“What?” she asked, reaching up self-consciously to make sure there wasn’t anything on her face for him to be staring at.
“You, I think, are in need of spoiling.” His voice as much as his words sent her heart racing. And butterflies. Butterflies which fluttered around and then took flight into all of her limbs.
Ambrosia forced herself to breathe normally, glancing at—well, perhaps she would simply call him Mr. Dog for now, until she could come up with a more dignified name. “I do hope no one is missing him.”
Mr. Beckman nodded, but then glanced away with a grimace. Of course, he must be missing his horse.
“You’ll find Guinevere, after your party.” She spoke with confidence. Somehow, she couldn’t see Mr. Beckman failing to achieve any goal he set his mind to.
“I likely won’t have to. She knows where home is.”
Well, that was something of a relief. But then it set her to thinking. “Where exactly is your home, Mr. Beckman?”
He’d told her he was born in France, then later raised in England, and that he had a sister, but she didn’t know much more than that. She had no real idea what his life looked like currently—when he wasn’t traveling, that was.
He hesitated a moment before answering, as though weighing what he should tell her—which she thought was a bit odd. It was a simple enough question, wasn’t it?
“Devonshire,” he eventually said. “In the southwest.”
Ambrosia could easily picture Mr. Beckman riding that giant mare along a sandy beach with cliffs looming on one side, ocean waves crashing on the other. He would have stared across the channel, knowing his childhood home was in the distance…
“A long way from your mother’s home.” And then she added, “In France.”
“It is.”
“You miss it?”
He nodded, and the sun shining through the windows showed a few tiny wrinkles at the corners of his oh, so lovely eyes. She would not press him to discuss memories of the place where he was born… His father’s country had gone to war with that of his mother.
That would have brought anyone tremendous sorrow.
“There must be something you’ll miss about Rockford Beach?” he asked.
“I’ll miss the sound of the gulls in the morning, even when they were dreadfully noisy,” she said after a moment, her voice softening. “And the blue of the skies—on the rare days the rain finally cleared.” She lifted her chin then, almost daring him to contradict her. “But I am quite looking forward to my new beginning.”
He smiled and, shifting his tone, asked, “You’ve said you will host salons in your new home, princesse. Do you have any particular talents you’ll be showcasing?”
“Oh, none at all,” she said cheerfully. “Not personally. But I do have a great love for the arts.”
“Ah. A patroness.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed with a smile. “One of our neighbors, Mrs. Mary Tuttle, planted the idea in my head. Whenever I had a chance to visit, I devoured the books in her library. Her collection was… fantastic.” Books that featured scandalous stories, artwork, histories she’d never imagined…
Ambrosia bit her lip, wondering how much she ought to admit to this man who she barely knew, realizing that once again he had her talking about herself.
And yet she continued. If he did not wish to hear it, he wouldn’t ask, now would he?
“I lied to Harrison. Told him Mrs. Tuttle and I were reading scripture, but instead she shared her books with me, mythology, travel journals, and even some modern fiction.” But in case that made her sound ungodly—which she wasn’t! —she hurried to clarify, “I’d already read the scriptures he assigned me hundreds of times, you see?—”
“No need to explain yourself to me, princesse,” he soothed, raising a calming hand. “And so, you developed your thirst for knowledge outside of that which can be found in King James?”
Ambrosia nodded with a grimace. “I did.” But, reassured now that he did not judge her, she went on. “Mrs. Tuttle is the most interesting person. Before moving to Rockford Beach, she lived in London. She is the person who told me about salons—because she’d hosted many of them herself. I think hosting them must be an excellent pursuit for a widowed woman, for a woman who does not plan to marry, nor have any children or family.”
“It is, indeed, a worthy endeavor.”
This was one of the things she was coming to quite appreciate about Mr. Beckman. Although he’d laughed at her a great deal upon their initial acquaintance, in things that mattered to her, he took her seriously.
He did not try to persuade her to give up Mr. Dog, and now he had, most surprisingly, expressed confidence in her plans for the future.
