Chapter Eight #3
His stomach clutched at the thought of Mrs. Reid being subjected to such pressure from an instructor. “Mrs. Reid was one of the affected girls?”
Timothy shook his head. “The maid claims that she had not been allowed to take the class and was angry that Master Cobb didn’t show her any preference.”
Beckett frowned. That didn’t sound like her at all. Even as a young girl, Beckett couldn’t imagine Mrs. Reid pining over a man’s attentions.
“Apparently, your Mrs. Reid found the artist in flagrante delicto with another girl and cracked him over the head with a mallet. He died a few days later.”
Beckett absorbed the information. He could not conceive of Mrs. Reid as a murderess either. She was practical to a fault, which was not something he imagined was an entirely adult-honed trait.
“Your lady is a murderess, Beckett. I am sorry.” Timothy gazed into the fire again, sipping his port.
“How certain are you of this maid’s tale?
And does she have any misgivings about Mrs. Reid?
” Beckett could not help but think of this as a trial of Mrs. Reid’s character.
Could he envision Mrs. Reid cracking a man over the head while he was in the middle of an assignation?
Or, perhaps, was the instructor committing the act without consent of the girl, and Mrs. Reid happened upon them, thinking to save the girl?
Those were possible. But how to prove such? He needed to be careful who he associated with publicly, of course, and he’d hoped Mrs. Reid was the unnoteworthy widow she appeared to be. Yet, it was looking as if this wasn’t the case.
“My man returned to give me the report, but he could go back and continue to ask around. The trouble is, someone is going to wonder why he’s sniffing about. Do you want to bring that kind of attention to her? And eventually, to you?”
Beckett shook his head. “No, and it would be better to come clean with Mrs. Reid and figure out her side of the story. And in fact, if this is her at all. Didn’t you say that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a completely different report of her? Merchant family from Colchester, no siblings, parents are dead?”
Timothy nodded. “According to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, yes.”
“Given that Mrs. Dove-Lyon runs a gambling house and manipulates lives for entertainment, I would say she might be the type to assist in a rebirth of sorts, wouldn’t you?” Beckett supposed. “Marry her off to an older Mr. Reid for protection?”
“Plausible.” Timothy downed the rest of his port then stood.
He put his hand on Beckett’s arm. “Listen. There is no good end to this story. Either life is a miserable one, whether she murdered a man and fled or is orphaned in the world with no one to rely upon. The woman is alone. A dalliance with her is…” Timothy looked away, swallowing his words.
Then he patted Beckett’s arm. “I know you won’t be unkind. ”
Another frown. What did that mean? “I’m not known for kindness,” he reminded his friend.
“But you aren’t known for cruelty either,” Timothy said, and his whole voice and body seemed to sag with fatigue. “I’m for bed. Let me know if you wish further inquiry.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Beckett watched as Timothy busied himself about the room, checking the correspondences in the satchel before leaving out.
It was quite a story. And it might belong to Mrs. Reid.
It also might not. He still had her paintings, and he wasn’t sure how exactly he would be able to return them to her unnoticed.
Stealing her art was not something he was proud of doing.
It was low and fueled by his own cowardice.
He had wanted to know her better without risking her knowledge of his desire.
After a time, he too went home. But instead of being consumed by a political treatise or a stack of pamphlets, he continued to think on Mrs. Reid.
Not in lust, as he had before, but in painstaking analysis, the way he might tackle a policy issue or an inconsistency in a bill.
What made her passionate? What made her animate to a point of action?
From conversation with her, he’d found her to be passionate about highlighting inequity.
She’d not proposed any solutions but wanted him to acknowledge and see them all the same.
She was adamant that she did not keep sugar in the house, and the dainties she’d served were flavored with honey.
This was a common practice of abolitionists, which she also embraced.
Perhaps advocating for justice moved her?
Would that fit with her being a woman scorned? No. He couldn’t see jealousy spurring her. But it would fit if she believed the instructor to be accosting a friend of hers. A sister? And he knew without a doubt she would absolutely do whatever it took to right a perceived wrong.
He was in his dressing gown, in his room, with the fire banked.
Still, he looked between the two canvases, propped against the clothes horse, trying to find an answer to his amorphous question.
But try as he might to settle and solve the problem, Mrs. Reid was on his mind, and he didn’t know how to cure the ailment.
He’d see her tomorrow for their silent stroll in Hyde Park.
Perhaps he could find more answers then.