by Abigail Agar
But imagining those conversations she longed to have with Lord Linfield made her heart beat wildly in her chest. She swallowed hard, shot up from her desk and marched towards Irene’s office. She peered in through the window, watching as Irene blared at one of their newer writers, a boy of no more than 22, who cowered before her. “You really went to university? I can’t imagine anyone who’s read a single book in their lives could ever write so poorly. This is preposterous.”
“Please, Ms Follett. You really can’t fire me,” the poor kid sighed, just barely loud enough for Bess to hear through the window. “My mother, she …”
“As if I could possibly care a pinch about your mother,” Irene said, her eyes like a cat’s. “Please, don’t be so foolish as to think that. It’s belittling to both of us. Now, darling, please run back to your desk and write me the best argument you possibly can for why I should allow you to keep your column at The Rising Sun. Have it to me by the end of the day.”
The boy stood up from his chair so fast that it flung out behind him, tipping this way and that. He stuttered his thanks and then rushed out the door. Irene watched him with a strange mix of humour and anger. Then, she traced her eyes up to find Bess’s. She gestured for Bess to enter.
When she did, she closed the door behind her and let out a long sigh. “My goodness. You really tore into him,” Bess said.
“Well, if you have a better idea of how to make these younger writers learn, then please, tell me,” Irene said, lowering her brows. “I can’t afford to pay for another know-nothing writer. Like Marvin? I should have fired him years ago. The time for cutting the fat is always, Bess.” She paused for a moment.
Bess righted the flung-back chair and perched on the edge, sanding her hands over her knees. It felt strange to speak, as her brain felt several miles away—lost in that Lord Linfield daydream.
“Peter should be stopping by soon to drop off our lunches,” Bess offered, filling the silence.
“Goodness, that boy,” Irene said, chuckling. “He’s certainly eager, isn’t he? And didn’t you see the way he was looking up at Lord Linfield and Lord Beauchamp last night? It felt as though he could worship them, don’t you think?”
Bess felt her lips shiver into a smile.
“He looked at Lord Linfield certainly as brightly as you have been,” Irene said, speaking slower.
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Irene,” Bess stammered. “He’s only an employer. Nothing more.”
“Well, I have to say. The previous few articles you’ve written about him for The Rising Sun have been more or less stellar,” Irene said, her eyes sparkling. “I can feel them verging towards thinly-veiled love letters …”
“Irene!” Bess said. She felt a wave of anger through her belly. She was just like that young writer out in The Rising Sun main office, scribbling out the reasons he should remain on staff. “You really know what to say to rile people up today, don’t you?”
“It is my task to speak the truth,” Irene offered, shrugging.
Bess just rolled her eyes and returned to her desk, forcing herself to focus on her many tasks of the day. This first day of Peter’s assistantship raced into the next, and then the next, until finally, at the end of the week, Bess prepared herself for Lord Linfield’s next speech.
It was early December, and Bess bundled herself up midway through the day—praying that her fingers wouldn’t be too chilly to scribe notes for herself. The staff writers at The Rising Sun were particularly bleary-eyed that day and hardly glanced up at her as she prepared to leave. When she reached the door, she made final eye contact with Irene, who nodded firmly. Bess just rolled her eyes, recognising the expression as one almost mocking her. “I know how you feel about him,” Irene seemed to say.
Or perhaps that was just a projection. Bess wasn’t entirely certain.
As Bess walked across the downtown cobblestones, her feet hobbling over the occasional cracked stone, she spotted Peter at the nearby market. Although it was only his first week, he’d already become a prime haggler, ensuring that he, Bess, and Irene had the best cuts of meat and cheeses for the finest prices. The previous evening at dinner, Irene had said that Peter had the brain of a businessman. At this, Bess had affirmed that even if he had the brain of a businessman, he had the heart of a writer or an artist. Peter’s cheeks had burned with embarrassment.
He certainly wasn’t accustomed to being spoken of in such a grand way.
Bess didn’t want to pester him during his haggling session. She ducked past, falling in line with the crowd that drew itself around the stage. In the midst of so many people, Bess could forget about the chill for a bit. Instead, she busied herself eavesdropping—relishing the words people said about Lord Linfield and his run for Parliament.
“When I first saw him at this very stage, many weeks ago, I said to Lord Tyler, I said, absolutely not! What a horrendous speaker he was. Absolutely atrocious. My own wife could have done better,” one man said, his voice boisterous and round.
Bess felt the strangest sensation of being filled with a secret. The secret was round and warm within her. She grinned, drawing out a pad of paper and waiting. The crowd filled in behind her, becoming thick.
“He really draws quite the crowd these days,” another man said, his voice raspy. “Although I don’t know that I trust he doesn’t have a wife. What do you make of it?”
