by Abigail Agar
The four of them sat at the dining room table, with Everett and Irene largely filling the silence with their own opinions and light banter. Lord Linfield felt strangely stunted. Anything he thought to say, he felt sure it would be too idiotic, too strained in front of the rather genius mind of Lady Elizabeth. He grinned, remembering what his mother had said about women being superior to men. In every way, he thought her to be correct.
It was a fact he’d never heard his father admit, although he felt fairly certain that most worthy men understood this to be true.
Irene was tittering along, explaining some of the upcoming columns they would feature on The Rising Sun. “And you know, I just keep nagging Lady Elizabeth to write some other work. With that mind of hers, imagine the sort of philosophical and historical texts we might be allowed to read …”
Lady Elizabeth’s face scrunched up. She dropped her fork, making it crackle against the top of the plate. “Please, Irene. You don’t need to give them each and every detail of my little meaningless life.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Irene said, chuckling. “I know they’d be terribly thrilled to read your work, as would the rest of England. Lord Linfield, you should have heard the analysis she made the other day on a French essay. You see, our new friend, Peter, he’s been diving into the strange pool that is learning the French language. And of course, with the brilliant mind of Lady Elizabeth there to back him, it won’t be long until he finishes and is on to the next language. Ridiculous, thinking of what I was doing when I was his age. Surely dreaming about ball gowns and joining Society.”
“I wrote a great deal more philosophical and historical texts prior to my engagement,” Lady Elizabeth said, folding her hands across the tablecloth. She peered at something just beyond Lord Linfield’s head, perhaps feeling that looking directly into his eyes would be too intense.
Such a rarity to get Lady Elizabeth to speak such truths. Lord Linfield stopped, placing his fork softly beside his plate. He was no longer hungry, not for the roast duck upon his plate nor the Brussels sprouts slowly cooling beside it. But just as she began, Lady Elizabeth realised she’d overstepped—at least in her own mind. She reached for her fork once more and quickly stabbed it into a single Brussels sprout before popping it back in her mouth and chewing slowly.
“Yes, well. I’m afraid most women I know who’ve settled and have children haven’t given themselves much space for such writing,” Everett offered.
“You must do it,” Lord Linfield suddenly said, his voice loud and booming.
Lady Elizabeth peered up at him, finally meeting his eyes. She swallowed, and then set back down her fork. “Excuse me?”
“The world has been allowed to read your political essays. Your analyses. And even—through my voice, of course, your political speeches. It would be a great honour for me, and for the rest of England, to hear what else you have to say.”
Everett adjusted his posture, turning his eyes from Lady Elizabeth to Lord Linfield and back again. Nathaniel waited for him to demand what he meant, as Nathaniel hadn’t yet filled Everett in on the details of his speechwriter. But Everett just bowed his head in apparent respect of the situation, returning to his food. The man was open-minded, alive to the waves of change that Nathaniel had only recently felt.
The conversation was unneeded. And after a pause, Lady Elizabeth continued to speak, allowing Everett in on their secret—despite the breech in contract.
“You really wish to read something like that?” Lady Elizabeth asked, sounding doubtful.
“It would be my greatest pleasure.”
Silence fell at the table. Lady Elizabeth allowed her eyes to drop once more. Her skin glowed, giving her a strangely angelic look. Lord Linfield had the itch to stretch his hand across the table and rub his finger across her cheek. How soft it must have been. How feminine.
“But not under my own name,” Lady Elizabeth said with finality, again shoving her fork through another Brussels sprout. “I don’t think the world is ready to give any credit to a woman of my past. Ha. Too complicated, I should say.”
Lord Nathaniel ached to ask her the precise story. He opened his lips, waiting for the question to tumble out. But then, Irene bolted through the space, beginning to discuss some sort of “wretched” writer who used to work for The Rising Sun. “You really can’t imagine a worse writer,” she tittered. “This Marvin Tillman, my goodness.”
“Marvin?” Lord Linfield said, remembering the bumbling man at one of the speeches. He felt the conversation driving far from the topic he so craved. It touched upon other writers at The Rising Sun, on what Everett was currently reading, on what Lord Linfield would do to celebrate when he learned that he’d gotten the seat at Parliament.
In the back of his mind, Lord Linfield knew that Lady Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to take the conversation away from her private affairs. But this meant that if Lord Linfield was ever going to make her his wife (if that was truly what he wanted), then he was going to have to ask these questions of her himself, personally. Perhaps in more of a private setting.
Hours later, after dessert had been served—a wild helping of whipped cream atop cinnamon apples—Lord Linfield and Lord Beauchamp walked the ladies back to the door to dismiss them for the evening. Everett’s voice was jocular and bouncy, speaking once more about a book that both he and Lady Elizabeth had discovered they adored. Lord Linfield’s brain was so scattered, he felt unable to listen properly. And when they reached the doorway, and Lady Elizabeth blinked those big, doe-like eyes up at him, he blurted out what was truly on his mind.
