Chapter Ten #2
The next morning, Beckett waited in the cold wind for Mrs. Reid to arrive for their morning walk.
He could barely bring himself to look at her, grumbling out a greeting that he knew sounded less than polite.
He was relieved that she didn’t want to talk, because he couldn’t think of what they would speak about. He had nothing to say to her.
In fact, this morning, she felt very much like the enemy.
As if she had purposely deceived him. And perhaps she had.
When they met, she’d narrowed her eyes and told him that she knew of him, neglecting to add that she’d had a monthslong campaign to get his attention via letters signed by Cornelius Smalls.
His mind also conjured her probable retorts and defenses of such a reticence to speak, and he knew that his imaginary version of her was not nearly as creative in her insults.
He felt small and hunched inside of himself, like an unleafed, gnarled burl on a naked tree limb: grotesque and out of place.
When they had completed their circuit, he barely muttered his farewells before he stomped off back home.
Even there, he couldn’t get any work done.
Reading letters and proofreading suggested wording for future bills, all he could think of was her with her writing desk on her lap, composing letters to another man.
Being wrapped up in a world where she communicated with someone who wasn’t him.
Halfway through the day, it occurred to him that even if she were entirely different, entirely someone else, it wasn’t fair to lock another person up and not allow them to communicate with anyone else.
It was, under the Queen’s legal code and originally written in the Magna Carta, false imprisonment.
Beckett scrubbed his face with his hands and looked out the window at the dull gray and bare trees. Pigeons and blackbirds pecked at the grounds in vain hope of insect quarry. It was cold and icy. Beckett harumphed out a bitter laugh. Just like his own heart.
That moment of confession was merely yesterday, but it felt as if it had been years.
The teasing, snowflake kisses he had placed on her lips.
The way she had stared up at him, vulnerable and open in a way he’d never seen her before.
The way he had never felt before. He had been so full of hope. And now—
The world had a black cloth thrown over them, like a birdcage going dark.
“That looks nice,” Fatima said, stepping away from the modiste’s pedestal, where Nell stood.
Mirrors surrounded her, and the woman with the fake French accent—one could tell by the way she pronounced the word thorough.
Native French speakers struggled with the beginning of the word, and then with the o sounds on either side of the r .
But when speaking quickly, the modiste was perfectly capable of the soft th sound and the o.
Really, the woman was outrageous, and Nell couldn’t believe she was the only one who noticed.
The dress was a deep-red color, which, the false modiste insisted in her ridiculous accent, was acceptable because Nell was a widow.
Nell did not care. There was gold trim on the cuffs and the skirts, the bodice fit her waist, while the skirts flared out almost like a bell.
The undergarments of the dress were a tangle of structural reinforcements, buttons, and hooks.
She hated the fuss of it all, but if other people liked it, she would wear it.
No, that wasn’t true. If Beckett liked it, she would wear it, and both Fatima and the false modiste insisted he would.
Nell preferred a different color. Green, for instance, which is what Chastity would have chosen, had Nell asked her to help.
Or blue, which was a color Nell preferred.
And she named all the shades of both hues, which Fatima counseled against once this wine-colored gown was brought in.
It had been a dress made for a duchess, who had unexpectedly refused the garment, for reasons that were the woman’s own.
Fortunately, the duchess and Nell were of similar sizes, and with tricks of panels and nips, the gown fitted Nell without issue.
The modiste turned out to be better at her craft than her accent.
The dress would be ready that afternoon, and Nell was given a deep discount for taking the ready-made gown.
The underpinnings, however, made Nell clench as she forked over her entire larder budget for the month.
She hoped Beckett would make good and help her pay for things; otherwise, she could not feed herself or her staff.
But Beckett had not seemed himself that morning or the day before.
After a heady day of his waving her note about and ending with soft, light kisses that left her head spinning, and promises that had her heart reeling, Nell had made her mental list of whether or not she should agree to be his wife. A countess. What a strange thing.
