Chapter Seven #2
“I’ve said no such thing,” Beckett protested.
Timothy gave him an amused glance. “I believe it was yesterday, when you told me that her artwork was completely at odds with the woman you experience on your daily rounds of Hyde Park. That the emotion she displays in paint is not at all present in conversation.”
“Which is to say, I’ve never compared our traits,” Beckett said, prim as a maiden aunt.
Timothy chuckled. “I think you like her, Beckett. Admit it. This trial has done you good.”
Beckett squirmed. Here was his opening to admit he held a tendre for Mrs. Reid, and therefore, required his friend’s assistance to find out if she would be a suitable match for him, even though he had absolutely no intention of marrying the widow. “Her company is tolerable.”
“I should say so. It’s been weeks of daily strolls together.”
“Our walks aren’t like that,” Beckett protested without thinking. He was terrible at this type of manipulation tactic. “But her conversation can be stimulating.”
His friend chuckled again and nodded, gazing into the fireplace.
“She is likely entirely unsuitable,” Beckett said, “so there is no point in pursuing this past the next encounter. We are at an end.”
“Suitable?” Timothy asked, and Beckett could feel the shift in the air as Timothy’s interest piqued. “As in, suitable for marriage? You like her this much?”
Beckett shrugged uncomfortably and buried his face in his wine glass.
Timothy let out a surprised cackle. “Could it be that the Black Cloud of London has found a silver lining for himself?”
“Oh, piss off,” Beckett told him, unable to think of anything remotely clever to say.
She was far more suitable to his disposition than any other person he’d ever met, and that included Timothy.
Actually, he had a feeling that she and Timothy would get on famously, should the occasion ever arise where they might meet.
“I think something very sinister is in her past, and I should like to know what it is.”
“Really?” Timothy said, leaning towards him with unfeigned delight.
“Yes, for instance, is she the type of widow who killed her first husband? That’s a pertinent piece of information.”
Timothy shook his head and laughed again.
“First husband? As in she might obtain a second? This is—I don’t know what it is, but I like it.
Fine, Beckett, I will send someone who is discreet and less conspicuous than either of us to investigate Mrs. Reid.
Though the easiest thing would be for us to call upon Mrs. Dove-Lyon. ”
“No,” Beckett said immediately. He didn’t want Timothy to get caught up in another scheme that risked his inheritance. “We needn’t involve a gambling maven. Who knows what she might say, and if it would even be true. I’d rather know for my own benefit.”
“Benefit, you say,” Timothy said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Stop it, man. You’re making an arse of yourself.” Beckett slid farther down into the chair, any farther and his arse would be on the floor.
“Let’s call for champagne to celebrate!” Timothy said, getting up to pull the bell.
“No,” Beckett called, afraid his friend was getting ahead of himself.
“There’s nothing to celebrate. She’s likely a murderess.
Or a former tavern wench.” Though he could not imagine Mrs. Reid wenching.
Her flirting had been astonishingly horrid.
Sauntering over with that strangely awkward, halting walk?
Blinking her large brown eyes at them and telling them they held their cutlery incorrectly?
Or what the average acceptable temperature of a pint of ale should be?
Perhaps she would dive into what the relevance of the London Stock Market was to the price of oysters.
He could see any of those scenarios and imagining it made him laugh.
Then he saw Timothy watching him, and that his friend had caught his musings. Damn it all.
“I’m not in love with her,” he said, once again burying himself into his now empty wine goblet.
Timothy shrugged and held his hands up. “Not to worry. I haven’t ordered any champagne.”
Nell had told Beckett about the engagement dinner before their walk.
He knew to expect the invitation. But Nell neglected to ask if he would accept it.
They had not discussed what their fifth and final date would be.
She assumed it would be this dinner, but perhaps he had something different in mind.
Their walks felt more fraught every morning.
Occasionally, Beckett would raise his head and look as if he were about to break what had previously been a companionable silence.
But then he would tuck his chin back into his muffler and they would continue to circulate through the park.
The mornings grew colder as the days wore on, with fewer and fewer leaves on trees.
Frost covered the shallow puddles on the pathways, and they adjusted their times to later and later so they would not be walking in the dark.
Occasionally she took out a piece of foolscap in order to write him a note, canceling their walk.
Not because she didn’t want to be in the cold—she did.
In fact, she found it a private act of defiance to bundle up and be warm in spite of Nature’s insistence that she go home and hibernate.
And she didn’t want to call off their strolls because she didn’t want to see him.
The opposite: She desperately wanted to see him.
But there was an unbearable and unseeable tension between them, as if one knows they will receive a spark of shock when touching a woolen blanket, but one must do it regardless.
One knows it will not hurt overmuch, but there is an expectation of it, and it was there that she existed.
The realm of expected pain, not actual pain.
She was awaiting his absence, his pulling away. And she found she did not want that.
So here they existed, walking side by side, in a limbo between expectation and outcome.
While she was pessimistic about both, she dared not speak aloud of either, not wanting to lose him.
She wanted their friendship to continue.
She wanted more days like the afternoon of tea tasting.
Their first park strolls together. The times where they could banter with sardonic wit and dry humor.
She wanted to tell him everything about herself, even though she knew she couldn’t.
Beside her, his breath huffed out every few moments, his exhalation a cloud that dissipated as they moved forward, one step at a time.
When would his company alone be enough for her?
And when should she act to preserve herself?
Her interest in him felt like any of her new hobbies did in the beginning.
When she could shut out all other distractions and focus on that one thing.
She could spend days doing nothing but learning about her newfound passion.
But never had this feeling been about a person.
It terrified her. Would she lose herself in her absorption of him?
The morning was gray and the breeze was fitful and icy. The few leaves still clinging to bare branches wavered and then stilled. Nell’s stomach growled, as she had been unable to eat much the last few days.
They circled out of the park, and as Beckett was about to depart, Nell blurted out, “Do you think you’d come?”
At the same time, Beckett asked, “Did you choose any of the teas?”
Nell felt that horrible heat at the roots of her hair, knowing she was blushing. “My friend Jane—”
“I apologize, I—” he said over her. Again they fell silent.
Nell felt her heart hammering against her ribs. “We are not as we once were.”
Beckett shook his head. “We are not.”
“What has changed?”
Beckett looked at her in a way that she believed could be anything from pity to sadness to confusion. Would she tell herself the truth? That she found this dark-haired, stormy man attractive? That she valued his companionship more than anyone else’s?
“You know what has changed,” Beckett said.
Her mouth went dry. “Do I?”
He licked his chapped lips, and suddenly she could do nothing but stare at them. This was unprecedented. She’d never felt this way. Suddenly thinking a kiss would be nice? She looked down, breaking the magic of his hold on her.
“I plan on attending the dinner with you. If you want.”
She looked up at him again, surprised. “Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes,” she said. They stared at each other. She should retreat farther. Into her house, but her feet were frozen to the spot. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
His expression changed yet again, and she wasn’t sure what this one meant either. But there was an instinct in her, saying that it was his interest in her. That he wanted to kiss her too, but wouldn’t. “Of course.”
And then he spun on his heel and left her on the sidewalk, reeling from unspoken words and undercurrents she didn’t understand.
She felt like gasping for air, even though she could breathe perfectly well.
She was dizzy and moved unsteadily into her home.
This was new. She didn’t know how to cope with any of it.
What did other women do in the face of a suitor?
A new dress would be a good idea, of course.
Something not gray or lavender. Fatima would be the best choice for helping choose an appropriate dinner dress.
She had an eye for color that neither Chastity, being Quaker, nor Jane, who was too skewed by the latest fad, possessed.