“You really must write what you wish to write, Lady Elizabeth,” he boomed.
Lady Elizabeth’s grin flickered before disappearing. The air was taut between them. Irene’s eyes turned from Lady Elizabeth, to Everett, and back again.
“If you truly wish me to do something like that,” Lady Elizabeth began. “If you truly wish me to write my mind, then I’ll ask for something in return.”
Lord Linfield felt the hesitation in her voice. He squinted at her, almost incredulous at her ability to be so terribly headstrong.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It seems she has something up her sleeve, Lord Linfield,” Everett said, chuckling. “I dare say you should be nervous.”
“Give me one final opportunity to convince you regarding your position on the Judgement of Death Act,” Lady Elizabeth said.
Nathaniel hadn't expected that. In fact, given his stirring thoughts about his feelings for Lady Elizabeth, he’d allowed himself to briefly forget about the divide between their opinions. His lips parted. But unlike other moments when he felt apt to toss out the truth of his father’s horrific death, he stopped himself. He swallowed hard, and then he said, “One final opportunity?”
“That’s right,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“What do you propose?” Lord Linfield asked.
“Meet me at my home Saturday afternoon,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I’ll have Peter send you a letter with my address.”
“Your home?” Lord Linfield asked. He couldn’t very well imagine the sort of shack Lady Elizabeth, Irene, and Peter all lived in together. He imagined it dipping deep into the mud below. He imagined it shadowed and clunky, on its last legs.
“It’s not such a terrible little place,” Lady Elizabeth said, giving him a crooked smile.
That smile made Lord Linfield’s stomach clench. It stirred the very centre of his soul. The magic of it ensured that he opened his lips and said, “Yes. Absolutely,” for how could he possibly refuse her?
When the women clipped the door shut behind them, leaving Everett and Lord Linfield alone in the foyer of his mighty mansion, Everett spun back towards him, clapped his hand atop Nathaniel’s shoulder and spewed, “She has you wrapped around her little finger, my boy.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Lord Linfield offered.
“No, my boy. No, you don’t,” Everett said. He marched back towards the staircas
e, tapping his hand atop the railing and flashing his fingers as he did it. “You know, that Judgement of Death Act. I was reading a bit more about it.”
“Oh?”
Everett’s face lit up with an almost clownish expression. “I feel as though it’s a dawning of a new age, Nathaniel. With us young men in Parliament, perhaps we can make real changes.” He tapped a finger against his forehead, shrugging. “Perhaps with brains like Lady Elizabeth Byrd at our behest, we can actually make decisions that alter the course of people’s lives—for the better.”
Nathaniel’s head spun with drink and confusion. He churned a finger across one of his rogue curls. “You don’t think my father did everything he could to keep the people of this country safe?”
“I think he was part of the old guard,” Everett said. “Part of the white-haired, tired men who fought for themselves and their wives and the people they saw at galas and balls. Perhaps we have a different duty, Lord Linfield. Perhaps we have to expect something more of ourselves.”
With a strange little shrug, Everett spun back up the steps. His cackle echoed down the hall, just before he disappeared into Nathaniel’s father’s study. How wretched it was that time had to continue forth, that Nathaniel and Everett were no longer the young boys allowed to scamper through the fields—their minds far from the thoughts of men or laws or Parliament seats. Then again, how marvellous it was to be given the opportunity for power.
With that power, Lord Linfield knew he was meant to make well-balanced decisions. That he had to take every mind and position and status in London, no, all of England into account.
And perhaps with Lady Elizabeth Byrd’s empathy, he would find a way.
And perhaps, en route to assisting England, he would find his way to Lady Elizabeth’s heart. Somehow, that seemed even more complicated than anything else.
Chapter 23
It was Saturday. The very Saturday Lady Elizabeth and Lord Linfield had planned for their excursion together. And it was as though God himself had been alerted of such an occasion, as he’d parted the grey clouds and splayed bright blue sky above the rooftops over London. It was a rare sight in the haze of December, so close to Christmas. In her little shack-like home, Lady Elizabeth shivered, her hands over her mug of tea. It was almost as though things would be all right.
Peter scrambled around the kitchen. Midway through his first French book, he’d decided he was fatigued of studying and that he so yearned to perfect a scone recipe. And thus, he’d begun to bake—stirring and speckling the countertop with flour. Lady Elizabeth drew her arms above her head, making her shoulders crack.
“It smells marvellous, Peter.” She sighed. Her brain spun from a morning of non-stop writing. It hadn’t occurred to her to be hungry until just now, as she spotted him placing a platter of baked scones onto the counter.
