Not her, of course—she was a perfectly lovely girl. But he hated machinations, and she had suddenly put designs on him? Why? She’d hated him at first sight, which was the correct thing. Had she realized he had money? Was that her angle?
People were terrible, and believing such at the outset of introductions saved a good deal of time and energy. But her face—he shivered. No. He would not allow her to become some simpering wretch. This was unacceptable, and he would need to restate his position of non-marriage to her again. How fuckingmiserable and exhausting it was to have to do so. Though, he’d been such a boor about the whole thing, perhaps she would no longer be interested. One could hope.
He sighed and leaned against the wall. The powder room, spare in decoration, did house an open crate of what appeared to be canvases. Unwillingly, he glanced at the door, as if he could see through it to the woman beyond. These were undoubtedly her paintings, stored away so as not to be seen by anyone. But if she truly didn’t want anyone to see them, wouldn’t she have painted them over? Whitewashed them so as to paint on top of them? Canvases were not cheap things, and Mrs. Reid had said she was on a budget.
Well, he had some time while he waited for clean trousers. He slid the crate out of the corner, surprised at how heavy it was. There had to be at least ten canvases in here, stacked upright like ledger books. He pulled one free and held it up to the pallid light of the window.
It was not as good as the White Cliffs or the lonely endemic animal idyll in the sitting room, but it was still very good. It was a still life, and her chosen scheme was immediately apparent. There was no bowl to contain the fruit. The table was strewn with fabrics, and four cracked pomegranates. All were halved, but jaggedly so, not one seemed to have been sliced by an expert hand. The red juice soaked through the fabric, as if it were a scene of butchery, not of delicate, jewel-like fruit. The white chambers of the fruit clung to the remaining pips, glistening like protected and coddled babies, while the rest of the pips were strewn about like soldiers dead across a battlefield. One of the pieces of pomegranate was torn, upside down, juice draining from it, like a body being left to decompose.
Next to it, another half lay exposed, but with few pips remaining, as if the white chambers were the bones of the fruit, bleached in the sun. The effect was disturbing. A bit overlyromanticized, and he couldn’t imagine what an art critic would say. But for himself, he could see it and feel it. The emotion was visceral and biting, clawing at him. He wanted the painting. He also wanted to never have seen it.
If this was painted from Mrs. Reid’s inner turmoil, he had no right to pry. Whatever had widowed her was a terrible event, indeed. And he wasn’t sure if her marriage had been a happy one. Given her ineptitude at seeming an “attractive lady,” he couldn’t imagine that her first union had been one made of love.
He slid that canvas back into its slot and pulled out another. This one was wildly different in composition and colors. This pastoral village scene evoked actual memory, as he could tell from the repeated attempts at positioning a window on the side of a brick and daub public house. If he looked closely, he could see where she’d fussed with it and painted over it repeatedly. He didn’t know why that particular window bothered her so much, but clearly it was something that made her fret.
The sign of the inn was legible, as was the lad and the boar painted on it.Dobbers and Boarit read. No doubt that if he went looking around Colchester, he’d find this particular place. Not that he wanted to, as it looked provincial and underwhelming. The kind of place where a person of rank would be fussed over and not let alone all evening. She must be from wherever this place was, as even the shrubbery was identifiable down to the exact species. But that made sense, considering Mrs. Reid’s need for absolute truth—she would insist on making the shrubbery exact, and not an approximation. Heaven forbid there was something like artistic license where one might change the shrubbery or add blooms not in season.
He slid this canvas back in place and looked at another. They were all variations of a kind, where she was clearly working through a curriculum of some kind. Devised either by herself, which wouldn’t surprise him, or some kind of mailorder instruction. Each was either a different type of painting—still life, landscape—or a different technique of color blending or brush style. He could see her getting better with each one, learning and growing as an artist.
Until he got to the last canvas. It was utterly unlike any composition he’d ever seen before. On one hand, it held all the traditional markings of a classic self-portrait. Nothing the Masters hadn’t done. And the tableau she created was in the traditional ideals of balance on the canvas. But instead of her sitting as the painter, a nightmare creature that would be at home in a medieval tapestry sat as the artist, with black claws glistening as it held the paintbrush. Its pointed white fangs grimaced in that same approximation of a smile that Mrs. Reid had displayed for him in the sitting room.
On the canvas portrait, however, the docile image of Mrs. Reid sat with her hands crossed in her lap, holding a book. Her brown eyes were wide, and there was careful detail paid to the folds of the filmy fichu she wore tucked into the collar of her dress. This was a portrait of her from some ten years ago, he’d guess. She looked girlish there. Young and naïve, completely at odds with the steely reserve she displayed now.
What did this painting mean? Surely this was not how she saw herself.
There was a knock at the door. “Lord Beckett? May I bring you anything for your comfort?” It was Mrs. Reid.
“Not at all. I doubt you have any spare men’s clothing lying about.” He stared at the canvas, trying to unpick its meaning, as if it would give him insight into the woman’s character. Or her past? Had she done something terribly wicked? Or had her parents? What was this all about?
“I do not, and I fear Jacobs’s clothing is not a proper fit.”
“I instructed my man to return with trousers. He shall return shortly.” A small worry occurred to him. Was she a femmefatale? Did she woo unsuspecting men? Was he in danger? Then he thought of their daily silent walks. Her awkwardness today. The woman could not woo a dog with a piece of cheese.
But he’d been instructed to come here at the behest of a gambling den maven. His suspicion was piqued. Obviously, there was more to Mrs. Reid than met the eye. But was it nefarious or simply odd?
“Do you—” Her voice stopped short. There was scuffling in the hallway. Was she fidgeting or doing something else? He couldn’t tell. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“In the powder room?” he asked, unable to contain his tone of voice.
“Oh, I suppose that would be awkward.” Mrs. Reid sighed. “I do so apologize for trying to seem more like a proper lady. I am very out of practice, and I have always been rather bad at it anyway.”
It was Beckett’s turn to sigh. He shook his head. In some ways, it felt easier to talk to her like this, without her massive doe-brown eyes staring him down. “I’m flattered, Mrs. Reid. It has been a very long time since anyone has wanted me to feel—” oh, how to say this without sounding like a scandalous lecher? “—feel warmly toward them.” Warmly?
“Oh,” Mrs. Reid said, the short syllable coming out like a pop of a cork. “Well, then, I am flattered that you are flattered then.”
He chuckled. “Likewise.” There was a pause, but no sound of her having walked away and left him alone.
“May we still continue on our morning walks? Or have I ruined it all?” Her voice was small and high. Girlish, he would say, if he didn’t know better.
“You have ruined nothing, madam. All is well. But I still would like a steaming cup of that Assam you’ve chosen. Pure blends are among my favorites.” Indeed, a bracing cup of teawould be helpful after standing here in cold trousers for a half hour.
“I have instructions to keep the water hot,” she assured him. There was another length of silence, which she didn’t use to excuse herself. “Lord Beckett?”
He looked at the canvas again, her strange self-portrait. The longer he looked, the more convinced he became that she was not nefarious in the least. She seemed tortured, not dangerous. Perhaps her parents still lived there, in the village with the public house in her painting. “Hm?”
“Would you mind so very much to tell me something about yourself? I’m afraid we talk at great length about my thoughts and opinions. I feel rather selfish.”
It was his turn for that surprised cork sounding syllable. “Oh.” He slid the canvas back into place as slowly and as quietly as possible. “Certainly. What would you like to know?”
