That question obviated her hope to not be considered boastful, but she refused to lie about art on principle. “I did. Shall we go?” Nell pulled on her gloves. It would be her second walk of the day, which was agreeable. Exercise was good for clarity of mind, and she was pleased that Beckett had suggested it. He obviously could use the clarity, given how obtuse he seemed to be. Perhaps his conversation would be a tad more stimulating than stating colors.
“You painted this?” Beckett asked.
Apparently it was not more stimulating. Well, they hadn’t begun their exercise yet. “If we do not leave, we cannot stroll,”she reminded him, wondering if he needed to be kept on task like an errant child.
In the past week, she had written a note to Mrs. Dove-Lyon requesting that she be released from the attentions of such a simple-minded man, but the answer was for naught. She was told there would be at least a total of five visits, which made Nell feel better. Parameters made Nell calm. She liked to know boundaries and plans. It was one of the reasons she had become interested in painting. A canvas was a contained area. Composition was easily learned. And colors—she did love color. She loved learning how to mix paints from various plants, bugs, and oils, and once that was achieved, how to mix new colors themselves, finding the exact perfect shade that she had in mind.
“How did you—” Beckett stopped himself, which was a pleasing in and of itself because honestly, being questioned repeatedly was tiresome. “Perhaps you can regale me with your painting expertise as we stroll.”
They departed at last. She did not take his arm, and he did not offer it. Her instructions from Mrs. Dove-Lyon to not put him off were somewhat difficult to adhere to, given his lack of conversation skills. She’d worked very hard on hers; could he not have done the same?
“So, Mrs. Reid, where did you come upon such skill with a paintbrush?” Beckett asked as they walked the short distance to Hyde Park.
“That was an excellent conversational starter, Lord Beckett. Bravo to you.” Nell had learned that positive reinforcement was the best way to encourage children and dogs, so she thought to give the same overt praise to Lord Beckett.
He snorted in response, which was not at all polite, but sounded as if he were amused by her comment. Nell felt a thrill that he had found her words funny. She hadn’t meant to be entertaining, but if she had misjudged him, and he wasn’ta simpleton, then perhaps they could engage in witty repartee. She had practiced the skill in letters, but never in actual conversation.
“I became interested in art when I was informed there was a technique to composition. That much of art could be learned by observing natural balance. I investigated.” There was more to it, the darker shade of the history, which she kept partitioned in her mind. She forced herself to make internal observations instead of touching the memories like worrying a sore tooth. The day was gray and the mists had made the green of Hyde Park’s lawn vibrant. She could stand and examine a color like that for an hour, if she had the time.
“Shall we pause?” Beckett asked.
She tore her gaze from the verdant grass. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”
He gestured to the lawn. “You slowed down. I assume there is something you wish to look at?”
She blinked at him. Surely, he was not inviting her to gaze at a grass blade at his expense. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”
“As you wish,” he said, nodding, and clasped his hands behind his back.
What a strange fellow, Nell thought. It was so startling that she couldn’t remember what they had been discussing, which derailed all sense she had of the conversational dance. But the silence was companionable, so she let her eyes wander across the park. They were early for the fashionable hour, which was a relief. She hated crowds, and she hated to be seen.
“I thought about calling upon you later in the day,” Beckett said, as if her thoughts had been spoken aloud. “So that we might take advantage of the social scene. However, I detest a crowd and cannot think of a single person I would wish to talk to that I might happen upon by chance.”
Nell glanced at him, surprised once again. “I agree completely.”
They walked on in companionable silence again, and Nell did not think a disparaging thought about his lack of conversation. They had, at least, this in common. A preference for quiet.
When they hadthoroughly circulated through Hyde Park, Beckett gradually steered them back in the direction from which they came. His plan had been to tire her out, to wait until she complained of a weak ankle or a sore foot, but no such sentiment came. To his surprise, she maintained her brisk pace with ease, and it was he who wished to stop before she did.
And the company had been…acceptable. He would not deign to call her agreeable, for she wasn’t. But he realized that her sharp comments were not intended to be insulting; they were intended to be informative. It was a very different style of conversation for him, which was strange to have with a woman, though he did recall a professor of his who had a similar manner in his lectures. But that was the point of instruction. To inform.
Though, Beckett was willing to admit he was out of practice with social niceties as well. At her doorstep, as Jacobs opened the door for her, he had meant to say his polite farewell, when he caught sight of the white cliffs of Dover painting. It tugged at him, connected with him in a way he found baffling. The use of color was extraordinary, but the emotion and turmoil of the piece struck him. How had this woman—this person—who was so direct she was insulting manage to paint such a moving work of art?
“Madam, if I may be so bold.” He winced at his own impertinence. “Do you have more paintings? I should rather like to see them.”
Her dark brows shot up, but she gave a curt nod. “Jacobs, please fetch a light repast with tea for two.” She handed off her bonnet to the man, and Beckett doffed his hat and handed over his gloves without complaint.
She led him into the sitting room, where he had taken that horrible tea with her the week before. On the wall behind where he’d sat was a painting that he had not noticed. Likely because his back was to it. It was an idyll, the style of many painters in the previous century. But instead of a frolicking and flirtatious woman on a swing, this forest scene was populated with common English animals.
A young roe deer stood peering over the back side of a rock, while a fox ran through low ferns as if trying to catch up with something. It wasn’t on the hunt, for it looked panicked, somehow. As Beckett examined the painting, he realized there was only one of each creature in the scene, from the stoat and dormouse to the deer and hedgehog. The fauna was painted in a lush landscape, full and bright. The colors were again vibrant in their greens and yellows and whites. The darkness was not depicted using black, but rather grays and subdued purples.
Looking at the painting, Beckett realized that this was a depiction of loneliness. The forest she had rendered was full not of happy woodland animals, but rather a profound feeling of isolation. Each animal appeared to be striving in some manner, appropriate for its own nature, to find something. And while each animal looked for its companion, none could find its match.
“This is my friend Jane’s favorite. She prefers forest landscapes.”
Beckett noted that Mrs. Reid didn’t say anything about her own opinions. “What inspired this piece?”
“I wanted to represent native creatures of England instead of the idylls crammed with mythical sycophantic dairy maids and the terrifyingly simple men who prey upon them.”
