by Abigail Agar
“I’m going to take care of you, until you can take care of yourself,” Irene had told her. “But know that you can do it. Your father and your fiancé’s ways of dealing with the world involved swindling, robbing people blind. They involved ruining people for no good reason beyond evil. But yours, Bess? I’ve known from the beginning that you’re terribly kind. That you’re smarter than you could possibly know. You won’t let this defeat you. You won’t let it swallow you whole.”
The following morning, Bess arrived back at The Rising Sun, ready to perfect her upcoming essay regarding Lord Linfield’s recent failure of a speech. Irene met her gaze from across her desk, tilting her head towards Marvin. Marvin had begun pacing the room, muttering to himself. Another writer, a man named Quintin who covered the comic strip, approached Bess’s desk, his eyes bright with humour.
“What is going on with Marvin?” Bess asked.
“He can’t stand being outdone by this L.B. writer,” Quintin said. “I wanted to ask you. You don’t know who the writer is, do you? I swear, it’s driving me crazy. The writing is better than most of the stuff we’ve published since I took on this position.”
Quintin turned back, leaning heavily against Bess’s secretary desk. They watched Marvin as he skated through another round of pacing, his chin drawing tighter against his chest.
“Some men just can’t handle the pressure of failure.” Quintin sighed. “Good thing I’m just a comic drawer, hey? Not so much ego tied up in that.” He reached across the desk, grabbing Bess’s quill and twirling it in his fingers.
Bess felt her throat grow tense. Why on earth was Quintin acting this way? She felt a flash of anger, one of wanting to grab her pen back and tell him to move away from her desk. She remembered, again, what Irene had said to her. She had built this life. She couldn’t allow men—men who belittled her, who never gave a single thought to a woman having any thought beyond a man’s—to walk all over her.
“Excuse me,” Bess said, her voice dropping.
Quintin didn’t pay attention to her. He tossed her quill into the air and then caught it with two fingers. He wagged his eyebrows at her. Bess couldn’t tell if this was some sort of schoolboy flirtation or simply a man trying to waste his time and hers.
“I do apologise, Quintin, but I have to get back to work,” she stammered. The blood rushed up to her cheeks. “I really do have to insist.”
Quintin gave her a strange, rather ominous smile. He smacked her quill back atop her desk, leaning heavily over the top of her. “You know, you’re getting up there in years. Old Bess. I have to imagine many men haven’t been knocking on your door, what with all the drama with your father. You’re going to be washed up soon. Ever thought you might not have children? Huh?”
Bess jumped up from her desk chair, grabbing the quill and pointing it towards him. Marvin had spun towards her, his eyes flustered and lost. It seemed he didn’t entirely know what he was looking at. Quintin delivered her a soul-crushing smile. He knew he’d beat her, that his tongue was faster and his insults deeper.
“Excuse me?” Irene said, her voice firm. She appeared in the doorway between her office and the greater one and was lending a dagger gaze to Quintin. “What seems to be the problem?”
Bess drew herself to her highest, five foot two height. She wished she could demand her heart to stop its anxious fluttering. It seemed to be a different specimen. Something she couldn’t trust.
“It seems that Quintin’s revealed a side of himself that we can’t terribly trust, here at this paper,” Marvin called from behind.
Bess blinked at Marvin, aghast. Marvin slipped forward and then shoved himself between Bess and Quintin. Quintin snivelled at him, leering with almost golden eyes.
“You expect me to be afraid of two women and a washed-up political writer?” Quintin stammered. “Because you know better than that, Marvin. You know if you were any better, you’d be writing political essays at a proper paper—and not this drivel this idiot woman shoves out.”
Quintin threw his hands into the air, marching backwards towards the door. All eyes of the staff were upon him, seemingly entering his body like daggers. As he walked, all the blood seemed to drain from his face. When he reached the doorway, Irene spat words, “Your comics were like the works of a child,” before thrusting herself forward and closing the door in his face.
The noise echoed through the office, chilling Bess to the bone. She remained standing while Irene whirled towards her, her cheeks bright red. She lifted her finger at Bess, whispering, “I told you. I always have your back.”
Then, she moved back to her office and slammed the door behind her. Each and every man at the office stared at Bess, and at the closed door, marvelling at this strong and empowered partnership. Inwardly, Bess smiled to herself, feeling firmer in her belief of herself than ever before.
Chapter 8
Lord Linfield took to the woods the following day with Barney. His boots crunched over the twigs, crackling them into pieces before slogging through the mushy leaves. Barney hustled at his side. At times, the pup flew too far ahead in the woods, leading Nathaniel to whistle him back. “Come on, boy,” Nathaniel said, whispering as he scratched Barney’s neck. “Don’t go too far ahead.”
