “Secretary of The Rising Sun. I can say, very truly, that the paper wouldn’t be the same without her.”
“It’s absolutely certain,” Irene echoed.
Everett gave Lord Linfield a strange glance before bowing his head to Lady Elizabeth. “The pleasure is certainly mine,” he said. “Lady Elizabeth.”
“I believe I recognise you,” Lady Elizabeth said, her voice light. “From long ago. Perhaps I was a debutante alongside you. I seem to remember you asked me to dance, but once.”
Lord Nathaniel was shocked to hear this. His eyes tore from Everett’s face back to Lady Elizabeth’s, sensing the memory between them.
“Although, a lady can always tell when she’s not wanted,” Lady Elizabeth said, cutting Everett a whimsical smile. “It didn’t quite keep, did it?”
“Oh goodness me, now I’m terribly embarrassed,” Everett said, chuckling good-naturedly. “I believe I remember you, now, Lady Elizabeth. How could I forget? For you were one of the only ones with a proper brain. I seem to remember we had quite the conversation about literature, am I correct?”
It was Lady Elizabeth’s turn not to remember. “Of course, it was a long time ago.” She sighed, batting her eyelashes in a near-flirtatious way.
Nathaniel had the strangest suspicion that she was attempting to make him jealous. But he couldn’t be certain. Besides, it wasn’t as though there was anything between them.
Or, if there were any romantic feelings, they certainly only stirred in his own belly. And he could push back at those.
“You’ll have to excuse him, not remembering you at first. He’s terribly romantic,” Nathaniel heard himself say.
“I’m afraid it’s true.” Everett sighed. “When I have my sights on a woman, on one woman, I’m afraid I’m stuck to her.”
Lady Elizabeth gave Everett a genuine smile. “I can’t imagine that’s a bad thing. You must be happily married, then.”
“I’m afraid not, Lady Elizabeth.” Everett sighed. “Although I can say that my heart still beats for just one woman. The very same one as before. What a tragedy, eh?”
“Only a tragedy if you don’t believe in love, I suppose,” Lady Elizabeth offered.
Something deep within Nathaniel stirred. His stomach clenched at her words. “And I don’t suppose we’ve met before?” he asked, speaking directly to the gaunt boy beside Lady Elizabeth.
“Of course. How rude of me. May I introduce Peter Banner, my new assistant,” Elizabeth said.
“The assistant needs an assistant?” Everett said, reaching for Peter’s hand and shaking it. “My, Lady Elizabeth, you must be more important than you let on.”
Peter shook first Everett, then Nathaniel’s hands, looking meek, yet eager. “She’s been awfully kind to me over the years,” he said. “But I’m nearly fifteen. It’s time I start earning her kindness.”
Everett paused. He glanced at Nathaniel, who, realising he’d been caught yet again, hurriedly looked away from Lady Elizabeth. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her luscious, curly hair, her glowing face beneath her hat. To him, she seemed the warmest being in the world. A creature he suddenly yearned to protect from the rain.
“I don’t suppose the three of you wish to accompany Lord Linfield and I for dinner at this establishment?” Everett said suddenly, his words blaring out through the night. “We’ve had a bit of an accident with one of our horses and wish to spend an hour or two warming ourselves with a pint and stew.”
Lord Linfield felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He’d been meaning to explain the intricacies of his attraction to Lady Elizabeth back at Everett’s estate, but now he was faced with her, the full, non-fictional version of her. He assumed his endless attraction to her wasn’t lost on Lord Beauchamp. He felt exposed, stretched out. A bumbling fool.
Lady Elizabeth and Irene exchanged glances. Peter looked fit to leap out of his skin with excitement. Perhaps he hadn’t eaten at a restaurant in his life.
Irene spoke first, unafraid to say anything out of turn, it seemed. “I think we’ll have to accept your invitation on this drizzly night, Lord Beauchamp, no matter how improper it may be.”
“Thank you so much,” Lady Elizabeth said, stuttering.
“Then it’s settled!” Everett said, giving Lord Linfield a look that he couldn’t quite decipher. “Come along. A table for five, my goodness. What a treat.”