And she thought about the bad parts of becoming his wife—the expectations she would feel compelled to excel at, the public appearances, the lack of anonymity.
But then she thought of the good parts, which was mostly just Beckett.
Stability with more money, yes helpful, but not necessary.
But Beckett? He had gone from a standing appointment that she anticipated with good will toward a person she wanted to tell things to even when he wasn’t about.
She stored up topics she wished to discuss with him, questions she had that only he could answer, and even imagining nightly dinners together where they could discuss politics (for she had many ideas), culture, and economics.
They could have a private box for the opera, which she would enjoy.
And while she had not seen Beckett’s London residence, it might have grounds upon which they could walk every morning, as they did now in Hyde Park.
But then, yesterday morning, she had hoped to tell Beckett of her feelings, of her decision, and he did not appear to feel warmly towards her.
Certainly, one day of grumpy reticence could be construed as a digestive issue, Nell decided.
But this morning he had the same clouded demeanor.
Surely, two mornings of Beckett’s intractable and bitter silence was more than a malfunctioning intestine.
She didn’t understand it, which was fine, but she also couldn’t parse it out, which was not fine.
A problem was ultimately solvable, even if the solution was something one didn’t like.
Fatima clapped her hands, startling Nell out of her thoughts. They were already back at her house, Jacobs behind them, carrying the boxes. “I said, how will you dress your hair?”
Nell looked at her through the fog of her confusion. Hair had not occurred to her. Nor had she any fine jewels to adorn her ears or throat or wrists. “However Sabine chooses.”
Fatima rolled her eyes. “I will bring over some fashion plates tomorrow to show her some styles. We can pick something together.”
“Why?” Nell asked, before thinking that it might be rude to ask a friend why they would help.
Fatima sighed and walked into the sitting room ahead of Nell, a signal of how comfortable her friend was in her home.
“Many reasons, darling. Number one, you are my friend, and I want you, of all people, to know how it feels to be beautiful. Perhaps you don’t view that as being worthy, but it is a heady joy to be admired in that way. ”
Nell shuddered. Beauty was dangerous and attracted attention. Everyone knew that.
“And number two, you asked for help. I want to help you. You keep to yourself in your tidy spider hole, and rarely do you peek out. I am honored that you came to me for assistance.”
That made Nell smile. She didn’t like asking for help. It made her feel unworthy and incapable. But she was happy to make Fatima feel wanted. It was nice to feel wanted and helpful, so it was a good thing that Nell had asked, after all.
“Now, why don’t you thank me by brewing up some of that lovely Assam? I’ve been dreaming of it all week.”
His secretary arrived mid-morning and they worked through bill proposals sent to him by other members of the House of Lords. Or rather, their secretaries. Did the public know how much of English law was written by young men who were hired for having the right pedigree and good penmanship?
His man, Mr. David Bingham, was a bright-eyed lad somewhere north of twenty-five.
Beckett didn’t know nor did he care. They all looked like infants to him.
But he had excellent penmanship, kept matters organized, and didn’t let Beckett be late to anything.
He also took Beckett’s moratoriums on never attending social events and not letting frivolous complaints through to him.
Which meant that Bingham had seen all the Cornelius Smalls mail, even if Beckett had not.
Halfway through Bingham’s daily report of the overall picture of their work, Beckett interrupted. “When was the last time I received a letter from a Mr. Cornelius Smalls?”
Bingham’s mouth still gaped open from his speech. He closed it, blinked a few times, as if shuffling through mental files. He licked his lips once, as if this helped him speak on a different topic. “I believe it has been almost a year?”
“Is that a question?” Beckett countered.
“No?” Bingham cleared his throat, then answered more firmly. “I believe the last letter came before Easter Sunday.”
Beckett murmured an accolade, as he would for a performing child. Nearly a year since he’d received a missive, while Timothy had weekly updates. An emotion flared that he did not like. Oh, sod it all, he was jealous.
“May I go back to the report, sir?”
