Chapter Six
N ell dressed herself more carefully today. She questioned herself as to the care she took to not pull her hair back into its severe bun. This morning she heated the curling tongs. Why would she do such a thing?
She knew why. But as Beckett said, he lied to himself all the time, and thus couldn’t be trusted to always tell the truth. Nell was beginning to suspect that she was the same, only had never encountered a situation so good that she was willing to lie about it.
There were many difficult situations that she had faced unflinchingly.
There were many things about herself that she loathed—the way she couldn’t attend a party or any large gathering without feeling panicked and leaving early; the constant drum of her inner voice, insistent and unrelenting and loud.
But what she truly loathed were the actions she had committed.
The deceit of her life. She faced that squarely and ruthlessly.
She was a bad person, but that was a known quantity.
There was no lying about such atrocities.
Yet, this was a good, happy feeling in her chest, knowing that she would see Beckett today.
One that she might not deserve, but she wanted to enjoy it, knowing that they only had two encounters left before he disappeared into the noise and crowd of London.
Was she lying to herself about why she felt so good?
Yes. That, at least, she could admit to herself. Because Beckett wasn’t any of those bad things she had wanted him to be: frivolous, stupid, vying, vapid. He was intelligent and watchful, observant and persistent.
After their quiet walk this morning, he turned to her and said that he would be bringing a luncheon for them. It would be interesting if they could manage to not argue when they were standing still, which is what had happened previously. They were better friends in motion, that was certain.
As usual, she lost her morning to her correspondence.
She lost time when she was reviewing and responding to her letters, thinking about all that was said, problems that were conveyed, and how to solve them.
And suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting her out of her thoughts.
She hurried up to her room to do her best to wash the ink off her hands and double check that she’d made the correct decision about her dress, her hair, her heart.
All seemed in place. She heard Jacobs ushering Beckett into the sitting room.
Her mouth was dry, but no matter. That was of little consequence.
Because this was correct. This was how other people described attraction, wasn’t it?
This was how the world was supposed to work.
So she wasn’t a misanthrope, only a late bloomer.
Yes. That was it. Beckett would fix everything.
She knew how to be the correct type of woman, as there were countless books on ladies’ etiquette, on how to be a proper wife, how to be a mistress of a household.
She’d read them all. Given her prodigious memory, she’d not forgotten a single lesson.
Indeed, they seared her all the stronger for her inability to execute any of the roles instinctually.
But here was her chance. She took a large, calming breath.
This would be perfect, and she knew that because she knew the rules.
Nodding to herself in the mirror, putting away all her quick, thoughtless retorts, all of her careless gestures, she would be dutifully solicitous and appropriately silent.
She would offer no opinions of any kind, nor expound on any of her favorite ideas.
Beckett waited for her in the sitting room.
This was the first time she hadn’t been waiting for him, ready to walk, or ready for him to leave.
Briefly, he wondered if it meant something, but dismissed the idea.
No need to seek out hidden meanings with Mrs. Reid.
She wasn’t the sort of woman to play coy.
What you saw was what you got, and she was more than happy to expound upon a topic if you were uncertain of what she meant.
It was what he liked about her—found refreshing about her.
He almost rubbed his hands together in glee, anticipating her response to his gift today.
He’d already sent his own footman down to draw water for Mrs. Reid’s cook.
They would be boiling as many kettles of water as she possessed, and to have timely service, the cook would need aid in drawing extra water from the well and adding more fuel to the stove fire for the kettle.
Finally, the door opened and Mrs. Reid entered.
But she took small, awkward mincing steps, completely unlike the confident, even strides she normally employed.
Her dress was the plain lavender one he’d seen before, but she adorned it with deep-blue ribbons that brought out deep, polished-walnut colors in her hair like the desk in his study when the sun hit it just right.
She’d also redone her hair since their morning stroll in the park, with curls framing her face, a style that he’d seen other women wear, including young Queen Victoria.
