by Abigail Agar
Lord Linfield had another series of speeches over the next week and a half. None of them were quite as miserable as the first, yet, he knew, they fell flat as pancakes. The crowd no longer jeered at him. Rather, they looked at him with flat, grey eyes beneath their umbrellas during the rainy afternoons as if they were just waiting for him to finish. As Lord Linfield peered out at them, his voice faltering and stuttering, he tried to pinpoint which of the journalists might be L.B. Could it be the blond man with the darting blue eyes near the corner of the stage? Could it be the man with the top hat, who seemed to sneer at him each time he flubbed a word or phrase?
At the end of a particularly unfortunate speech, Nathaniel ambled from the stage, his heart hammering. When he reached the cobblestones below, a middle-aged man approached him, his smile so wide his lips nearly cracked. He reached forward, his voice bouncing.
“Hello, there! Lord Linfield, it’s a pleasure for me to introduce myself. I’m political writer for The Rising Sun, you see, and …”
“Wait just a moment,” Lord Linfield said, his eyebrows lowering. “How dare you approach me in this manner? After lambasting me, making a mockery of me …”
“No, no, no, Lord Linfield,” the man said, his eyes growing wet with a moment of fear. “Absolutely not. You’ve got it all wrong, you see. For in actuality, I’m the writer and essayist Marvin Tartman …”
Oh. Of course. The idiot writer, the other one. Nathaniel bowed his chin, listening for a moment as Marvin prattled on and on. “I really do think that your speeches have something, Lord Linfield,” he said. “I really believe that you’ve got a fire about you. A light.”
“Then why on earth has your colleague been tearing my speeches apart?” Nathaniel demanded, his nostrils flared. “Why on earth is your colleague making such a fool out of me?”
Marvin stuttered, turning his eyes to the ground. His cheeks turned a bright red. “You can’t imagine that I have anything to do with L.B., Lord Linfield.”
“How couldn’t you?” Nathaniel demanded. “You must work just desks away from him.”
“In fact, sir, I’m not sure who L.B. is,” Marvin offered.
Nathaniel felt enraged. Perhaps Marvin, now, was trying to make him look like a fool. But Marvin’s cheeks turned even brighter red, showing that, in fact, he wasn’t lying.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s filled me with a similar rage, I’m afraid, as it seems my editor—a horrible woman, you should know—has begun publishing some other man in the political section. It was my understanding that I would be the sole political writer at The Rising Sun. And now, after all my years of hard work …”
“Is there any way I could meet this L.B.?” Nathaniel demanded.
Marvin stuttered, again looking down towards his shoes. Nathaniel sensed that Marvin wanted nothing to do with this L.B. But he pressed him again, demanding, “You must know a way to get to him. You must know how I can meet with L.B. and give him a piece of my mind.”
Up on stage, another politician had begun to speak. The crowd around them hushed, listening in. Lord Linfield sauntered from the crowd, sensing Marvin close behind him. At the nearby bar, he spun around and leaned down to Marvin’s stature, arching his brow. “What do you say, Marvin? Can you possibly find a way to contact L.B.?”
Marvin shook his head, sounding sad. “I suppose I can speak with the secretary. She must be in charge of all the bills and things. She’ll have his address, I suppose, and could get a message to him …”
“Wonderful,” Nathaniel said. He reached into his pocket, drawing out his speech. He slid the paper out on the wall and then splayed it on a pub table outside. He readied his quill and his ink, which he kept in his pocket, and crafted a quick note for the secretary and L.B. himself.
“Dear L.B.,” the note began, “it’s come to my attention that you’re difficult to contact. However, it would be my pleasure to request your attendance at my home for dinner. I’m impressed with your wit and your writing talents and wish to pick your brain. Eternally yours, Lord Nathaniel Linfield.”
Nathaniel folded the page and sneaked it into an empty envelope before addressing it to “L.B.” and passing it back to Marvin, beside him. He drew his chin higher before delivering a final, “Thank you very much for your service, Marvin.” Then, he strode down the road, not caring to stay another moment more to watch the political speech behind him. His head spun with worry about what he’d just done.
For, with the letter, he was admitting something enormous: that he actually cared about what this “L.B.” wrote about him. That he actually cared that someone was tearing into him. This was the most vulnerable he’d been in quite some time.
