by Abigail Agar
Still, it was unlike Bess to make a mockery out of her writing career like that. Irene always said of Bess that she was more prepared than anyone she’d met in her life. “If I could have you train the idiotic men at the paper, then I’m sure we would have a much more prosperous and driven office.”
Perhaps Bess was, in the end, just like every other woman. When she fell in love—not that that was what it was, of course—she had her head in the clouds, no longer aware of her responsibilities. Thank goodness she’d hired Peter. Perhaps he could pick up some of the slack.
And when Bess arrived home that evening, she saw she was correct in her thinking, as Peter had prepared an incredible feast. Bread from the nearby bakery, cheeses from the local vendor, vegetables stewing with beef. Bess realised she hadn’t eaten all day and felt suddenly ravenous. She tossed her coat upon the hanger and brought her hands together, rubbing the palms.
“Your cheeks are bright red with cold!” Irene called from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug.
“Irene! I didn’t expect you home quite yet,” Bess said. She slipped into the chair beside her, giving her a broad smile. “What with your obsession in staying at the office at least four hours after printing, for goodness knows what reason.”
“Someone has to do it,” Irene tittered. “Someone has to man the fort, ensure everything’s fully stocked and prepared for tomorrow. But thankfully, Peter helped out a bit this afternoon whilst you were at the speeches. Couldn’t have made it out of there as quickly without him.”
Peter gave a nervous smile before ripping open a piece of bread and chewing at the sharp, crusty edges anxiously.
Irene had her hair in curls down her back and shoulders and peered at Bess with fatigued eyes. She lifted her mug to Bess, cheering her. “But it seems that Peter hasn’t spent the entirety of today cleaning the floors and organising The Rising Sun,” she said, grinning. “It seems we have a mighty language force on our hands.”
Peter swallowed his bit of bread, drawing a hand over his throat. “She’s really making me blush, Lady Elizabeth. But it’s true. I spent a great deal of time of today studying your language books. French. What a gorgeous and confusing language! You know, you don’t pronounce half of the syllables.”
Bess beamed at him, incredulous.
“And it’s really a result of being with those men. Lord Beauchamp and Lord Linfield,” Peter continued. “An education is a man’s right, I think. And since I will soon be one …”
“You certainly are far more of a man than most I already know,” Irene said. Her long arm stretched over the table and gripped a knife. She smashed it into the stubby side of a piece of butter and smeared it, continuing to prattle. “As I’m sure you know, many of the men at The Rising Sun are privileged fools. And I’m a fool for not yet firing them. But you work your way up, Peter, I don’t see any reason why you can’t be a journalist in your own right. You don't want to be a Lord when instead you could be on a quest for knowledge like Lady Elizabeth and I.” Irene’s eyes flashed towards Bess, questioning. “Isn’t that right?”
But Bess was awash with another wave of emotion, remembering that in just a few short days she would be back at the home of Lord Linfield, basking in his gaze. She coughed, and then asked, “I don’t suppose I can interest you in dinner at Lord Linfield’s next week?”
Irene’s head shook slowly, almost imperceptibly. Her look seemed a mix of confusion and humour. If Peter hadn’t been there, Bess knew she would have demanded, “What on earth has gotten into you?”
But instead, Irene just shrugged, saying, “Sure. Why not? Their chef’s surely not as good as Peter here, but he’ll have to do.”
Chapter 22
For the evening of the dinner with Lady Elizabeth, Lord Linfield specifically chose a day he understood his mother to be spending the evening in downtown London with her sister. In the back of his mind, he wondered how much longer he would have to continue this charade—this running around his mother’s back. In essence, he felt sure he had to continue the albeit very minor lies until he knew precisely what had happened with Lady Elizabeth’s ex-fiancé and father.
It was likely that his mother, a London gossip and woman continually in-the-know, had heard about what happened to Lady Elizabeth. It was likely that she’d had her own opinions at the time. And Lord Linfield wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know them, as he felt awash with pleasure at the mere thought of Lady Elizabeth—and tainting that was nothing he was interested in. At least, not yet.
He watched his mother don her hat in the foyer of the mansion, scuttling about. As he watched her, Barney ambled up beside him, limping on his bum leg. Nathaniel reached down, scrubbing his fingers against the dog’s ear, his eyes still captivated upon his mother.
