by Abigail Agar
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.
Everett gaped at him, giving him a sneaky smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, my Lord Linfield,” he began. “But that woman, that Lady Elizabeth, she must certainly be the one you were planning to speak to me about when we arrived at my home. Wasn’t she?”
Lord Linfield paused, pressing his lips together tightly. How could he possibly translate how he felt about Lady Elizabeth without revealing everything about her?
“She’s certainly an interesting woman,” Everett continued. “I half-remember meeting her as a much younger man. But the moment I brought up Conner …”
“I believe something happened,” Lord Linfield said. “Although I can’t be certain what exactly it was. I have reason to believe her fiancé is dead, that there was some foul play that has left her in this current position. But I’ve been far too frightened to ask her the details. It feels too heavy. I don’t dare cross any boundaries.”
Lord Linfield felt a bit strange, saying “frightened.” For he wasn’t a man who was easily scared. But something within him shook when he even envisioned not being allowed to see Lady Elizabeth any longer. Somehow, she’d become a fixture in his life.
“How was it you came to know Lady Elizabeth?” Everett asked then, arching his brow.
“I can’t explain it without giving her away,” he explained, scratching the back of his head. “It’s really a private affair.”
“Affair, you call it?” Everett said, his voice teasing.
“All I can truly say,” Lord Linfield began, “is that I haven’t met a woman like Lady Elizabeth in all my years of courting. I’ve never met anyone with her sharpness of mind, with her irresistible charm. I would spend more time with her if it was proper. But I know that there must be a distance between us. Even now, I feel impolite asking precisely what happened with her fiancé. Perhaps this distance must remain forever.”
Lord Linfield’s carriage dropped Everett off at his estate. Nathaniel shook his friend’s hand a final time, squinting slightly.
“You know, regarding what happened with Nelle this evening …” he began. “I really didn’t mean to put you in such a difficult position. I understand that matters of the heart …” He trailed off, unable to truly deduce what he should say. “I understand it’s difficult to face these things.”
“It’s difficult, yes,” Everett said, squeezing the edge of the door of the carriage in such a way that made his fingers bright white. “It’s difficult. And we allow so much time to pass us by that, suddenly, we’re dead and gone. Or they are.” He paused for a moment, licking his bottom lip. “Thank you for the company, Nathaniel. I hope one day soon we can speak with even more honesty. For I believe it’s the only thing.”
Lord Linfield stared ahead as he was taken back to his estate. It was darker than midnight, yet only eight or nine. When he entered the mansion, he felt endlessly fatigued, and his fingers shook as they gripped the railing of the staircase.
“Nathaniel?”
His mother’s voice rang out from down the hall, from the sitting room. Immediately, recognition of the voice made Nathaniel feel incredibly small—as if the past few months of growing in recognition and personal bravery could be shelled off so easily. He turned his feet back down the hall, forcing himself to walk to the doorway. From there, he peered in at the slight form of his mother, again hunkered over embroidery.
“Darling, I expected you home for dinner,” his mother said, not bothering to blink up from her stitching.
“I’m terribly sorry. Events ran long with Lord Beauchamp,” Nathaniel offered.
“Ah, Everett Beauchamp. I haven’t seen him since he was a much younger boy,” his mother said. “Although word is that he’s been an incredible force in Parliament.”
“He’s still very much that boy,” Nathaniel said. “Although he’s had heartache. He’s travelled the world.”
“I can imagine,” Lady Linfield said, stretching a string high. The needle glinted in the candlelight. “Although I must tell you, I’ve heard rumours that he’s been a tentative proponent of the Judgement of Death Act. As you know, I’m staunchly opposed to such a thing. As are you, I presume.”
Nathaniel swallowed hard.
“It would be beneficial to speak with him more regarding his position,” his mother said, her voice firm. “Especially when you appear in Parliament. I imagine you’ll have quite a heavy say in the goings-on, given your father’s reputation.”
Nathaniel opened his lips, preparing to speak. He imagined himself asking just why his mother felt the Judgement of Death Act was such a horrendous thing. But of course, this negated everything he and his mother had spoken about regarding his father’s murder. What devastation they’d been through since that day! He couldn’t take it back.
