Page 9 of A Delicate Deception
“No, that’s my given name,” he said. “I thought—well—since we’ve already progressed beyond dog attacks and border disputes, perhaps we could simply use first names.” Like most Friends his age, Sydney adopted a fairly flexible approach: he used titles when he had to, usually with shareholders in the railway who needed to be cosseted and cajoled, and he hated it every time. Otherwise, when speaking with a person with whom he wasn’t intimate enough to use a first name, he used their full name. Or, as in this case, he could presume a little and skip right to using given names.
Besides, it was true that he didn’t want to use Mrs. or Miss or—heaven forbid—Lady, with this woman. Every time he used a title it felt like a lie, a denial of a belief he held close to his heart. Perhaps being at Pelham Hall made him want to fight tooth and nail against hierarchy. Perhaps he sensed that he was forging something like a friendship with her and didn’t want to start off with the taste of a title in his mouth.
“I see,” she said lightly. “You wait until you very nearly have me on a mountaintop to tell me that you refuse to call me by my proper name. How shocking.” A smile lurked behind the edges of her words, as if she were trying and failing to suppress a smile.
“It was part of my dastardly plan. Also I’m a Friend—a Quaker—and I don’t use titles if I can help it.”
“Well, my name is Amelia.” They had reached a clearing and she sat on a fallen tree. “I haven’t so much as a husk of bread with me today. I all but fled my house.”
“Oh, I see. You wait until you have me on a mountaintop to deliver the killing blow.” He was rewarded for this, his second attempt at humor in as many years, by hearing her huff of laughter. He knelt beside her. “No matter. I have bread and cheese and ale enough for us both.”
She regarded him for a moment and he felt the back of his neck heat in awareness. “Sydney, you aren’t surveying anything at the moment. I meant to ask you about that last time. You don’t have tools.”
This, Sydney knew, was where he ought to tell the truth, explain that he wasn’t in Derbyshire on surveying business at all. “I already did that part of the job,” he said instead. “Why did you flee your house this afternoon?” he asked in an attempt to change the topic. “It must have been dire for you not to even pause for cake.”
“It’s too tedious to go into. If I complain about having received a parcel of gowns I don’t want or need, and resenting the prospect of attending parties with the great and good of the land, I’ll sound perfectly spoiled, which is neither more nor less than the truth.”
Sydney would certainly consider superfluous gowns and costly entertainments to be just the sort of indulgence he might expect from a person in Amelia’s station in life. But he also saw the tightness around her eyes when she spoke of these gowns and parties. “On the contrary,” he said. “I’ve never wanted to attend a social gathering in my life and would heartily resent being obligated to do so. Besides,” he said, not knowing whether this would be going too far, “you’ve said that you have a hard time with people.” He did not know what that meant or what it entailed, but supposed he did not need to. “In that case, gowns and invitations are precisely designed to discompose one’s mind.”
“Yes,” she said, looking so grateful that Sydney wanted to bask in her approval. “That’s exactly it.” She chafed her arm with the palm of one hand, then abruptly stopped and tucked her hands behind her back. “The fact is that I have too many friends and connections, and I care too much about what they think to properly divorce myself from expectations.”
She seemed nervy and distressed, and Sydney did not know what to do. He remembered how she had reacted when he had been in low spirits. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re making a terribly poor fist of being a recluse.” He hoped to God that his clumsy attempt at humor carried itself off. “Extremely low quality reclusivity,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Friends, spoken of in the plural, no less.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye for any sign his joke had misfired. To his immense relief, she smiled.
“You have no idea. I have a mother, two sisters, two half brothers, my brothers’ spouses, and a couple of other people I acquired without even the excuse of family ties.”
There was not, he noticed, a husband on that long list. “I fear that you ought to have done some cursory research into the bare minimum requirements of being a recluse before attempting such a thing.”
She waved this away. “Even if I lived in the Outer Hebrides or the surface of the moon, my mother and friends would figure out a way to send me letters. Which, I realize, is something I ought to be grateful for. And I am! But one wants to make one’s friends happy, and one doesn’t know how to go about doing it. Meanwhile they want to make you happy, and they manifestly don’t know how to do so. The result is that everyone dances around one another pretending to be quite satisfied with everyone else and secretly wanting to tear one’s hair out.”
“I suppose actually talking about one’s needs with one’s friends is out of the question.”
“Of course it is,” she said in tones of exaggerated outrage. “Don’t be absurd. Sometimes the problem is that you don’t even quite know what you need yourself.”
“And sometimes the problem is that one’s friends give one ulcers from the worry,” Sydney added, thinking of Lex.
“Most definitely,” she said.
They sat for some time in the shade, chatting in this idle and inconsequential manner. Sydney thought he should not be nearly as entertained as he was. They were only interrupted when a gust of wind whipped through the clearing, blowing Amelia’s shawl off her shoulders.
“Oh no!” she cried, leaping to her feet and running after it. He was behind her in an instant, watching the wisp of fabric flutter through the air before landing on a branch about five yards from the ground. “Rats,” she said. “I liked that shawl.”
He laid down his satchel and took off his coat. “Stand back in case any branches fall.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr.—Sydney.”
“It’s no trouble.” At some point he was going to think long and hard about why he was performing acts of gallantry for this woman. But for now, he swung himself onto the lowest branch, thanked the Creator that it was solid enough to hold his substantial weight, and then began to climb. An advantage to height was that he didn’t have far to go before he was within reach of the shawl. It was a flimsy, silky thing; worldly nonsense, he told himself. Still, he took his time unpicking it from the branch, trying not to let it snag. It smelled of rosewater. When he got it loose, he leaned against the trunk of the tree and folded it into a neat triangle, then tossed it down to her.
“Thank you,” she called.
When he landed on the ground, he brushed some leaves and moss off his sleeves.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, indicating his shoulders. “No, not there. Hold still.” She deftly flicked the debris from his shirt. There was nothing coy or sensual about her touch—she was only sparing his shirt damage, just as he had spared her shawl. Her hands didn’t linger, she didn’t stand too near, and still his heart raced at her touch. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was biting her lip in concentration. He drew in a sharp breath at the surge of ill-timed desire that raced through him.
“There you go,” she said, stepping back.
“Thank you.” His voice sounded strange. “Now I believe I promised you bread and cheese.”
“And ale,” she said. “Watching you perform feats of strength is thirsty work.” She opened her eyes wide for the merest instant, as if realizing that she had made an arguably personal remark and thinking better of it. But just as soon, her expression returned to its usual steadiness.
