“Thank the Lord,” he muttered and stood, making room for Sabine and the cup of lukewarm chamomile tea.
Nell’s throat still felt as if she were breathing though an ink quill, but she managed to get the liquid down, bitter from the laudanum. The clutching of her chest didn’t let up, but at least her mind stopped thrumming loud and hot, the creature agitated and pacing.
The eccentric bluehouse held no magic in daylight. An ordinary place, it seemed tucked away here, the blue shade cheerful in full, dull winter sun. He waited in his carriage until Mrs. Dove-Lyon deemed it fit for his visit. She was not pleased to receive him, that much was obvious even with a veil covering her face, but she offered refreshments despite her annoyance.
He turned down her offers and remained standing in the parlor, not even bothering to sit. “I shall not take up much of your time, madame. I’m here regarding Mrs. Reid.”
A small hint of a smile crossed her lips, just visible through the obscuring veil. “Of course you are.”
“How much do you know of her?” He had thought of any number of ways to begin this interrogation, but ultimately, all his ideas fled when confronted with his absolute need to know.
“How much do you?” she countered.
He was about to retort that he didn’t know her at all, but then he bit his tongue. He knew some things about her, like how she stared at him in concentration, trying to parse his reactions. He knew that she didn’t like crowds, that her attention to detail was remarkable as evidenced by the incredible use of color and shading in her artwork. He knew that she was willing to be uncomfortable for the sake of her independence and that she spent hours painstakingly corresponding with a number of people—including his friend. What he didn’t know was her past, nor her future.
“Who is she?” he asked instead.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon cocked her head to the side, a full smile visible through the veil. “You know who she is.”
Sphinx-like, it was clear the woman wasn’t giving up her secrets. “Let me clarify: What is her past?”
“That is a question better suited to Mrs. Reid herself, which I think you know, my lord. Perhaps that is why you are here? The lady is not forthcoming?”
Beckett gritted his teeth. “I’m here because I need to know if you chose her for me or for the person who placed the bet, Lord Rincon.”
Understanding dawning, she made a reassuring noise. “You are worried she isn’t a good match?”
“No,” he said before he could catch himself. “I need to know if she is better suited for him or for me.”
“Do you not believe the lady herself understands that better? Should she not be the one to choose her own mate?”
“Yes, she should, but your intention, madam, was she meant to be for me—”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up her hand, bidding him to stop, and like a good schoolboy, he did. He had thought this confrontation would make him feel better, but it was the opposite. Nothing but sour dread filled him, hopelessness splintering off like veins,winding their way through him. He could barely breathe for the bile that filled his throat.
“My intention bears no weight. What is her feeling towards you? What is your feeling towards her? And how strong is that connection? Can it bear strife, whatever may come? Could you love her and protect her for all the years that you walk this earth?”
That horrid lump appeared in his throat and actual tears pricked his eyes, thinking of the two of them together in ten years, twenty, then thirty. To them together in their dotage, wrinkled and white-haired, happy and shrinking, bolstering each other, entertaining each other, loving one another. It was Beckett who looked away from Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s piercing, knowing gaze.
When she spoke, there was no gloating, no triumph. “I think you have your answer.”
He blinked back all the emotion, shoving it back, hard and fast, locking it behind a steel door as impenetrable as his father’s had been. He pulled at his jacket sleeves and donned his hat to bid the woman farewell. “Thank you, madam. You have been most informative.”
Nell recovered, ofcourse. She was not a delicate flower, and her embarrassment at having two fits so very close together was mortifying. The last few days had been quiet and small, few candles lit, fires well-stoked, and plain, simple foods delivered to her in her bedroom where all was safe and controlled. When Sabine tried to speak to her about it—about Beckett, about the paintings, about the new dress and the engagement dinner, Nell stopped her. If they spoke of it, she would feel those emotions anew, and she could not. Dared not.
Tonight was Jane’s affair, the biggest party she had ever thrown, and a night for her to celebrate her love and companionship and upcoming nuptials. Nell would not ruin it for her.
Instead of thinking on her feelings, Nell focused on the practical matters. What could she sell to get them through the next month? She had no money on hand for food or coal, and in winter, London was dreadfully cold. During particularly cold years, many of the poor died in their houses, huddled in their beds, piled with all the blankets and coats and whatever they could find. Their flats were lined with newspapers to keep out the wind.
She was not to that point and was fortunate to lease a well-built home. Food, however, would be a daily concern for her, Jacobs, and Sabine. But she could not concentrate on the problem because Fatima was there to help Sabine dress her hair.
Jane and Fatima knew of each other, and because of both women’s friendship with Nell, Fatima was included on the guest list for tonight. Chastity was not known to either of the women, and Nell wasn’t sure that Chastity would approve of such an extravagant display, even for an engagement dinner. The Society of Friends were simple people, and their egalitarian views extended to displays of wealth, either in feasting or in fashion.
Fatima arrived in her finery, a modest navy-blue dress of wool, a colorful brooch of paste jewels, and parti-colored earbobs that swung low and often, as if they had a mind of their own. Her friend looked ready to celebrate, despite the dark dress, for her gloves, shoes, and hat were all a bright spring green, lending her the color palette of a peacock.
Merely looking at Fatima made Nell smile, and Fatima squeezed Nell’s hand in return, a show of support. “Whether Lord Beckett shows or not, I will be there.”
Nell nodded and allowed both her and Sabine to help her dress, as if she were a mighty lady. Fatima had also brought over a small bottle of sherry, which Sabine brought two dainty glasses for Fatima and Nell to drink out of while Nell went about her ablutions.
