Chapter Two #2
The manservant entered with a tray. She must not have a large staff. That spoke well of frugality. It was then that Beckett noticed she was wearing some darker shade of purple, signaling half mourning. How long had she been a widow?
“I was told you are a widow,” he ventured, as the man put the tray down between them.
“You may go,” she informed the servant as cold and solid as any military man. To Beckett she said, “This is true.”
Beckett didn’t know what to do with that statement. This was such an odd conversation. But then, it was an odd situation. “I see you are wearing half-mourning colors. How long ago did he die?”
Mrs. Reid looked up, and the oddest thing happened: Her eye twitched. It was the first and only break in a severe demeanor he had seen. “Ten years.”
How many more minutes must he stay here? She was a pretty shriveled prune of a hellcat. What would Timothy say in this situation? “You must have loved him very much to still be wearing half mourning.”
“No,” Mrs. Reid responded. “Do you care for cream in your tea? I don’t believe in sugar, so I haven’t any of that.”
Beckett foundered in his head. She was a strange, strange woman. “No cream, no sugar.”
She poured with clean accuracy, and at this point, Beckett wouldn’t expect anything less.
She handed him a cup and saucer, which he took, waiting for her to pour her own.
She also drank it unadorned. They sipped in silence.
The tea was atrociously bad, as if the cook had merely placed the tea leaves near the pot as the water was poured.
Finally, Beckett could take it no longer. His small amount of patience had eroded. “Why am I here?”
“I was given to understand that you were in want of a wife. I have been instructed to put my neck on the chopping block.” She looked at him with her cool iron eyes. There was no love lost there. She wanted him here as much as he wanted to be here.
Still, his pride was pricked by her indifference to him. “Chopping block? Madam, I am an earl.”
“Your ancestors toadied up to Norman conquerors. What has that to do with you or me?” She cocked an insolent eyebrow. “If I could prove my ancestors did this or that, would you respect me more?”
He didn’t know which statement insulted him more. “Madam,” he huffed, “you should watch your words. To disrespect the monarchy—”
“I did not. I disrespected the third in a rank of five hereditary titles. Please be clear in your speech, sir. Hyperbole is the tool of buffoons and liars.”
His eyes went wide. “You are—”
She waved a hand of dismissal at him. “Say what you like. There is very little in the way of insults I have not heard with respect to my outward appearance, personality, or sexual habits.”
Beckett had half a mind to throw the teacup at the wall, just to break it. Instead, he got to his feet. He was shaking, barely able to contain his indignance. “It is clear that you do not wish my company, so I will cease to inflict it upon you.”
Relief seemed to wash over her face. She didn’t even bother to try and hide it. As if now propriety was required, she stood as well. “Thank you for your visit.”
Beckett was almost out of the room before his curiosity got the better of him. It was always his undoing. “If you did not want a suitor, why did you ask for one? I have a friend—”
She interrupted him, because of course she did. Her rudeness was boundless. “I did not request a suitor. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, I’m afraid. Your visit is a consequence that I was required to endure.”
He turned and assessed her one last time. Her words stung, but there was no malice behind it. She was impatient to make him leave, yes, and that perversely made him want to stay. Her brutal words made him want to be equally brutal in return. “You have a lover, then?”
But she was no shrinking violet. “No, I do not.”
He frowned. “Are you particularly religious?”
“I do not believe in God at all, sir. Our version is a fantasy pastiche of many ancient religions, as any scholar could tell you. The hierarchies exist to extort money and exert pressure on the masses who suffer in their poverty.”
“That’s quite a damning assessment.”
“Can you prove that I am wrong?” she countered, but again, there was no malice in her voice. These were as cold as her instructions to her servant.
“I cannot prove you right,” he said.
For the first time, she did not direct or steer the conversation, rather, she seemed pleased with his response. Oddly, that made him want her approval again, which was absolutely mad. “You are an odd woman,” he said, almost involuntarily.
She nodded. “Many have said as much.”
“Why is this small encounter such an affront to you? Is it me in particular or the lack of choice on your part?”
She cocked her head to the side, as if she were pleased that he’d had the mental acuity to ask such a question. Again, it was insulting, but somehow, it made him want more of her approval. Timothy would have something to say about that, he was sure.
“This should not reflect upon you at all. I prefer my routine, and you are not part of it. I require an unencumbered existence. A man is—”
“An encumbrance?” He interrupted her this time, feeling a little proud of himself.
“Dead weight,” she corrected.
Her status as a widow somehow became all the more sinister. “Well then. I shall take my dead weight out of your parlor, then. Good day, Mrs. Reid.”
She curtsied in return; finally, some protocols were adhered to properly.
The manservant met him at the door, returning to him his hat and gloves.
He put them on, grateful for the smooth glide of the supple leather across his knuckles.
His coachman hopped down and opened the carriage door as Beckett approached.
Timothy leaned out the door, no doubt wanting to see his face.
Once settled, and the carriage under way, Timothy could stand it no longer and prompted, “So?”
Still unsure of the entire fifteen minutes he’d spent in her company, all he could say was, “She is a very strange person.”