“Thank you, my lady,” Peter said, grinning so that his crooked teeth cut out over his lips. “I had hoped that Lord Linfield might want to try one when he arrives.”
Peter had been dutiful in his new job, ensuring that Lord Linfield received the address to their home and then prattling about, cleaning the nooks and crannies. Lady Elizabeth had told him that she felt sure Lord Linfield wouldn’t wish to spend much time in their little “perhaps TOO cosy” house, but Peter hadn’t been able to comprehend this. After all, until very recently, he’d been completely homeless. What was wrong with their shack? It was warm and dry and well-stocked with beds and food. Perhaps it was true; perhaps the boy had a point.
Throughout the previous days, Lady Elizabeth had put her pen to paper and begun to write a philosophical essay, largely drawing from her work at the nearby shelter and her conversations with Peter. She was attempting to remark on what made a life truly beautiful. And, as Peter pointed out, it certainly wasn’t money. As Lady Elizabeth had once had immense wealth, herself, she felt like a worthy figure to present her opinions. And the words flowed freely, beautifully. When Irene had peeked over her shoulder the previous evening, she’d remarked that the writing was even better than the majority of her political texts. “There’s more heart to it,” she’d said.
“What time will he arrive?” Peter asked then, pressing his palms together in an anxious motion.
“I suppose he’ll be here any moment,” Bess said.
A jolt of fear passed through her. A crinkle appeared between her eyebrows. The previous evening with Lord Linfield had generated within her even more of an alarming sensation—one that told her she regarded Lord Linfield as a suitor, rather than an employer. It wasn’t anything she would ever do anything about, for she knew the ultimate ending of such a romantic endeavour: she would be a simple wife to a Lord, a Countess. And she wouldn’t be allowed to do all the marvellous work she felt she’d only just begun. The work at the homeless shelter. The work at The Rising Sun. The work that made up her very being; it would no longer be hers if she gave herself over to love.
At least, that’s what she thought.
But it didn’t mean she didn’t ache to see Lord Linfield. And when she heard the rap on the door, she shot up from her chair so fast that it rattled to the ground behind her. Peter scampered to the door, reaching it before her and whirling it open. Lord Linfield stood on the other side, tall and dapper. He wore a thick black hat and a regal-looking coat. The dark eyes that peered down upon Lady Elizabeth glinted, showing some kind of unreadable emotion. Did it match the romantic feeling Bess felt throttling in her own heart?
“Good afternoon, Lady Elizabeth. Peter,” Lord Linfield offered, removing his hat.
Bess’ eyes traced down his leg, watching as his rather expensive Italian-made shoes swept over the door stoop and into their foyer. For a moment, she was horrified that a man of his stature would see where she and Irene had made their home. But she fell backward, allowing him space to move forward. And his face held none of the judgement she might have attributed to him.
“What a cosy place,” he said, making his smile wider.
“I’ve prepared scones!” Peter cried before darting into the far kitchen and lifting the platter. The platter was still piping hot, causing him to drop it back on the counter. He rubbed his finger, frowning. “Oh dear me. What an imbecile.”
Bess scuttled into the kitchen after him. “Are you all right, Peter?”
“You shouldn’t really make such a fuss about me,” Lord Linfield said, coming up behind. “Truly.”
Peter hadn’t fully damaged himself, and all the attention seemed to make his pain dissipate. “Nonsense,” he offered. “Please, sit. I’ll serve you.”
Lady Elizabeth found herself perched on the very edge of her normal chair, whilst Lord Linfield sat on Irene’s. He glanced down at the pages before her, the intricate scrawl of her writing.
“I don’t suppose you’re working on writing you actually care about?” he asked, his voice rising.
Bess blushed. “I told you. If you decided to come with me today …”
“And I have. So you must be,” Lord Linfield said. He brought a tentative hand into the air and nabbed the edge of a paper. “May I?”
“If you must,” Bess said. Her cheeks grew hot. “I can’t imagine it’ll be much of anything quite yet. I’m so early in the first stages. It deserves several rounds of edits before any eyes read over it.”
But already, Lord Linfield whipped the page before him. Peter strutted up behind him and placed a plate with a scone and a bit of cream to his left. Lord Linfield thanked Peter without looking away from the page. Peter added a second plate beside Bess and then nibbled at his own while standing and pacing the kitchen. The silence felt like its own entity. Lady Elizabeth prayed that Lord Linfield wouldn’t scoff, wouldn’t say something that would make her regret ever putting pen to paper.
But finally, he turned his eyes back to her. He sniffed, then gripped the edge of his scone and tore it. His face was largely unreadable.
“What? What is it?” Bess demanded, her eyebrows lowering. “Please, don’t make a fool o
f me. I wouldn’t have allowed you to read it if …”