Lord Linfield followed the four of them to the rear, watching as Lady Elizabeth peeked back at him, looking almost incredulous. His brain flashed with the image of her at the base of his bed, as Barney had whined, blood twirling down his leg. The look on her face, then, had been so intimate. Lord Linfield had felt he was peering into the back areas of her soul.
The waiter seated them in the back of the restaurant, at a long, thick maple table. Lord Beauchamp offered one of the heads of the table to Irene, of all people, making her blush as he said, “Please. The editor of The Rising Sun must be featured at the head.”
“Goodness me.” Irene sighed playfully. “What a grand gesture, Lord Beauchamp.”
Somehow, Lord Linfield found himself directly across the table from Lady Elizabeth, with Lord Beauchamp to his left at the other head of the table, between them. Peter sat beside Lady Elizabeth, his fingers drumming softly on the edge of the table. It was clear the boy was anxious. Lord Linfield couldn’t tell if he should give the boy more attention or less. It was unclear what would make him feel more comfortable.
“My goodness, that stew smells incredible,” Everett said, making his eyes skate down the menu. “Ms Follett, given that you’ve worked at the nearby paper for what I assume to be many years, you must have dined here quite often.”
“I’ve conducted
a fair share of interviews here,” Irene said, her cheeks glowing red. “It’s always a bit easier to get the truth out of them after a pint, if you understand what I mean. No matter their position at Parliament, their artistry, what have you. Everyone enjoys a decent pint, it seems. And then, they open their mouths, and my pen is ready.”
“Quite true. Quite true,” Everett tittered. “Why, just earlier this day, it seemed Lord Linfield and I were struck with more bouts of truth than ordinary, if only because we’d softened ourselves up with a few pints. Isn’t that correct, Lord Linfield?”
Nathaniel couldn’t help it: he peeked up at Lady Elizabeth the very moment Everett said this. He felt as though she could peer in through his eyes, capture his feelings. But surely that was impossible?
“Silly me, and look, I’ve forgotten my pen!” Irene sighed, rolling her eyes back. “Who knows what kinds of secrets I might have been able to scribble down between courses!”
The waiter arrived and took their order: three pints for the men, just water for the ladies. Lady Elizabeth again flashed her eyes towards Nathaniel, before turning her attention back to Peter. Nathaniel sensed closeness between them, one he couldn’t quite comprehend. It was almost as if Lady Elizabeth was a kind of older sibling to Peter, rather than an employer.
“Where did the two of you first meet?” Nathaniel found himself asking, gripping his beer and lifting it.
Silence hung over the table after his question. Everett cleared his throat, sensing the awkwardness. As was his custom, he tried his darnedest to blare through it, trying to be too whimsical to let the strange tension catch up to him.
“Surely you didn’t meet at a debutante ball, like Lady Elizabeth and I did?” he began. “My goodness, you should have seen her. Lady Elizabeth, you were quite a sight in those days. And all the more beautiful now.”
“How could you possibly remember it?” Lady Elizabeth said, laughing in that good-natured way of hers. “I know you had eyes for someone else. I never could quite catch it. But your mind was elsewhere, Lord Beauchamp.”
“Although, I suppose, it wasn’t entirely long until you found someone of your own,” Everett continued, his smile stretching wide. “I remember the lad well. The lad you began your courtship with. Conner, wasn’t it?”
Again, there was a horrific silence at the table. Although Lord Linfield didn’t know the details of Lady Elizabeth’s courtship, he certainly knew well enough not to bring it up. It seemed a topic that Lady Elizabeth herself hardly verbalised. Everett blinked several times, turning his eyes over the crowd. They landed upon Irene, who was shaking her head ever so slightly. This was her warning.
“Well, of course, not everything works out,” Everett continued, trying to blare through it.
Lord Linfield gazed at Lady Elizabeth then, conscious that her cheeks were brighter red than he’d ever seen. Peter reached across and patted her on the back, an act he was trying to conceal from the rest of the dinner guests. Irene coughed slightly after sipping her water. Again, silence stretched between them. All Nathaniel longed to do was say something to rectify Lady Elizabeth’s apparent embarrassment and sadness. Certainly, she didn’t deserve it.