“You must know, darling, that if that Act passes, that means your father’s memory will become very small,” his mother continued, sounding so sure of herself.
“Not with us, Mother,” Nathaniel blared.
His mother spun her head quickly towards him, no longer keeping her embroidery in view. “Excuse me, Nathaniel?” she asked, arching her brow high. “Do you mean to say you might stand up for the Judgement of Death Act? Do you mean to say everything your father worked for, his very name, will be voided if you take a seat in Parliament?”
Nathaniel felt smacked. He took a small step back towards the hallway, his mind racing. “That isn’t what I meant, Mother.”
They stared at one another for a long moment, both seemingly steaming. But Nathaniel took another step back, and then another, his heart heavy with the realisation that—if he was going to give himself to Lady Elizabeth (something he felt sure he could never possibly do, not feasibly, not in this life), then he had to uphold her position on the Judgement of Death Act.
But of course, that meant going against his mother’s wishes. It meant, in his mother’s eyes, going against the memory of his father.
And this thought kept him awake at night until the winter birds cast wild tweets from the tip-tops of skeletal trees, just outside his window, and the sun brought blurry light across the moors and through the gardens. He felt ill, unsure.
He had none of the confidence of a man
in Parliament. But he had to prepare for yet another speech. And he rose from his bed, scrubbing his head with aching fingers, ready to face yet another day.
Chapter 21
Bess stirred beneath the sheets, somewhere in the haze between waking and sleep. Again, she heard a scratch, then a knock on the door—presumably the noise that had woken her in the first place. Her brain searched for reasons for the noise. But within seconds, she heard it.
“Lady Elizabeth? Bess?”
The words were tentative, voiced from a young boy perhaps midway through puberty. After scrubbing her eyes another moment, Bess shot upright in bed, remembering: this was Peter’s first morning at her and Irene’s home.
“Yes, darling Peter. I’ll be right there!” Bess called.
Peter rapped his knuckles against the door once more, clearing his throat. “Please, Miss Bess. I was wondering. What would you like for breakfast?”
Bess chuckled to herself. She swept the bed sheets from her little legs and scurried towards the door, where she cracked it open to find Peter fully dressed, his cheeks red from scrubbing. He grinned at her, showing browning teeth. Bess made a mental note to find a dentist for him if they were ever going to save his teeth.
“Darling, you’re looking well-rested!” she said to him, giving him her most genuine smile in return.
“Thank you, Miss Bess. I truly cannot remember the last time I slept so well,” Peter offered.
“The bed downstairs is well-suited to you?” Bess asked. She scrubbed the corner of her eye, still feeling unbalanced and foggy.
“It is marvellous,” Peter said. He smacked his palms together. “And, as your personal assistant, I wish to make you breakfast. Please. I’ve checked with the local merchant, the shop across the street. Fresh products. Wonderful things. Bacon? Eggs?” he asked, his eyes alight.
“You can cook those things?” Bess asked.
“Absolutely, Miss Bess.” He paused for a moment, turning an embarrassed gaze to the ground.
“I suppose you’ll need a bit of money?” Bess asked. She reached for her purse, atop the wardrobe, and pulled out several coins. “This should do, I would think. Make sure you cook enough for Irene, now.”
“Irene’s already left for the paper,” Peter said. “Tried to convince her to stay, but she looked a bit anxious.”
“Yes, I see.” Bess sighed. “Well, I’ll be leaving in about an hour’s time. Do you think we can make the breakfast in time?”
“Absolutely, Miss Bess.”
Peter scampered off to the shop across the street while Bess cleaned up, donned a dark green dress, and took a short glance at the mirror. The mirror had a strange dent to the left, making her unsure, often, if her face was a bit crooked or not. She imagined herself seated alongside Lord Linfield with such a crooked face—surely not the type to grace the wife of any man from Parliament. Reality or not, she knew she wasn’t the type meant for him.
Besides, the thickness of her thighs and hips was certainly a problem. Not that she ever looked down on her curvaceous form. In fact, she found it womanly and youthful, in many respects, yet knew that many men preferred thinner women, women with cinched waists and breasts that seemed never to fall.