The previous evening had intoxicated Nathaniel with its strangeness. He’d assumed the masterful writer, L.B., would arrive at his home, awash with philosophical prowess and ready to dive into an hours-long debate about Nathaniel’s speeches, about his abilities and lack-thereof. But instead, L.B. had been a gorgeous woman, with more intellect than he’d ever credited a woman with. He’d been unable to sleep for the majority of the night. Had he really asked a woman—a woman, unmarried and giving of her life to the service of a newspaper—to instruct him on his speeches?
He supposed he had.
When he arrived back at the house, his assistant, Richard, was waiting for him in the upstairs study. Richard was a few years older than Nathaniel and had actually come to the estate to work for Nathaniel’s father, just a year before Nathaniel’s father’s untimely death. The man was stoic and grey-faced, never rash with a joke or easy to laugh or banter. But he was trustworthy and firm, a mainstay in Nathaniel’s life.
Richard pressed an envelope atop the desk, moving it towards Nathaniel. “A pageboy came to drop this off this early afternoon,” he said. “It’s addressed to you, sir.”
Nathaniel peered at the familiar writing, knowing, with a jolt, that it was from L.B.—Elizabeth Byrd herself. He swallowed sharply, thanking Richard. “And, did you bring the paper?” he asked, feeling his stomach clench.
“I did indeed, sir. Although I must remind you, you become terribly upset when you read it. I think it might distract you from the task at-hand. You must begin preparations for next week’s speech,” Richard told him. “I dare say you’re growing better and better each time.”
“Certainly,” Nathaniel sighed, feeling strangely exhausted by the topic. “Although I’m afraid the progress isn’t coming quite fast enough.”
Richard excused himself, leaving Nathaniel with the letter. He placed a peanut on his tongue and chewed it slowly, reaching into his desk to draw out a letter opener. He stabbed it against the side and shoved it, tearing the paper and allowing the letter to filter out.
“Lord Linfield,” the letter began. “I’m writing, first and foremost, to thank you for the stunning dinner. My boss, the incredible editor Irene Follett, has stated, beyond shadow of a doubt, that it was the very best dinner she’s had in ages—and wouldn’t refuse another opportunity to dine with you.”
Lord Linfield chuckled to himself, remembering the way Irene had swallowed nearly half of her turkey in petrified anxiety, watching as the tension rose between himself and Bess. He continued reading, drawing his tongue across his teeth.
“I’ve thought long and hard regarding your offer to assist you in your speechwriting. I haven’t arrived at a set conclusion as of yet but would rather like to arrange a meeting with you to d
iscuss the terms. Perhaps you understand that as a single, professional person—regardless of gender—I must create boundaries for myself.
“Unfortunately,” the letter continued, “I don’t find the offices of The Rising Sun, nor my current quarters appropriate for this rather secret coordination. I would appreciate calling upon you again if it’s at all agreeable. I know, for Ms Irene Follett, and for myself, it would be a Godsend. Eternally yours, L.B.”
Lord Linfield didn’t wait a moment more to find his own quill and begin to address a letter in return. As he wrote, he felt strangely as if he was writing to that fictional L.B., still, rather than that bright-eyed Lady Elizabeth Byrd. But he wasn’t entirely sure how to address a woman of her smarts, as ordinarily he dealt with woman akin to, say, Lady Theresa—or all the other women his mother had brought to meet him.
It was simply a dialogue he wasn’t accustomed to.
“L.B.,” he wrote. “It would be my highest honour to receive someone of your incredible talent back at my home, tomorrow evening, at 7 p.m. sharp. Please tell Irene to come hungry. Yours, Lord Linfield.”
Lord Linfield sneaked the letter back into an envelope, then addressed it to L.B., knowing full-well that she needed to keep her identity a secret, just as he needed her to, as well. In the back of his mind, he reminded himself that he couldn't possibly be known as “that politician” who’d been “brought down” by a political essayist. Nor could he be known as the politician who’d taken speechwriting advice from a woman.
Even if that woman was the brilliant vessel that was Lady Elizabeth Byrd.
As her name ran through his head once more, he felt a strange adrenaline as if this was a name he recognised from the past. Had he once met her, during one of the Seasons? Had he perhaps danced with her, asked her questions, felt her hand in his? He couldn’t recall. There had been countless debutantes, countless parties, and countless potential pairs. “Lady Elizabeth Byrd. Lady Elizabeth Byrd.” He curled the words over his tongue, over and over again, knowing he sounded like some kind of lunatic.
How could he have possibly had a woman like that, with a brain, and not noticed? He marvelled. Of course, he knew it was impossible to remember.
He finished the letter and placed it at the edge of his desk, where, he knew, Richard would collect it in the morning and ensure it was received at its proper destination. Then, he sat back, trying to stir his mind around to find the proper words for his upcoming speech. Surely, if Elizabeth did decide to help him, he should give her the bare bones of what he wanted to say. And something within him wanted to impress her—especially since he’d been such a lacklustre speech-giver every other time she’d spotted him.
