Page 42 of The Scent of Intuition
“Don’t look at me,” Bea mumbled into the pillows, closing her arms over her head.
“I won’t. But I do need to speak with you,” Pippa said in a voice that was too calm, clashing with the upheaval in Bea’s chest. She pressed something into Bea’s hand. Her journal! “I noticed this. You left it at the breakfast table.”
“Hmpf!” Bea frowned into her pillow. She’d dropped it onto the table on her way out to the orangery, never imagining that anyone—except one of the servants—would see it. She peered at Pippa from under her elbow. “Did you look at it?”
“I didn’t read it, but I’d like to know what’s so important that you keep it with you most of the time otherwise.”
Bea sighed. “It’s a record of my diet and cosmetics.” And my memories of the young man in India with eyes who looked exactly like Alfie’s.
Wait!Could it be that she’d recognized more in Alfie than a newly-forged bond? Was it more than a coincidence that Alfie’s eyes were like the young man’s?
“Why are you recording everything you eat and put on your body?” Pippa asked.
“Alfie told me to.” Bea released the pressure on the pillow. Sobbing required a lot of extra air; everybody knew that.
“Why?”
“To find out what triggers my beast to break out.”
“He knows?”
Bea lifted her head and nodded at Pippa.
For a prolonged minute, Pippa stared at Bea. She did that when she had to formulate a thought that required finesse. “What do you want to say?” Bea asked.
“How is it possible that you hide from me, but he was allowed to see you when you were red and blotchy?”
Interesting question. And not one Bea had an answer for. Plus, she’d let him see it before the kiss. Since then, something had changed. Bea sat up and crossed her arms to hug herself.
“It’s just that you must trust him a great deal if you didn’t merely expose your fury to him but are also keeping a detailed record to discuss with him what could have triggered it,” Pippa said. She furrowed her brow.
“Medical information,” Bea mumbled.
“Aha! It’s a test!”
“What kind of test?”
“A vision test, like the one Nick gave me. He knew immediately that I’m shortsighted and merely had to examine my eyes to determine exactly how much.”
“So?” Bea didn’t think much of that. Nick was an oculist, and it was his calling to measure people’s vision and make up the loss of correct lens curvature with lenses.
“So? Don’t you realize? He saw me for who I was before even I did. He’d cured my clumsiness before I ever knew it could be cured,” Pippa said, and Bea could hear in her tone that she was marveling at her handsome future husband’s brilliance.
“You’re in love, Pippa. I’m happy for you. But I don’t expect to ever marry for love like you.”
“Perhaps you’ll have a chance.”
“With Stan? No.” And it wasn’t love he could offer her… so did he fail her criteria? Could the fact that he could take her far away outweigh the lack of love?
“Why not?” Pippa sat back and eyed Bea as if she’d sprouted an orange tree on her head. Was it that absurd that she’d marry Stan?
“He’s too aware of his value. If he offers for my hand—and I will say yes, of course—then it’s a transaction to fuse my connections in London and his royal bloodline.”
“That’s not very romantic.” Pippa grimaced. “It’s transactional.”
“No.” Bea straightened her back, her eyes cast low. “It’s a logical continuation of my destiny.”
Pippa remained silent again. Looking deeply into her eyes, she gazed at Bea as if she didn’t see the red-hot blotches. Perhaps she could see something with her glasses that Mother never had, for her eyes only ever skimmed the surface of Bea’s skin, worrying that the hives would leave scars and reduce Bea’s value as a noble bride.