The smell of bacon and eggs crept up the steps, guiding Bess back down to the breakfast table. She’d prepared Peter’s bed in the far corner of the room, and she was pleased to see that he’d made it up already—stretching the sheets to the pillow and sliding his hand across them to smooth them.
As Peter prepared their breakfast, he moved with rapid, erratic motions, his elbows becoming sharp as they reared back and he flipped the bacon in the skillet. “I’ve made you coffee!” he called to her, dropping the skillet back atop the flame. He placed the mug of coffee before Bess atop the table, beaming.
“This is remarkable, Peter,” Bess said, feeling gratitude like a wave, crashing over her. “Really. I can’t remember the last time anyone took care of me like this.”
Of course, Bess did remember the days of her father’s servants. She’d awoken every morning to large breakfast platters, with more food than she could possibly consume by herself. The variety had been astounding: fresh cheeses, fruits already cut and gleaming, yogurts from the local farmer’s cows, cereals aplenty, along with meats and eggs. When her father had been around, prior to the days of his insane con-artistry, she and her father had sat at the breakfast table for many hours, sharing anecdotes, speaking about what they had read. She’d adored her father, had gazed at him across that platter of French cheeses and marvelled at his way with words. He’d been a poet, an intellect, a man who understood numbers and money.
He also knew how to manipulate people. And he’d manipulated Bess, as well. She’d allowed it to happen.
She’d been too young, perhaps, to know the difference.
But it didn’t matter.
Peter scrubbed the bottom of the skillet, removing the eggs and bacon and smearing them across first one plate, then another. “You know, Miss Bess, I really couldn’t have imagined a better evening than the one we had previously,” Peter said.
Bess noted that he seemed to be trying on a more proper accent. But why? Was he trying to match the men from the evening—Lord Beauchamp, Lord Linfield?
“Oh?” Bess asked, giving him an intrigued smile.
“Those men. One of Parliament, didn’t he say?” Peter began.
“Yes. Lord Everett Beauchamp,” Bess said, her tone coaxing.
“And the other is running for Parliament, correct?” Peter said.
Bess nodded. Peter looked oddly sheepish, asking these questions. “I do apologise. This isn’t a world I know much about,” he continued, his voice bouncing slightly. “Although I’m terribly envious of them. They seem like men who—who have always had something bigger to work for. Men who fight for what they believe in. I suppose I’d like to be that kind of man,” Peter continued.
Bess levered her fork beneath a bit of egg, considering Peter’s words. She tried to imagine being a young boy of fourteen, a boy from the streets—who came from absolutely nothing—looking up at Lord Beauchamp and Lord Linfield. It must have felt akin to looking up at giants.
“Of course, I don’t expect I’ll ever be in Parliament,” Peter continued. “Goodness, no. I’m a boy from the streets, and I know that to be true …” He trailed off, looking deflated. His skin took on a strange shade of grey.
Bess reached across the table with her free hand, sliding her fingers across Peter’s cheeks. He grinned at her, again anxious.
“I must be speaking so foolishly,” Peter stammered.
“Absolutely not,” Bess said. “In fact, you’re inspiring even me to keep going, to be better.”
Peter and Bess both looked away from one another, both seemingly awash with too much emotion. Bess, for her part, was just so grateful the boy was still alive, and that she could help him in this way. In some respects, this gave her life more purpose.
“And the breakfast?” Peter finally asked, grinning broadly.
“Absolutely wonderful,” Bess said, breaking from her reverie to stab another piece of bacon between her lips. “Oh, goodness. I really should be running to the paper.”
Peter flung up from his chair, looking flustered. “And what should I do today, Bess?” he asked. “I’m prepared to begin work.”
Bess prepared a very simple list of tasks for Peter, knowing that he would perform them dutifully. The tasks were split between the paper and things at home. Bess watched as he peered over the list, jotting notes for himself alongside. When he blinked up, he said, “This surely won’t take the entire day, Bess.”
“I know that,” Bess said. “But I assume that will give you time to work on your studies. To read. To write.” She paused, tilting her head towards the corner of the room. “You know, I have a wide selection of French texts, including a dictionary and a language manual. If it pleases you, you could be well on your way to learning a new language—and perhaps becoming one of these
intellectual men you so respect—within six months.”