“That poor baby dog,” Lady Linfield sighed, casting a glance towards Barney. “When you’re gone, you know he curls up at my feet. Just whimpers and then falls to sleep. ’Tis the sweetest thing your mother’s ever seen.”
“I’ve been monitoring the edge of the forest, ensuring that hunters aren’t dropping their traps so close to the house,” Nathaniel said.
“Good,” his mother said, although it was clear her mind was elsewhere. Her hands were anxious spiders, drawing over the collar of her coat to straighten herself up and hunting for her purse in the nearby wardrobe. “You can’t possibly imagine what Mary has been up to as of late,” Lady Eloise Linfield said, speaking of her sister. “I’ve heard tell that she’s been out with a member of Parliament, Lord Cottrill. That older widow, you know the one? The one who wears a wig? My goodness, her husband’s been cold in the ground for only a year and now she’s wandering around, sipping champagne with that old bag.”
“My darling Mother, I don’t imagine it’s very kind to call Lord Cottrill an old bag,” Lord Linfield said, his voice teasing.
“Well, I’m not here to be terribly kind.” Lady Linfield sighed. “Although I am here to find my purse. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it, have you?”
Lord Linfield gave a cursory glance at the side table beneath the foyer mirror. He caught a final reflection of himself. He’d made extra care to sweep back his curls, to look especially clean and dapper.
And of course, this was a clear sign to his mother that something was amiss. He should have been conscious of this and fixed himself up after she left. But he’d been anxious and crazed, wondering what sort of thing he and Lady Elizabeth would speak about that evening. Always their conversations surprised him, thrilled him.
“What’s gotten into you this evening?” she demanded, finally pulling her purse out from beneath the foyer bench.
“I don’t suppose I know what you mean, Mother,” Lord Linfield said, sounding nonplussed.
“Yes you do. You look especially handsome this evening, and you know it to be true.” His mother leaned tighter towards him, squinting her eyes. It was as if she felt she could peer all the way through him and see into his deepest thoughts. “I haven’t spoken with the cook, but I imagine there’s something amiss. You’re having a dinner of sorts tonight, aren’t you?”
“If you must know, Mother, I’m again having Lord Everett Beauchamp for a meal, along with a few political writers,” Lord Linfield said, stammering slightly. He hated when he lost such confidence in front of her. If he could speak with such elegance in front of a crowd of hundreds, why couldn’t he stand his ground in front of his mother?
“Political writers, once more,” Lady Linfield said, her eyes sparkling. “It’s almost curious enough for me to call off time with my sister. Although, I must admit, I’m terribly curious about the gossip regarding Lord Cottrill. What’s a woman to do?”
“It’s truly terrible for you, as you’re interested in so many, many people’s business,” Lord Linfield said, rolling his eyes back.
“I knew you’d understand my predicament.” His mother sighed. She stretched up and placed a kiss upon Lord Linfield’s cheek before strutting towards the door. “Tell your political wr
iters I say hello. And Nathaniel …” At the door, she spun back, her eyes cat-like and sharp. “Nathaniel, if one of them is truly interested in marrying you, just marry her. My goodness, I’m getting older and older every day. If I don’t have a grandchild to belittle and then train into becoming the best and most proper and prosperous Linfield, one worthy of your father and I’s line, then I simply will go mad. And then you’ll have to visit me at the madhouse. I’m fairly certain you don’t want that.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes back. “No, Mother. I don’t,” he said sighing.
Just as Eloise began to sneak out of the house, however, Nathaniel took a firm step forward. Eloise heard the knock of his shoe against the wooden floor.
“Mother, it’s true. It’s true that I’ve developed feelings for someone,” he said. “And it’s very true that she’ll be here this evening.”
Eloise gave him a soft, genuine smile. It was clear this was all she’d ever wanted from him: a jolt of honesty.
“She’s been teaching me to speak better. To address the crowd in a way that shows both power and empathy,” Lord Linfield continued. “And truly, she’s a remarkable writer. One of the best I’ve read. I initially assumed her to be a man, which, of course, was an ill-conceived thought. For truly, some of the brightest people in the world are the women in my life. You included, Mother.”
