“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 theton, 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.
Chapter Eleven
Nell laced upher winter walking boots when she heard a knock at the back of the house. The servant’s entrance. Immediately, she tensed. The hour was early and the sky was dark. Moments later, Sabine entered Nell’s chambers with a note. Neither woman said a word. Nell unfolded the note.
I cannot attend to you today or tomorrow.
My sincere apologies,
B.
Reflexively, she flipped over the paper, to see if there were more words printed elsewhere. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. “This is it?” she asked Sabine.
“I believe he returned your paintings,” Sabine said. “They are wrapped in brown paper, so perhaps not. But they appear to be the same size.”
Nell finished lacing her boot and ran downstairs to investigate. Jacobs was leaning two brown-wrapped canvases against the front hall table. He looked up at her. “A footman brought these along with the note.”
She stared at them for a moment, and then, to confirm they were indeed hers, she tore off the paper. Indeed, there was her clumsy self-portrait—which hadn’t felt clumsy until she saw it now, and the landscape of the inn. Between these two paintings, and the two-sentence note from Beckett, she felt her entire world crack.
He knew. He knew and he judged her and it ruined everything. She didn’t know how he could have found out, who would have talked. Bile rose in her throat and she gagged.
She looked up at Jacobs and Sabine, both watching her with furrowed brows. What a fool she had been. And she’d just spent her month’s budget. There would be nothing from Beckett now but humiliation and a bare cupboard for them all.
Her throat closed up and she gasped to breathe. She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t. Oh, to be done with all of this. To go to sleep and never wake again to face what she’d done, and what she’d hidden from Beckett. The creature bayed inside of her, taking control and she stumbled. Her clothes felt restrictive and painfully rough on her skin.
She strained for air as Jacobs caught her mid-stumble. The world spun and tilted as if she’d twirled for too long in a field as a child.
Nell was vaguely aware of Sabine saying, “I’ll get the laudanum. Get her to bed.”
Jacobs helped her up the stairs, which she needed as her body shivered uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” she said, unable to say anything else. “I’m so sorry, Jacobs.” Tears threatened and her mind spun out, unaware of anything other than the pain inside her chest, the whiteness of the winter sunrise coming through her window, and the cold regret that gripped her bones.
“Everything is fine,” he said, his low voice still gruff. “Nothing to worry about. The paintings are returned.”
“You don’t understand,” she said as he unlaced her boots. “Everything I’ve done. The lies I’ve told. The money for this month!” Her teeth chattered, making every word a challenge to speak aloud.
Jacobs’s mouth thinned into a line and he sighed roughly. “Nothing we haven’t all done at some point. You aren’t the first.” When her boots were off, he tucked her back into her bed and stayed until Sabine returned.