But each time he placed his quill to paper to rewrite his speech he scrunched up his nose with hesitation. He spent the majority of that afternoon in a similar state, lost in the chaos of his own head. Often, he wanted to return to thoughts of his father’s death to verbalise his opinions on capital punishment and against the Judgement of Death Act. In essence, the Judgement of Death Act gave people like the highwaymen who killed his father better chance of survival, even after committing such a wretched, life-altering deed. Thinking of them, now, his hands drew into fists. He felt awash with anger. How he yearned to find those men who’d ripped his father’s life out from under him! How he yearned to make them pay.
But it was difficult, putting this all into a speech that felt concise and clear. He sighed, tossing his quill back atop the desk and watching it bounce. Outside, the light had given in to the darkness—creating a smeary, grey, eerie look across the exterior gardens.
It would be another night of little sleep. It was already clear to him.
The following evening, Lord Linfield dressed in one of his finer suits and raked a comb through his tousled blond hair. He took fine care, in the mirror, sweeping a finger across his thick eyebrows and trimming his beard. He remembered that another woman his mother had brought to the house, perhaps three months ago, had muttered about his beard when he’d sent her away—when it had been clear that she wouldn’t be more to him but a passing memory. He hadn’t cared at all.
Lord Linfield was grateful that his mother had yet another occasion outside of the house that evening, ensuring that she wouldn’t be dining with the three of them. He didn’t want her to think he was in any way courting either of the women, nor did he want her to know precisely what he was up to. He couldn’t admit to his mother, of all people, that he yearned the support and guidance of a woman writer.
In fact, just asking for assistance at all was ordinarily something Nathaniel didn’t do. His mother knew that better than most. She would surely ask him if he was feeling all right.
The answer would be: He didn’t fully know himself.
Richard appeared outside his study door at the hour of seven, announcing that Lady Elizabeth Byrd and her companion, Irene Follett had arrived. Immediately, Lord Linfield shot to his feet and strode down the staircase, his shoes scuffing against the marble. When he entered the sitting room, he found Irene and Elizabeth sitting on the edge of the chairs he and his mother ordinarily sat in, facing one another. Bess's hands were atop her knees, and her spine was straight up and down—perhaps showing a level of anxiety, although Nathaniel couldn’t be certain.
“Good evening, ladies,” Nathaniel said.
Bess and Irene turned towards him, both standing. Nathaniel’s eyes remained on Bess’s for a moment too long. He leaned down and kissed the top of her hand before kissing Irene’s, as well. Then, he gestured towards the dining room. “Why don’t we head in?”
Around them, smells of baking bread, of sizzling vegetables, of meats swirled. Irene slid in front of them, giving them both an eagle-eyed look. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” she said.
Despite himself, Nathaniel heard himself laugh. Then, there was the twinkling laughter of Bess, herself. He glanced at her, surprised that such a gorgeous laugh could escape the lips of such a brilliant woman. It seemed to contrast with her articulate intelligence. It was girlish and funny, and it brought a smile to his lips. He made a note to himself to never tell her this thought.
But of course, in what context would he ever tell her such a thing?
They sat at the table, watching in silence as the team of maids filled their plates and wine glasses. Irene’s eyes flashed as her plate grew taller. Bess seemed to be fixated on one of the paintings across the room from her, a painting that Nathaniel’s father had had made of him and his hunting dogs. Nathaniel pointed to it, deciding to break the silence.
“My father was an excellent hunter. Most people only know him for his politics, but he manned a large team of hunting dogs. He took me out with him frequently. It was where he decided to teach me about the good and evil of this world,” Nathaniel offered. He reached for his roll, tore it into two pieces, and slathered one with butter.
Bess remained fixated on the painting. He blinked at her, marvelling again at her beauty. But she caught him looking, turning her eyes back to his. Trapped, he coughed, and then dropped his roll back to his plate.
“So, Bess,” he began. “I received your letter.”
“I assumed so,” Bess said, sounding almost snarky. “I received yours in return.”
“Right. Absolutely,” Nathaniel offered. He cleared his throat, wondering if he’d find a chance to eat throughout this strained encounter. Beside them, Irene had begun to eat happily, smearing butter across her roll and diving towards it. “Well, you mentioned that you wanted to discuss the, um. The arrangement.”
Bess nodded. She gripped her hands over the top of the table and leaned closer, her eyes becoming like slits. “Lord Linfield, I would like to take you up on your offer of helping you with your speeches.”
Nathaniel’s heart had begun to beat wildly. “That’s excellent. As I told you, I simply can’t return to the life of nothingness, outside of Parliament …” he began.
But Bess lifted her finger, forcing him to pause. “Please, let me go on
,” she told him.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Certainly.”
“I want to help you if you agree to my rules,” Bess continued. “I must tell you that they’re absolute. That I’m not here to negotiate.”