Eloise’s shoulders shook slightly with humour. “Oh, Nathaniel. Of course we’re smarter than men. It’s a balancing act, I’ll have you know. We have to continually allow you to think you’re superior, while secretly making all the rules ourselves. It’s terribly thrilling, and terribly difficult. And too often, we’re not given the credit we deserve.”
She paused for a moment. The wind swept in through the open door, casting cold chills down Lord Linfield’s back.
“Please, ask her to dinner with me, next time,” Eloise requested. “I’m incredibly interested in this woman who’s captured my son’s heart. I’m fairly certain it’s never been captured before.”
“You’re correct,” Nathaniel said.
“So you’ll ask her?” Eloise asked.
“I’ll do my best. There are some complications,” Nathaniel offered.
“There are always complications,” Eloise said. “There’s simply nothing more complicated than love. Which I’m about to discover, I think, with the gossip regarding my dear sister and Lord Cottrill. If I don’t leave this moment, I’ll be terribly late. And you know that I can’t muck up my reputation like that, my boy.”
Eloise kissed the top of her palm and blew it with pursed lips. Nathaniel hadn’t time to react before she smashed the door closed between them. He simply gaped, realising that his feelings were real. They were genuine.
They were big enough that he’d had to confess them to his mother, which meant everything.
An hour prior to dinner, Lord Beauchamp arrived. He bolted through the front door with a bottle of whisky stretched forward in his left hand. He held it like a kind of weapon, or a medal. “Good evening!” he cried. “I’ve brought one of the very best from my collection for this evening.”
Lord Linfield led Everett into his father’s study, where he drew out two antique crystal glasses. He placed them upon his desk and poured them each an inch of whisky. Everett’s eyes glittered as they clinked glasses.
“I read The Rising Sun’s review of your previous speech,” Everett said. “I couldn’t have imagined a better review for you. Everyone’s saying it’s fairly certain you’ve locked down the seat. Congratulations are in order.”
Nathaniel gave Everett a half-smile. “This is a celebration of sorts,” he said. “With Lady Elizabeth Byrd and her friend, that Irene Follett.”
“Ah! My goodness,” Everett said. “You mentioned there would be other guests, but I didn’t imagine …” He paused for a moment, his smile widening. “I knew I was correct in your feelings for her, Lord Linfield. If you don’t mind me saying.”
“It’s terribly complicated, Everett,” Lord Linfield stammered.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Everett offered.
How strange that everyone seemed to be saying the same thing. Lord Linfield forced his eyes down, unable to feel Everett’s gaze upon him. The gaze felt like it demanded something from him. An answer or a bit of bravery Nathaniel wasn’t yet sure he had.
The men sipped their whiskies in silence, with Nathaniel blinking down at his shoes. Moments later, one of the maids arrived to announce the women’s arrival. Nathaniel’s heart cranked up in his chest. “I think I need to get the full story on what happened to her,” he murmured, following Everett towards the door. “I can’t possibly do anything until then. Not that it’s necessary. As we both know, love is a menial thing, when compared to everything else.”
“Menial, perhaps,” Everett said, arching his brow. “But you know better than most that I spend many nights up late, staring out the window and wondering what might have been with my woman. The one mere blocks away. The one with a child, with an entire life that has nothing to do with mine.”
When the men reached the first landing on the staircase, they stood in full view of the ladies. Stretched-out and almost-too-tall Irene, who gave Nathaniel a sneaky smile as she removed her gloves and flashed her white fingers into the foyer air. Lady Elizabeth Byrd stood beside her, blinking nervously. Her coat was an elegant, dark green. She swept it off her shoulders like some kind of cape and placed it over the coat rack. She seemed to be making a conscious effort not to look Lord Linfield in the eyes.
Was it as intense for her as it was for him?
“Ladies!” Everett said in greeting. “How wonderful to see you again.”
The greetings were performed, seemingly rushed and strange. When Lord Linfield found his hand over Lady Elizabeth’s, his heart scuttled in his chest. For a moment, their eyes met, and Lord Linfield felt he could count each and every moment that Lady Elizabeth had spent thinking about him and only him since their previous meeting.
Although, of course, he couldn’t be sure of such a thing. It could have been projection. There was no way to know.
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.”