“Well, whoever that man was, or is,” Lord Linfield began, “it’s entirely clear to me that he didn’t deserve someone like Lady Elizabeth. A more remarkable woman and writer, I’ve never met in my life.”
Lord Linfield raised his drink, surprised at how easily the compliment had slipped from his mouth. Everett gaped at him for a moment, his eyebrows low.
“A writer, eh?” he asked. “Just like our Ms Follett?”
“Quite,” Irene said, bowing her head low. She gave Lady Elizabeth a meaningful look, which Lady Elizabeth didn’t match. “It’s prime time for her to stop hiding her talents.”
“If it’s all the same to all of you,” Lady Elizabeth began, her voice husky. “I’d like to move along to another topic. Thank you.”
Again, silence brewed over the table. Lord Linfield felt wretched, knowing that he’d nearly revealed her L.B. persona to Everett and Peter. Of course, this went against the bounds of their contract, something he certainly didn’t want to do. But beyond that, he didn’t want to embarrass her or make her the centre of attention—something she certainly didn’t adore.
Their stews arrived. The waiter placed each bowl before their hungry eyes. Irene whispered them a short prayer and then Peter all but leapt into his bowl of stew, tossing it into his mouth. He blinked up at Lord Linfield, almost mischievous. Like he felt he was getting away with something, just through eating.
Suddenly, Lord Linfield was struck with the realisation that this boy had been homeless, or still was. He looked at his gaunt expression, the way he chewed the meat, and knew that the boy had spent many nights outside. He shuddered, not truly being able to understand this kind of world. He turned his eyes back to Lady Elizabeth, trying to link his mind with this woman: the kind of woman who would employ a boy from the street.
Where on earth had she come from? Who was Conner? What was her story?
The conversation was light after that, with every party attempting to avoid anything that might step on another’s toes. Everett drank three pints and began to speak excitedly to Irene about a book he’d read recently, which he was attempting to read in French (despite not studying French for many years).
“I know the two of you must be well-versed in French,” he said with a sigh.
“Between us, we know six languages,” Irene said, grinning. “We could surely help you with any difficulties you’re having with the text.”
“Beside you debutantes, I always felt like some kind of imbecile.” Everett stabbed the last bit of meat onto his fork. “You can’t possibly understand how wretched it is to feel that way when your father is a famous member of Parliament, and when you’re meant to take over the family line.”
Lady Elizabeth and Irene exchanged good-natured glances before laughing. “Look at him. A man from Parliament, asking for ladies’ assistance!” Irene sighed. “It might as well be my birthday.”
Lord Beauchamp and Lord Linfield split the bill after arguing about it for several minutes (“No, I’ll take it, this time, my boy!”). The five of them rose and walked towards the exit where they found Lord Linfield’s carriage and its horses, fully-prepped and ready. Atop the carriage, the carriage boy huddled beneath the overhand. Lord Linfield reached up, passing the leftover stew to the boy, who immediately slurped it up and swiped his hand across his mouth. It reminded Lord Linfield of Peter, and he made a mental note to ensure that he gave his carriage hands more treats, now and again. Made sure they were well-fed, felt appreciated.
The men turned to bid adieu to the women and Peter. Lord Beauchamp bowed his head to both women, saying, “It was remarkable to see you again, Lady Elizabeth. And to meet you, of course. Ms Follett and Peter.” Then, he bounded into the carriage with all the energy of a child.
Lord Linfield paused, sensing tension between him and Lady Elizabeth. He shook Irene’s hand and then Peter’s before coming to Lady Elizabeth. He spoke in a low tone. “It would be beneficial to meet with you once again, to discuss the upcoming speech. I know I’m losing touch with my ability to speak publicly each and every day.”
Lady Elizabeth gave him a private smile. “Don’t be foolish, Lord Linfield. You sound remarkable to me.”
Remarkable? Lord Linfield couldn’t comprehend what this could mean. He gave her a final nod before turning towards his carriage and bounding into it, taking a seat beside Lord Beauchamp. The horses clacked along in front of them, hurrying them away from their dinner companions. Lord Linfield allowed a slow, steady breath to escape his lips.
