Chapter Five
“H ow is your suitor?” Chastity asked, sipping her tea.
Nell grimaced. “Very well, thank you.”
But Chastity could always see through Nell’s attempts at polite deflection and stared her down, waiting for the truth of the matter. It did make Nell wonder if this technique was something the Society of Friends trained their members in early on, because Chastity seemed to have mastered it.
“He has taken to walking with me in the mornings,” Nell admitted.
There had only been five days of walks, as she walked on Saturday and Sunday as well as the rest of the days.
One might take Sunday to rest, but Nell could not.
She felt agitated and out of sorts if she rested even one day.
And Beckett had been waiting for her at the entrance, and true to his word, not spoken during their stroll.
Chastity raised her light-colored eyebrows, barely visible to an across-the-table companion. “Has he made clear his intentions?”
Nell frowned. Her mind wanted to insist, yes, he had, for he had told her that he intended to tell the truth, but that he knew he lied to himself. But that was not what Chastity meant. “I do not believe this will lead to a marriage proposal, if that is what you are asking.”
“He calls once a week, and has taken to spending every morning with you.”
Nell shook her head. “He does not come in for tea when we walk. It is hardly courting.” It made her wonder if he would speak to her this next week for their scheduled visit.
But their silence was not stilted or heavy.
It was natural and easy. More than once, Nell had felt the urge to wrap her arm around his elbow to point out a bird that was singing, or the presence of a last flowering before winter.
She did not, however, take his elbow. She did not touch him, nor did he touch her.
“I will not tease you, Nell, but I do think your cheeks are flushed.” Chastity looked pleased with herself, and Nell could not think of why she would be. There was nothing to be pleased about.
“It’s nothing,” Nell insisted, drinking a gulp of tepid tea.
Or as Beckett had called it, dreadful tea.
But why would she spend money on something she often drank without realizing she was gulping it down?
There were few who called upon her, and other than that, it was just her drinking tea to stay warm as she continued her correspondence.
Could she budget more for tea? Was that something that mattered to her?
Perhaps? She did enjoy a good cup of tea when she had one.
When she finished her thoughts and focused back on her friend, Chastity was once more smiling at her in that strange, self-satisfied way.
“Were you thinking of him just now?” Chastity asked.
Nell blinked, wanting to immediately spit out a defensive no. But what Beckett had said about lying to himself came to mind, and she realized that she was doing that exact thing. Would she lie to her friend then, because she could not bear to admit the truth to herself, let alone another person?
She felt the frisson that came with a new appealing idea to think about.
The kind where she needed to read books and dedicate whole evenings to only thinking.
What was truth when one spoke exclusively to friendly countenances?
Was it platitudes to keep things pleasant, was it divulging one’s biggest secrets to trust the friend to accept one?
Or was it all born out of self-deception and self-delusion that one had an opinion at all?
“I am not ready to speak about Lord Beckett,” she told Chastity, which was one hundred percent truthful.
There was much reading to be done first. She would need to go to the bookstore.
Or find a Classics library that would admit her.
Starting at the Greeks with Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato, dipping into the Christian philosophers like Aquinas and Boethius, and would she admit more modern-day philosophers who did not have a moral bias, but rather looked at the world from a different slant?
People like Mary Wollstonecraft and Margaret Cavendish, and if she were including them, should she not also read Hypatia and Arete of Cyrene?
There were so many, and those were only the ones she could think of herself.
What about the philosophers of the world over?
Even that would take research. She would have to make a list of the ones she already knew and then make a separate list of other philosophers once she found out their names.
Oh, but Chastity was still here. She could not make her lists now.
That would be rude. She must suffer through the end of her friend’s company.
The clock on the mantel ticked a siren song, but Nell knew it was the height of rudeness to look at it, to indicate in any way that she no longer wished for company.
“I can see you are quite bound up in your thoughts,” Chastity said, finishing her tea. “Which may or may not be about Lord Beckett, but perhaps you’ll tell me about them when you realize what they are?”
Nell blinked, surprised that her friend guessed. “How did you know?”
Chastity laughed. “You think you’re subtle, but really, you cannot hide your inner thoughts at all, Nell.” Her laugh was not one of mockery, but of fondness. That was good. “I will see you next week. But if you do not wish to wait that long, you could always come to a meeting.”
“No, thank you,” Nell said, not wishing to be a part of any religion, including Chastity’s.
It did not stop her friend from inviting her every week, which was annoying.
She had given her answer years ago, which Chastity either didn’t respect or repeatedly forgot.
Either way, she didn’t care for the pestering.