“The man must think he’s too good for such propriety, that’s what I think,” another said. “It’s ridiculous, at the age of 32, not to have a family of your own. Why, I already had four children and another on the way at that time! Doesn’t he value all that’s come before? Doesn’t he value how things have always been done?”
“But isn’t there something to be said of a fresh perspective?” another offered.
“Shhh!” Someone shushed the two loud-talkers as a tall, gaunt man pounded across the stage and lifted his hands. “Be quiet! It’s nearly time.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ladies,” the gaunt man began. “As you know, today we will have another round of speeches for the men running for Parliament. Lord Nathaniel Linfield will begin, and then we’ll have Lord Zachary Tomlin, along with a brief song from the chamber singers. I expect your complete respect throughout the speeches. Thank you.”
Bess didn’t realise she was holding her breath. She watched Lord Linfield mount the stage—towering over the rest of them with his six foot four frame. To her surprise, he didn’t reach for his notes for his speech. Instead, he addressed the crowd with firm confidence.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “It’s my unique pleasure to speak to you here today, just a few weeks before the end of the year. I know that next year will be a strange shift; that many of you are hunting for ways to become more comfortable, to provide for your families and become better friends. And I can assure you that the tasks I have in mind, when I reach Parliament, will ensure this more bountiful future.”
Bess couldn’t believe it. It seemed Lord Linfield had actually memorised her speech! He hadn’t put himself through such a task in the many weeks since she’d begun working for him, and she felt mesmerised, knowing that he’d assuredly stayed up many nights, holding her words against his tongue.
Bess reminded herself to breathe after that and began to scribble notes regarding his manner with the people, his newfound confidence. Frequently, her eyes flickered up to the crowd. They were completely captivated with his words.
Of course, yet again, Lord Linfield didn’t include the portion of the speech that Lady Elizabeth had written about the Judgement of Death Act. Eternally, she wrote to the side of it that it was still “optional,” if he hadn’t yet restructured his opinion. Instead, he hopped over those paragraphs to the conclusion, flashing a final smile to the crowd and giving them a firm, flat-handed wave.
Within seconds, he was off the stage, allowing the next speaker. Propelled by some unseen force, Bess found herself churning through the crowd towards where Lord Linfield watche
d the rest of the proceedings. She swallowed hard, still listening to the surrounding audience as they applauded his speech. “Really a swell job. Didn’t know he had it in him.”
As Bess walked, she felt brimming with some sort of unspeakable hope. She couldn’t possibly comprehend it. What would happen when she spotted Lord Linfield on the other side of this all-but impenetrable crowd? She imagined strange things. Kisses and touching, big smiles that seemed charged with promise.
Ha. As if that could ever be her life.
With a final jostle, she shot through the crowd and found herself half-panting, staring at the small line of Richard, Lord Linfield, and a few other members of Parliament, there to watch the charade. Richard leaned close to Lord Linfield, whispering something in his ear. Bess felt a jolt of fear. How could she possibly approach the two of them, given the parameters she had set for their arrangement? Nobody was to know who she was: a speechwriter. Nobody was to know her name.
Already, it had been an incredible blow, hearing Lord Beauchamp speak about his memory of her. While of course, she, too, liked envisioning herself as this past-debutante (how beautiful she’d been…), it still drudged up painful memories. Lord Beauchamp hadn’t seemed to know what had befallen her in the years since he’d left the scene. But that wasn’t to say that he hadn’t fought to find out and had then given that information over to Lord Linfield …
She knew it was up to her to be upfront with the information. To tell Lord Linfield the truth. No matter how difficult that truly was.
But just as Bess was preparing to high-tail it back though the crowd and escape back to The Rising Sun offices, Lord Linfield turned his head towards her and captured her. Immediately, his smile widened. He turned his entire body towards her. Bess felt frozen, completely enraptured. If someone approached her just now and flicked her shoulder, she might have fallen to the ground.
“Lady Elizabeth Byrd!” Lord Linfield said, bowing his head as he approached. It seemed he was conscious that she needed to be regarded as someone he hardly knew.
For this, Bess was both grateful and anxious.
“Hello,” Bess murmured, allowing him to take her hand.
Lord Linfield stepped closer. “It’s good to see you. I never imagined we would be able to connect after a speech. Always it seemed as though you slipped out of the crowd like some kind of ghost.”
Bess chuckled and swept a curl behind her ear. She turned her eyes to the ground, feeling lost in thought. “You really were remarkable up there,” she said.
Lord Linfield moved his lips towards her ear. They were but inches away. Bess felt unable to breathe. “I suppose you noticed that I memorised it.”
“It made all the difference in the world,” Bess said, unable to stop a giggle from escaping her lips. She felt strangely girlish, a woman far younger than herself.
