She cocked her head to the side, as if she were pleased that he’d had the mental acuity to ask such a question. Again, it was insulting, but somehow, it made him want more of her approval. Timothy would have something to say about that, he was sure.
“This should not reflect upon you at all. I prefer my routine, and you are not part of it. I require an unencumbered existence. A man is—”
“An encumbrance?” He interrupted her this time, feeling a little proud of himself.
“Dead weight,” she corrected.
Her status as a widow somehow became all the more sinister. “Well then. I shall take my dead weight out of your parlor, then. Good day, Mrs. Reid.”
She curtsied in return; finally, some protocols were adhered to properly. The manservant met him at the door, returning to him his hat and gloves. He put them on, grateful for the smooth glide of the supple leather across his knuckles. His coachman hopped down and opened the carriage door as Beckett approached. Timothy leaned out the door, no doubt wanting to see his face.
Once settled, and the carriage under way, Timothy could stand it no longer and prompted, “So?”
Still unsure of the entire fifteen minutes he’d spent in her company, all he could say was, “She is a very strange person.”
Chapter Three
The next week,since Timothy claimed Beckett had to make five attempts at courting the strange, rude Mrs. Reid, Beckett sent a note ahead to ask her to walk in the park with him. A stroll in public seemed more appealing than another combative tête-à-tête in a parlor over a cup of tea so weak it looked like dishwater. He also hoped that whatever malevolent forces Mrs. Dove-Lyon wielded that could wrest Timothy’s inheritance from him would see Beckett holding up his end of the bargain.
His carriage brought him to Mrs. Reid’s, but stranded him there. It was his request, for he harbored a deep desire to forgo speaking to Mrs. Reid ever again. If he could balk and jump back in his carriage, he would. Really, he was lucky that Timothy hadn’t bothered to join him today. He sighed and knocked.
The manservant opened the door, as expressionless as his mistress. “She is expecting you, my lord.” He ushered Beckett inside but did not offer to take his hat and gloves, since they would be departing immediately for their stroll.
Good manners dictated that he doff the hat and hand over the gloves, make himself available to the lady’s leisure, but dear God. He couldn’t. The past week had been distracting enough as he involuntarily relived all of her barbed interruptions. Hecouldn’t recall if he’d managed a complete sentence in her presence.
He heard the manservant inform Mrs. Reid of his arrival, and he took in the décor of her abode. It was small, which made sense, what with her living alone. The art was excellent, but not very much of it. He supposed that a widow might have to sell prized furnishings to support even a meagre household.
The walls were clean, and the rooms bright. It was tidy, nothing garish or maudlin, which made sense, since the woman didn’t appear to possess an ounce of sentimentality. He heard her putting something away—the capping of an inkpot, the closing of a wooden box that sounded terribly akin to a secretary desk. Of course she was a letter writer. Likely she wrote to every major publication to complain of anyone displaying a modicum of human compassion.
He focused his attention on a painting hung on the wall. While it wasn’t a large format, the intricate landscape of Dover dominated the space. The famous white cliffs were rendered in startling detail, using a remarkable array of whites, grays, blues, and greens to give depth and character to what amounted to a very large pile of chalk. The perspective was one from a great deal of distance, encompassing the cliffs, but also a tiny boat at the bottom, looking perilously close, as if it might capsize on a tumultuous wave that was about to hit the rock.
Beckett stared at the piece, surprised that he felt something as he did so. The small boat was seconds away from perishing, and Beckett felt an intense desire to save it. But it was a painting. Could there not be another where the boat was safe? Where a miracle occurred and pulled the boat away from danger? His heart quickened as he examined it. This was an eye of God view, not one a portrait painter could make. This was someone’s excellent ability to render difficult perspectives while simultaneously keeping the human heart engaged.
He scoured the frame for an artist’s signature, but there was no mark he could see. Perhaps on the back. He was tempted to take it off the wall to see if he could find some clues as to who the artist could be, but footsteps prevented him.
“Your bonnet?” the manservant asked, muffled by the distance around the corner.
“The lavender one, please, Jacobs,” she said.
Beckett turned, ready to tease her for her politeness to Mr. Jacobs, since she hadn’t any manners for her visitors, only to stop as his mouth hung open. He closed it. Today, her widow’s weeds were gone. Today, she wore a gown of brilliant green, and she was unexpectedly beautiful.
“Your mouth ishanging open, my lord,” Nell said, focusing on tying the ribbon to her bonnet. The satin had been Fatima’s suggestion, which was terribly slippery. She would inform her friend that while it was prettier, it was an inferior choice. Bonnets were not something Nell had ever taken an interest in; therefore, she consulted her Catholic friend for her perspective, considering that those brought up in a faith where pomp was expected, she would know best.
The green color, however, was a suggestion from Chastity, who was a Quaker. A surprise that a woman from the Society of Friends advised a new gown, but green was a “natural” color, according to Chastity, and knew of places to find cast off dresses that could be altered to suit in a short amount of time.
Nell did not consult Jane. Jane was sentimental and could not be relied upon to be sensible or discreet. Her friend would also have much to say about spending time with man who was unmarried.
Nell was happy to say that while her wardrobe was still chiefly made up of attire in half-mourning colors, she had one lavender gown, one gray gown, one white gown, and now one green gown. It was an extravagance to have four dresses, none of which were her evening wear—that was a separate closet and did not count in her daily tally—but she had been doing well and felt that she deserved to have something that would make her seem more socially acceptable.
The bonnet’s slick satin ribbons were secured before Lord Beckett finally uttered a full word.
“You’re wearing green.”
It was Nell’s turn to stare. She had not seen him in seven days, and this was his opening volley for conversation? This would be a tiresome stroll. “It appears you are not colorblind, sir. I congratulate you on your fine lineage.”
He turned abruptly to the painting she rather liked, which is why she hung it next to the door. It was a comfort to look at it both when she left her house and returned. If her vanity could be appeased, it also meant that every visitor was likewise treated to its sight. A subtle boast, but if she did not mention it in conversation, then what did it matter?
“Who painted this?” Beckett asked, pointing at it.
