“Yes please,” Timothy said hurriedly, glancing across the shop to ensure Alexander would not catch him. Fortunately, Alexander was now busy watching the shopkeeper wrap up the painting box.
The shop assistant lifted the cabinet glass and pulled out the silver inkwell, placing it on a navy blue felt top of a table nearby, allowing Timothy to examine it in detail.
“Where was it made?” Timothy asked, bending down to examine it.
“Here in London. We can wrap it up and deliver it if you do not wish to take it with you now, Sir.”
“Yes, I think that would be best.” Timothy found the words falling from his lips before he had realized what he had done.
Why am I doing this?
“Excellent.” The shop assistant retrieved the inkwell and packaged it up, as Timothy handed over the money. “And the address, Sir?”
Timothy gave Lady Rebecca’s address and her name.
“Do you wish to send a card with it?”
“No.” Timothy shook his head, uncertain why he felt the need to be so secretive.
Is it so wrong to want to make her smile without wishing for the credit of it?
“What is all this?” Alexander’s voice made Timothy turn sharply, trying to block the shop assistant from view. “You’re too late, my friend, I can see you bought the inkwell.”
“I am not as secretive as I like to think, clearly,” Timothy muttered. He turned to the shop assistant and thanked him another time, before leaving the shop with Alexander.
“So, should I ask?”
“Best not.”
“You did not buy the inkwell for yourself. Of that I am certain.”
“Alexander, listen,” Timothy pulled on his friend’s arm, urging them both to stop in the middle of the road. “It is nothing. Just a gift. I wanted her to have the inkwell, that is all.”
“Timothy,” Alexander shook his head, as if baffled. “Why do you wish to hide the fact you like the lady? It is not so awful an idea, is it?”
“I do not like her,” Timothy insisted, following his friend as they walked on down the busy Bond Street, moving through other keen shoppers that were being followed by eager footmen, carrying boxes upon boxes of new items.
“Do you not?” Alexander asked, with clear doubt.
“No. Have you not heard of my reputation?” Timothy asked, trying to sound proud, though it was rather difficult.
“A rake? Yes, I think I’ve heard of it,” Alexander said in a tease.
“Then that is what I am. Through and through.”
“It is what your uncle is.”
“Alexander,” Timothy pleaded with his friend. “It is what I am. Let us leave it at that. I simply respect Lady Rebecca as a friend. Buying gifts for her means nothing at all. It is only a mark of that respect.”
“If you say so.” Though Alexander didn’t sound convinced as they carried on along the street.
* * *
“What is all this I hear, Timothy, about you marrying?”
Timothy looked up from where he had been eating his dinner to see his uncle’s rather piercing gaze beside him at the table. Timothy didn’t answer straight away. He fidgeted in his chair instead, making an appearance of adjusting the napkin on his lap.
“It is true,” his mother answered for him instead as she nudged one of the candles on the table surface, moving it to the side a little so she could see her brother easily. It made the light dance across the two of them; it was as if his uncle’s hair was no longer a deep black like his own, but a dark red instead.
