He wondered if he should reveal that he had never been fully under her thumb.
He suspected that a measure of her displeasure was that she could not fully anticipate Patience either. While Arthur found that situation charming and most welcome, he knew Lady Beckham would despise any hint of uncertainty.
Though he gave no outward indication, he took a warning from her manner. He would have to be prepared for his situation to go awry. He would visit the bank after taking Miss Carruthers home, and move his funds to another institution. He would think of some tale or another for the banker. And he would not deposit his recent winnings in either bank, the better to be prepared for disaster. No, those would be hidden in Patience’s wedding gift, thus under her care.
And he would hope that the cards favored him, each and every night, the better that he could build a nest-egg for himself and his bride. What had been freely given could be readily taken away. He had been with nothing before and he did not fear a return to that situation.
He did fear the loss of his lady or her admiration.
He would keep his promise to Patience, and that would require money.
And so, this night, he would return to the tables again.
* * *
All in all,Patience did not find much difference between being betrothed to a rakehell and the eldest unwed daughter of a prosperous bookseller. There was a veritable avalanche of calling cards when she returned home each day, but she resolved that she would not entertain the curious. She resolved to spend the days before the wedding in her father’s shop, helping people to find books they would enjoy—although she did strive to learn more about the production of the books. She initiated a conversation with Old Joe, who had been operating a printing press in the shop for as long as she could remember. He was both less taciturn than his fellows and inclined to be more polite to ladies. Seemingly delighted by her curiosity, he showed Patience how the press inked the letters and printed the image on the paper, though watching the press in action at such close proximity did make her jump.
He sent her to Lewis, who picked the individual cast metal letters and composed each page for the press. She was impressed all over again by his dexterity and speed in assembly. She talked to her uncle about paper and ink, about supplies and inventory management. That was sufficient to make her head spin. She talked to her father about the binding of books, his particular passion, the security of different stitches and threads. He also spoke of the relative merit of various glues, leather suppliers and gilt inks. None of these men slowed their work as they spoke, for their tasks were familiar.
She watched in awe as Simmons smoothed the colored and prepared leather over the case of a book, gluing and clamping it to dry. He spent a day doing this, then the subsequent day finishing the dried books, adding gilt and lettering to the leather case. She watched as marbled end papers were tipped into almost completed volumes, and the edges of pages were colored, then admired each finished book.
It was fascinating, such a combination of skill and fine materials, and one that gave her a new respect for a fine volume.
She read also, perusing what medical volumes she could locate in her father’s library to better learn the details of what she might expect upon her wedding night. How she wished for the book in Catherine’s possession, but she would have to manage that first night without it.
There were two visits made to the shop by Miss Grosvenor that week, though she did not deign to address Patience either time. On both occasions, she made such a ruckus with her friends, gossiping and laughing, that her party was asked to hasten about their business. On both occasions, she spoke loudly of Mr. Beckham’s exploits, as if to be certain Patience knew all the details.
Of Mr. Beckham himself, there was no sign. The man might have left London entirely for all Patience knew.
Miss Grosvenor, however, ensured that Patience knew Mr. Beckham was experiencing a remarkable streak of fortune at cards. He was seen several times to have danced all the night long. Mr. Beckham had been seen at this theatre and that one, at this party and that soirée, dining at this club and another. Miss Grosvenor intimated that he was visiting all of his former paramours—including even herself by her telling, a detail that made Patience doubt every word the other woman uttered. Mr. Beckham had made this clever remark or that amusing reply. Mr. Beckham had acquired a new waistcoat, two new pairs of boots, a walking stick of ebony, a quizzing glass, a collection of porcelain birds, a hunting dog and her puppies, three horses, a new carriage. Mr. Beckham had visited three courtesans in a single night, then two the following morning. The list was endless and Patience could not imagine that half of it was true.
Even the tales of Mr. Beckham’s adventures were exhausting.
She wished she were able to better ignore the other young lady and her malice, but in truth, she missed Mr. Beckham. She began to fear that he was the kind of person who paid no heed to a matter once he deemed it to be resolved, which was troubling, indeed.
Was he reading the books recommended by her father? Was he savoring the final days of his freedom from nuptial bliss? Or was this how he planned to continue, now that her promise would help him evade Miss Grosvenor? She had no idea what to expect of him, save his appearance at the church—and even that, she doubted in the night.
On Wednesday, the results of their shopping expedition began to arrive, much to Prudence’s delight. Each item was unpacked and remarked upon, and Prudence even tried on a number of the garments. “You must find me a Mr. Beckham,” she said, admiring herself in the mirror, though Patience did not reply. “Indeed, Patience, I think it most uncharacteristic of you to fail to ensure that your generous husband-to-be had an equally handsome and appealing brother.”
“You are welcome to strive to influence the choices of Lady Beckham,” Patience replied then as her sister laughed. “And I wish you luck in that endeavor.”
The arrival of Mr. Beckham’s sister at the shop, the Friday before the wedding, was both a surprise and a delight. Prudence escorted another customer to the displayed books, leaving Patience alone with the new arrival. The girl was dressed impeccably, this time in chocolate brown and teal. To Prudence’s regret, she was accompanied by an older woman of stern countenance and not her brother.
“Miss Beckham! How lovely to see you.” Patience yearned to ask her visitor for details of Mr. Beckham but did not wish to appear overly curious. One of Miss Grosvenor’s friends was perusing books, no doubt gathering tidings to share. Patience would give no sign of her many doubts.
“You should call me Amelia now,” that girl said solemnly.
Patience smiled. “And you must call me Patience.”
Amelia cast a glance at her governess who dutifully retreated a step and averted her gaze. The girl leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I did not have time to ask you all of my questions the other day, and I should like to do as much before you are married.”
“Then ask me now.”
“There is really only one question that matters. You simply must tell me your favorite book, and then I will know all that is of importance about you.”
It was a measure of character that Patience could only respect.
“Have you a favorite?” she asked. “For I would like to know the same of you.”