There was a long pause. Silence overtook the crowd as another speaker stomped onto the stage. Bess felt out of her element. Everything in her told her to turn away from the crowd, run back to The Rising Sun offices. She didn’t belong out there, certainly not with Lord Linfield.
As the speaker began, Lord Linfield whispered once more in her ear. She relished the breath upon her ear. She relished the smell of his tobacco. She so yearned to turn her lips into his, to kiss him there in front of everyone, pressed down upon by that impenetrable grey winter sky.
“I really do need to thank you properly,” he said.
“For what?” Bess asked, stitching her eyebrows over her eyes.
“You know for what,” Lord Linfield said. “You’ve gone above and beyond the call of any duty. My speeches have been spoken of far and wide. You’re a remarkable writer, Lady Elizabeth. And I want to have you back to mine for dinner. You can’t possibly refuse.”
Bess’s lips parted. She ached to bring her cheek just a few inches forward, to drop it against his chest and hold it tight. But she kept herself far back, knowing that to do that would give her entire heart away. She knew better than to do that.
She knew so much better.
“Please, Lady Elizabeth. You can bring Lady Irene Follett along with you if it pleases you. She’s quite a spitfire, isn’t she? Always one to speak her mind.” Again he paused, looking at her almost incredulously. “And really, I believe you to be the same, Lady Elizabeth, if it doesn’t mean I’m speaking out of turn. To be frank, the words you put out on the page are incredibly powerful. And perhaps you need only something like a stage, like I have, to give them to the people.”
Bess allowed herself to gaze into his eyes for only a moment. Her tongue felt strange and tense in her mouth. How could she possibly speak? She swallowed hard and then nodded, giving him a soft grin.
“Wonderful,” Lord Linfield said. “I’ll have the cook prepare something perfect for you. It’s a celebration. For, the men have told me I’m all but set for a position in Parliament.”
He leaned a bit closer, so much so that Bess could feel his breath upon the back of her neck.
“All thanks to you, I don’t have to take part in those foolish Season balls next year,” he added. “I’ll be busy with Parliament, actually having conversations I’ve always wished to have, instead of falling through dance step after dance step. You can’t imagine what a relief I have for that, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I remember the conversations all too well,” Lady Elizabeth countered. “Whenever I tried to deviate from the original course—talk about something that actually mattered …”
“It went poorly, didn’t it?” Lord Linfield offered. “For if you have anything of interest to say, you don’t belong there at all.”
Bess found herself awash with yet another memory, this time of Conner. During one of their first meetings, Bess had tried to speak to him about the Shakespearean play she’d been reading at the time. Admittedly, it had been a phase she’d been in—one she hadn’t been able to shake. But Conner had brushed her to the side, almost shrugging. “Darling, if you don’t want to dance with me, then just say so.” At the time, she’d thought it to be incredibly charming. A man had actually wanted to dance! With her!
But now, she reflected back on it and realised that instead, Conner had simply wanted to “get” with her—not know her mind. He hadn’t cared a single bit for Shakespeare, or for any other writer.
In fact, he had hardly allowed her to have those conversations throughout their courting. Even when they’d been engaged, Bess had had to play the part of a much smaller woman. She’d had to step back, watch as Conner and her father had engaged in ready banter. How their eyes had flashed as they’d shaken hands. How their bodies and minds had seemed aligned from day one.
Why hadn’t Bess read between the lines? Why hadn’t she just said something, done something?
Perhaps she could have stopped everything.
“I’ll have Richard send you a letter for more precise arrangements,” Lord Linfield said, his smile faltering.
Bess realised she was being strange, not answering his recent comment. She nodded, smearing her chilly hands across her dress. She shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.
“Wonderful,” she murmured, her voice hushed. “Truly.”
Should she make some sort of comment regarding her silence? Some sort of excuse? Lord Linfield beamed down at her, seemingly awash with emotion. But Bess couldn’t attribute that emotion to herself, no. Rather, it was surely in direct relation to the speech he’d just made. He was now a country-wide famous orator. He now had immense glory.
Bess had been briefly famous—her name whispered into the ears of countless debutantes across the moors. “Don’t end up like Lady Elizabeth. Watch who you give your dances to. Don’t you see her, now? She’s ruined. Absolutely ruined. And she’ll never become anything at all.”
Seconds later, after a very brief goodbye, she shot away from Lord Linfield, stumbling out of the crowd. She huffed, trying to get her breath back. With a jolt, she realised she’d been meant to pay attention to the current speaker at
the front; she was the political writer, after all. She began to scribble down notes of what she remembered from his speech, knowing full-well that her notes were mostly centred on the back-end of his message. It would have to do. And perhaps—perhaps—Irene wouldn’t notice.