And now, what if L.B. really did come to his home? What if he really did arrive to tell him just exactly what he thought of him: that his political career was dead in the water? That he wasn’t worthy of his father’s position? Could Nathaniel handle something like that?
He wasn’t entirely sure. But he remembered when John had told him the week before: that, perhaps, it might be worthwhile to hire some sort of writer. That, perhaps, he couldn’t completely trust his own “talents.” He had the passion, the fire. He just needed someone to help him translate it.
Perhaps that’s what L.B. could do for him.
If he didn’t punch him directly in the face, first.
Chapter 5
Bess shuffled into The Rising Sun office moments before Marvin and all-but dove to the other side of the secretary’s desk. Flushed, she drew her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ears. Seconds later, Marvin—flustered, his cheeks bright red—fell into the offices. He drew his hat from his head, muttering to himself. Bess could just barely make out what he said.
“Thinks of me as some kind of servant, when in actuality, I’m the voice of my generation …”
Bess reached for her quill and began to make notes to herself about the speech she’d just seen Lord Linfield give. He’d been a bit louder this time as if he’d thought blurting the words would make them more impactful. This was simply not true. She snickered to herself as she wrote, already coming up with a particularly wrenching way to phrase her essay. “It’s as if God himself was shouting down from the mountain, saying only that it was time for tea,” she scribed. “Use more impactful language to go with the screaming, dear sir …”
To her surprise, Marvin ambled directly to her desk, rather than returning to his. He smacked an envelope on her desk, huffing. “I don’t suppose you know who this L.B. is, do you?”
Bess blinked up at him, almost in shock. She’d heard Marvin grumbling about L.B.’s essays in the previous weeks, had even heard him demanding of Irene to tell him about L.B.’s real name. Of course, she’d given him no information whatsoever. She’d told him, with arched eyebrows, that L.B.’s work should ignite a fire in Marvin. “Your writing has been lacking, dear Marvin,” she’d tittered, opening the door as she said it so that Bess herself could hear. “L.B. is a promising new writer. Why wouldn’t I give that writer a platform?”
But at the time, Irene had given Marvin no indication of who L.B. was, and Bess had generally gotten away with sneaking around to the various political speeches, writing her essays and slipping them beneath Irene’s door before they went to print. At this rate, Bess hadn’t assumed that Marvin could possibly figure out her identity.
Now, she gaped at him, marvelling. Perhaps old Marvin wasn’t such an idiot, after all.
But of course, within moments, she realised that he hadn’t figured anything out. He looked at her with blank eyes, seemingly incredulous.
“Did you hear me, Bess?” Marvin demanded. He tapped his fingers atop the envelope, leering. “Did you hear me ask about L.B.? It’s like I can’t get a straight answer around this office, and I’ve about had enough.”
Bess gripped the envelope, drawing it towards her chest. She nodded, giving Marvin a strained smile. “Who’s asking?”
Marvin rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose it matters much to you, Bess, but the
political leader Lord Nathaniel Linfield has requested that I pass along this letter to L.B. You probably haven’t had a chance to peruse the papers these days, have you? I can’t imagine a woman of your ilk would manage.”
“You’re terribly correct, Marvin,” Bess sighed, fluttering her eyelashes. “It’s rather difficult, what with all the secretarial duties at this paper. But of course, I can pass this along to this L.B. of which you speak.”
Marvin drew his head tighter towards her, his eyes glittering. “You know, I would give almost anything to know …”
“I’m sworn to secrecy, Marvin,” Bess said. She slipped the envelope beneath the accountant ledger and folded her fingers together, staring up at him. “Now, I don’t mean to insist, but I really must return to work.”
Marvin peered down at the pad of paper before Bess, arching his brow. Bess remembered, with a jolt, that she’d been organising her notes for Lord Linfield’s speech. Immediately, she drew her hands across the writing, forcing a wider smile.
“Marvin, are you doing something different with your hair?” Bess asked, her voice bright.
Marvin tucked his fingers along the edge of his scraggly hairline, his cheeks growing pink. He stuttered for a moment before answering, “Oh, I mean. No, Bess. I haven’t done anything differently …”
“Well, you look quite handsome,” Bess said. She reached for the accountant ledger, drawing her lips into a round O and beginning a strained whistle.
Marvin took the hint and bumbled away, muttering to himself. Bess tapped her quill on the accountant ledger, her heart racing. Why in the world had Lord Nathaniel Linfield requested that Marvin send L.B. a letter?
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.”