When her friend rose to leave, Nell did the same, but instead of walking her friend to the door, she retrieved foolscap from her writing desk and started making a list. She had many lists, but this one could change how she thought about herself to herself. What an extraordinary idea.
Timothy waggled his eyebrows at Beckett, insinuating a romance that was not there.
“I’m telling you that there is no prospect of marriage here.
Let it go,” Beckett insisted, downing the rest of his whisky in one gulp.
It burned on the way down, and he was ready for another.
But not too many, as he had to be up and walking early the next morning.
Not that he would tell Timothy anything of the sort.
“I’d be happy to let it go if I believed you,” Timothy said, swirling his whisky. “Because you have been spotted, my friend.”
They were at their club, sharing a meal and a drink, as men of their class did often. There were places to take some exercise, read, play games, and gossip. Beckett just hoped Timothy would keep his voice down.
“What are you talking about? Spotted what?” Beckett knew exactly what he meant, but he still had the habit of lying to himself, even when he knew better.
“I have it on good authority that you are taking daily walks with the onerous Mrs. Reid.” Timothy looked pleased with himself, as if he had already gotten them hitched and baby blessed.
“They are early in the morning, and it is for her protection. Any gentleman would do it. I can’t very well let the poor woman be accosted by a ne’er-do-well.”
“Ah yes,” Timothy said, his blue eyes sparkling. “Those ne’er-do-wells.”
“You know what I mean,” Beckett said, slouching into his chair even further.
He didn’t want to admit to Timothy that he rather enjoyed the morning walking routine.
They didn’t speak, but rather strolled briskly about the place.
It was a silent communion with what little nature London had to offer, and the feeling of cool exhilaration lasted most of the day.
He’d already begun to feel his waistband loosen, and while he was by no means overweight, it felt good to feel strong and healthy.
Invigorated. “Have you had more letters from your bosom companion?” he asked, trying to change the subject, but Timothy didn’t take the bait.
“I think I know better than you do yourself,” Timothy joked. “How many times have you seen her now? Is my inheritance safe?”
Beckett cleared his throat. “Nearly. I will see her tomorrow, which will be the fourth encounter.”
Timothy was clearly amused. “I cannot wait to hear the tale. And to answer your question, yes, you know I have a continuing conversation with Mr. Smalls. He’s an insightful fellow. Now. What do you have planned for the lovely Mrs. Reid?”
Beckett noticed that Timothy had switched her descriptors, and while he did object to him calling her onerous (she was not), he was not ready to embrace what Timothy meant by “the lovely Mrs. Reid.” He could not very well object and say she was not lovely.
(She very much was.) But when Timothy said it like that, he clearly meant it to needle Beckett about his fondness for her.
And yes, he had a fondness, which was a far cry from an affection, and an even further one from love.
Which was the root word for love, which is why his brain came up with that word at all, and had nothing to do with the situation at hand, thank you very much.
Instead of saying any of this, Beckett cleared his throat in a most commanding manner. “Mrs. Reid purchases inferior tea, due to her budgetary constraints. I have purchased a variety of teas from a variety of purveyors. We will be doing a direct taste comparison.”
Timothy could barely contain a silly grin. He looked quite stupid. “You’ve purchased her a variety of teas from a variety of purveyors. That must have cost a pretty penny.”
“I can afford it.” Beckett reached for the decanter of whisky. Why did Timothy have to smirk so?
“I never suggested otherwise. And who did you send on this errand of procurement?” Timothy asked.
Beckett hid behind his overly full whisky tumbler. He hadn’t meant to pour so much; it just happened because Timothy was very distracting with all of his questions. “I don’t see why that signifies.”
“Did you send your housekeeper?” Timothy prodded.
“No!” He would not have his housekeeper deal with this sort of thing.
“Your footman?”
“Of course not, what would a footman know about tea?” This was not merely retrieving an ordered item.
“So who spent the time going ’round to these shops? Who picked the varieties and blends?” Timothy batted his eyelashes at Beckett, no doubt to get a rise out of him.
“I did. You know I did.” Beckett huffed and took a long drink of whisky, savoring the continuous burn it laid down his throat.
“You know that’s the proper way to woo a woman,” Timothy said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Beckett retorted.
“It isn’t about jewels or fancy bits and bobs.”
“You’re the expert, are you?” Beckett shot back, as if it was even remotely a way to make the man stop talking.
“It’s time. Spending time on her. Money is irrelevant.”
“Thank you. Now do kindly shut up.”
Timothy threw his head back and laughed. “You can’t fool me, Beckett. It’s a wonder that you can fool anyone at all.”
Beckett slunk further down in the chair and stared at the fire in the fireplace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”