Beckett waved his hand in permission but couldn’t manage to listen.
He interrupted his secretary again. “If you knew a man who was enamored with a woman—hypothetically speaking.” He looked at Bingham to make sure the man understood that this was not about Beckett himself.
This was purely a fantasy situation, obviously.
Bingham nodded, still flustered, but at least had his mouth shut.
“And the woman engaged in a letter writing campaign with a male nom-de-plume with a number of prominent men, is she being unfaithful to the man who is enamored with her?”
Bingham bent forward, as if trying to parse the information. “The woman who is writing letters as a man, what is the content?”
“Politics. Chess. That sort of thing.”
“Nothing personal in nature?”
By Jove, he didn’t even know. He couldn’t remember the content of the last Cornelius Smalls letter to him, and none of the ones he’d sifted through of Timothy’s had mentioned anything personal.
Timothy hadn’t ever mentioned any suspicion of the letter writer being a woman before the other night. “I don’t believe so.”
“Then how would it be construed as unfaithful? She is engaging with another person as one might at a dinner party, is she not? Though, I cannot agree with her pretending to be a man, for that is false, but I understand that there are a number of women who write letters, articles, and even books under male pseudonyms, or sometimes as Anonymous.”
Beckett grunted and thought about it. “So a man objecting to such a course of action is upset over nothing?”
Bingham considered. “False representation, perhaps. But if the lady can hold her own in a chess match, should she not be allowed the freedom to exercise that portion of her mind? My grandmother always said that a person with a good brain is like an overactive dog. If you don’t allow it to exercise properly, it will bite everyone. ”
“What does that mean?” Beckett asked, not interested in parsing folk wisdom.
“She said it around the same moments she shared that idle hands are the Devil’s tools.
So I believe she took it to mean that if a person with a well-developed mind isn’t allowed to use it, like an exuberant dog, that it will turn against one’s family and friends.
That it will create conflict where there is none, if only to keep it busy. ”
Beckett mulled over the grandmotherly advice.
He could see the wisdom in it. And he would never want Mrs. Reid—whether they were a couple united in holy matrimony or merely former acquaintances—to have her mind stifled.
It was perhaps the most extraordinary thing about her.
The speed of her intellect was sometimes dizzying, and he loved to hear her talk about ideas she had spent time contemplating.
Each thought was its own jewel that she held up to the light, examining and observing, then putting down and moving on to the next one.
“My lord?” Bingham said loudly, as if perhaps, he’d been trying to get Beckett’s attention for some time.
But Beckett didn’t have time for Bingham’s report just now.
His own mind, slower and plodding compared to Mrs. Reid’s, apparently, was occupied.
His emotions were not quite as rational, and he still felt wronged somehow.
But how does one tell one’s feelings to stop being such an irrational ninny?
He needed time. And space. But, bugger it all, he’d already proposed to the woman.
What kind of cad would he look like if he reneged on a marriage proposal?
But he had done so under false pretenses; should he not protect the realm from such underhandedness?
Any wife of his would become a countess and have influence and standing.
In the rarefied world of the ton , those who were driven had connections and levers of power to pull.
And Mrs. Reid was decidedly driven, with her own political agenda.
Beckett rubbed his face. He hated this feeling.
But, as Mr. Bingham yammered on about the tax code, Beckett made decisions.
He would send his regrets to Mrs. Reid about the two remaining morning walks, leaving a window open to send regrets for the dinner party.
Then he would seek out Mrs. Dove-Lyon and demand to know about Mrs. Reid’s past, and if the matchmaker had thought of Mrs. Reid for him or for Timothy.
More and more, Beckett felt that Timothy deserved to have Mrs. Reid at his side.
Cheerful and intelligent, handsome and friendly, Timothy was a better match for her.
Someone to draw her out of her shell and take the lead in making friends and being out in public.
Beckett, dour and morose, was not a good companion for anyone, let alone someone who also tended towards a solitary existence.