He put down his snifter and his cigar and took the papers. “What am I looking at here?” And then took to studying the two. A very quiet noise came out of his friend’s mouth, which was when Beckett knew he’d seen the same thing.
“It seems that Cornelius Smalls may be an alias.” Timothy folded his lips inward.
Beckett shook his head. This could not be. Why was Mrs. Reid maintaining such a friendly correspondence with Timothy? Why would she invest so much of herself to someone else?
He skimmed letter after letter as Timothy looked on. Nothing could be amorous or hinted at more feeling between them, but still, the fact that Mrs. Reid had been writing to Timothy for years now, multiple times a week, felt like she had somehow been unfaithful. How could she share her thoughts with someone else? Why did she feel the need to do so?
None of these feelings made any sense, but feelings rarely did. They floated like scum on the surface of a pond. Both real and also lacking substance. A lump sat in his throat, obscuring the path of the brandy and making it burn longer. The discomfort felt apt.
What had he ignored by letting all those letters from Mr. Smalls fuel his study fire? Would he have found her sooner if he’d bothered to read those political missives instead of handing them off to his secretary?
He continued to second guess his own actions until a worse thought occurred to him.
The twist of fate that brought Mrs. Reid and Beckett together had missed its mark: Mrs. Reid was meant for Timothy, not him.
Perhaps it should have been Timothy courting her all along. Sure, his friend’s mild disfigurement didn’t allow for the long walks without pain, but their meeting of the minds was likely profound. Timothy was the easiest person to talk to, which would have made the first encounter far smoother than the one Beckett had experienced with her.
But who knows how they would have got on in person? As far as Beckett knew, they’d never clapped eyes on one another. Had they?
He shook his head, confused more than ever. Life ought to be straightforward. Easily digestible. Of all the things that had gone right in his life, he had been born to a rich family. And that was where that list ended until he started seeing Mrs. Reid. And even then, it didn’t start feeling right. It began feeling like having a healthy tooth pulled for no reason other than a gambling debt.
“What is happening inside that monstrous head of yours, Beckett?” Timothy prodded.
He sipped again at the brandy, hoping the lump in his throat had dissolved. It hadn’t. “Nothing good.”
Timothy nodded, humming in thought. “Tell me what the best way forward is, and I shall do my best to aid you, however you like. Would you like me to confront this Cornelius Smalls?”
“Of course not,” Beckett said immediately. Given their history, he wanted nothing better than to keep Mrs. Reid as far away from Timothy as possible. He had all the same benefits of wealth and entitlement that Beckett had, but he was better looking and better tempered. He didn’t dare introduce them. Not even after he married her.
The realization took his breath away, like a punch to the middle. He couldn’t possibly marry her. This woman who had dozens of correspondents, most likely. This woman, who was possibly a murderess. Her nom de plume would quickly come to light. The judgment would be swift and humiliating, that she was a woman writing to all these men. It made her look—well, it made her look like she wanted something she absolutely did not: the limelight.
“Find out more about the murder of the painting master. I need to know if she killed him or not.” The words dripped with shame. He didn’t want to know. Because if she hadn’t hurt the man, then he’d doubted her for no reason. And if she had? Then she was a murderess and not deserving of a decent marriage.
But why did her letters to Timothy feel like a bigger hurdle than a possible murder? His head hurt, and his molars ground down further. Everything felt heavy and loud and he felt angry enough to burst.
“What will you do?” Timothy asked.
“I will go about my business unchanged until I have further information,” Beckett snapped, shifting in his seat. Could he go on like that? He was not a man prone to acting. He thought it a waste of time to dissemble. And now, he would do so, for the sake of his future. For the sake of love. Or perhaps it was merely pride. He flexed his hands into fists.
He liked that Mrs. Reid didn’t like many people, but had grown to like him, as if he alone had tamed a cautious mare. But now, he found his assumption untrue, for she had a long-term written relationship with Timothy. They had both won her trust, and Beckett was no longer special. Had he not enough training from his family to know that he wasn’t special? He was a placeholder in a long line of titles, none of whom were precious because of the men they were, but from whom they descended.
He downed the brandy, gagging on the lump that remained. “I have to go.”
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.