The effect softened the normally harsh angles of her face, but it seemed so at odds with her personality. Beckett shifted his weight, standing up straighter, wondering if he was about to be told he was doing something incorrectly. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Instead, she spoke in a high-pitched reedy affectation. There was no melody to her voice as she said, “So good of you to call, my lord.”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him.
Her face was in a rictus that was an approximation of a smile on anyone else.
It was ghoulish and he didn’t like it. Had something happened?
Was there a death in her family and she was trying to pretend as if everything was fine?
No, she would tell him, and then tell him to piss off back to his castle or lair or whatever she could think of that was more insulting. That was the sort of woman she was.
“Of course, Mrs. Reid,” he said, giving a formal bow, as if they had not just seen each other a few hours ago when she was not acting so strange.
“I have, as promised, brought a luncheon for us, as well as a variety of teas. I thought since you expressed dissatisfaction with your current blend, I would bring a smattering from all over London, so you might choose without having to go to the trouble of leaving your house.”
He walked over to the sitting room table. “I have brought a manservant to help your cook with the water, and they should be arriving with the first samples shortly.” He waited for a reaction from her, but none came.
Her face sat in the awful rictus. “How kind of you, my lord.” She never reminded him of his status in conversation, and now she had done it twice?
He anticipated at least a sparkle in her eyes when he told her of the tea sampling, but there was nothing. Surely, there must be something wrong. Was she in pain? What in God’s name was happening here? “Are you well, Mrs. Reid?”
The woman sank haltingly down onto the settee, arranging her limbs like a living tableau. He’d seen puppets with more life-like movements, and her speech had not gotten any less mechanical. “Very well, my lord, thank you for asking. And you?”
“Quite well, thanks.” He squinted at her. Did she have a twin and they were playing a prank? Surely this wasn’t the same woman he’d just spent an hour with in blissful silence circling the park. He was about to ask another question of her, but Jacobs entered with a tray.
A consummate professional, Jacobs blinked hard when he saw Mrs. Reid in her affectation but said nothing.
At least it wasn’t just Beckett who noticed.
He wanted to press the servant, wanting to say, See?
It isn’t just me! Beckett nodded to the man, knowing that he would be required to make many more runs up and down the stairs than usual.
Beckett had even written out tented labels for each type of tea brewed, all in his own decorative script.
He’d had a fondness for calligraphy in school—really all beautiful things—and had enjoyed using his best pens and peacock-blue ink to make the small signs.
He’d spent time thinking about the groupings of the twenty teas, and how they might be presented.
There was the hope that it would dazzle her without overwhelming her with choices.
Her eyes strayed to the labels, drawn to the written word as if she had no choice but to read. There was a flicker of her normal self as she took in the information, but then her face returned to that placid grimacing mask. “How very thoughtful of you, my lord.”
He was not one to be uncomfortable with his rank or the social hierarchy—it was so deeply engrained that he rarely thought of it.
But her emphasis of it, the distance that it put between them was very off-putting.
Why was she being so formal, when she hadn’t been so the very first second they’d met?
“Shall I pour?” she asked, her tone flat, and in any other circumstance, he would have assumed she was putting him on. But with her rigid posture and odd tilts of her limbs, he couldn’t be sure of anything.
“Please,” he said.
“Which shall I start with?” Her hands sat still in her lap.
Beckett blinked at her. This was her home. She was hostess. Why did she need his prompting? “Whichever excites you most.”
“Whichever one excites you most is what excites me most,” she countered, again in that toneless speech.
“You can’t be serious,” he blurted.
Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t move.
“What has changed, Mrs. Reid? Is this a joke? A game?” None of his prompting made her answer his question. He lowered his voice. “Are you in trouble? Is there something amiss and you need help?”
Her eye twitched.
“You won’t tell me? Then please, stop making that ridiculous face. It’s remarkably unsettling.”