Page 38 of Unforeseen Affairs
Charlotte could imagine several things, none of which would further her purpose of exposing Mr. Bass for the fraud he was and thus—hopefully—settling Mrs. Stone’s malaise and perhaps rekindling her gift for scrying and seeking. Charlotte needed that, for Mrs. Stone was the only medium Charlotte trusted to tell her the truth of whether or not some part of her mother remained in a place that could be reached by the living. That familiar longing welled up within and threatened to overwhelm her.
She abruptly changed the subject.
“Mr. Bass has replied to you?”
The question must have taken a while to register, for Sir Colin continued to stare at her. Eventually, though, he retrieved a letter from inside his coat and offered it to her.
Charlotte took it, deliberately brushing his fingers with her own.
Her stomach leaped at the touch, though she kept her face impassive.That was quite nice.But she ought not toy—she, a bastard child, knew that all too well.
Still, it was enjoyable all the same.
Sir Colin flushed again, then cleared his throat.
“He’s invited me to a sitting next week, at the home of one Mrs. Rebecca Kitson, in Bayswater. The details are provided within.”
“And you know this Mrs. Kitson?”
“No.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “But Mr. Bass assures me she’s keen to make the acquaintance.”
His face clouded then, imparting upon him a stern, foreboding air. It suited his features, made him look formidable.
What a curious thing was desire, Charlotte thought.I did not expect it.
As she read the letter in Mr. Bass’s large, boastful hand, the excitement she felt subsided into the background, like the rattle of a horse’s tack or the humming of a maid banking a fire. She felt confident now that when she looked up at Sir Colin, her mind would not be muddled by urgent thoughts of his lips upon her neck.
“So how shall we explain it?”
“Explain what?”
She looked up. Immediately she thought of his lips upon her neck.
Drat.
“My accompanying you,” she pressed on.
“Ah, that.” Sir Colin wandered over to a stack of shipping crates.
The top crate had been opened, the clean yellow straw within pushed to one side so that it nearly spilled over. It had heldplanchettes used in spirit writing, Charlotte recalled. She’d assisted Mrs. Stone in stocking them behind the counter, neat little wooden planchettes all lined up on the shelves next to the selection of spiritualist pamphlets. Sir Colin plucked several bits of straw and began fiddling with them. Slowly, the thought of his mouth upon her began to fade.
“You do everything to the letter, don’t you?” she mused.
“What’s wrong with that?” he replied, his voice low.
“I am not passing judgment.”
“It can be reassuring, to know what is expected of you and that those expectations are being met.”
He twisted the straw back and forth between his fingers, breaking it apart into smaller fibers. She watched his hands as they moved, quickly and assuredly.
“A feeble justification,” she observed mildly. Just then a feeling settled within her, one that said this moment was of vast import, were they to come to understand one another. She considered her words.
“The idea that the mere knowledge of one’s expectations makes them worthy of fulfillment… I find that deeply unsatisfying. If humans were only motivated to do what was expected of them, no one would ever accomplish anything of note.”
“Oh? What then, are you driving at? What ought to get us out of bed in the morning?”
The straw had splintered into what now resembled a fine, tangled, dry grass. Sir Colin gathered it together, then twisted it tightly, causing it to kink up into a small loop. Charlotte found herself mesmerized watching it.
