Storing Up Trouble, стр. 90

Chapter 33

Different thoughts swirled through Norman’s mind, each one more disturbing than the next, until he felt as if his head might explode right there in front of the Palmer House, leaving bits of his unusual mind scattered about the sidewalk.

It was almost too much to take in—this notion that Beatrix had purposefully sought him out in order to secure his research, but why else would she have neglected to disclose to him at some point who she really was, and why had she taken up a position as a salesgirl if she was an American heiress?

“Did you begin working at Marshall Field & Company in order to illicit sympathy from me?” he asked, drawing Beatrix’s attention as well as her temper, given the way her eyes gleamed.

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course I didn’t. If you’ll recall, you and I parted ways and had no intention of ever seeing each other again before I took on my position at Marshall Field & Company.”

“Surely you’re not going to believe her, are you, dear?” his mother asked him, earning a snort from Beatrix in return.

“If I were trying to pull the wool over Norman’s eyes,” Beatrix began, “I assure you, I wouldn’t try to do so by crafting such an unusual tale. Nor would I have subjected myself to the ridicule and condescending behavior I experienced every day at the hands of far-too-many snobbish customers in order to garner Norman’s sympathy so that he’d . . . what? . . . hand over his research papers to me?” She turned to him. “Surely you must see that this whole conversation is ludicrous, as is the idea that I’m some sort of spy.”

Doubt began worming its way through him until a completely valid thought sprang to mind. “But why didn’t you tell me you were an heiress?”

She heaved a sigh. “I should have told you at some point, but after you came and saw me at the store, I was just becoming acclimated to my new situation—or perhaps I should call it an experiment, since you’re rather familiar with those. If word had gotten out that I was this grand heiress, I wouldn’t have been treated as merely a salesgirl. Instead, I would have been viewed as an outsider, rendering my experience at the store useless.”

The doubt wormed its way forward again. “But you’ve had ample time to tell me since you first started working at the store.”

“True, and I don’t really have a good reason for why I didn’t tell you, although there might have been a part of me that was hoping you, what with that unusual mind of yours, were figuring out on your own that I was a woman of some means.”

“How could I have figured that out?”

“You told me numerous times that you’re very observant, so you must have noticed how I wasn’t overly concerned about losing my position, which I would have been if I needed funds. Last week, I thought you might question how I had enough money to post bail for all those women. And then, of course, there’s the dress I’m wearing.” Beatrix gestured to her gown. “How else would I have been able to afford to wear a gown from Worth?”

“You’re wearing Worth?” Mary asked, stepping all of an inch forward.

“I am,” Beatrix said.

Norman tilted his head. “I didn’t even consider at first how you came to possess that gown, probably because the sight of you rendered me all but speechless.”

“And that is exactly why Miss Waterbury should be ashamed of herself,” Mary said firmly, advancing closer to Beatrix until only a foot separated them. “I’ve sheltered Norman from vixens like you his entire life, and that I was not there when you convinced him you were some type of damsel in distress leaves me quite furious.”

Beatrix’s lips, oddly enough, began to curve. “I know I should be gravely insulted about being called a vixen, but I find the thought of myself cast in that particular role rather amusing.”

Norman was not encouraged when his mother drew herself up and opened her mouth, then closed it again, apparently uncertain how to respond to that. Knowing it was past time he took control of the situation before it deteriorated further, Norman nodded to his mother. “I need to speak with Beatrix alone.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m afraid I must insist on that.” Taking Beatrix’s arm, he told his mother he’d catch up with her later, then hustled Beatrix down the sidewalk, not stopping until they reached the line of parked carriages. Glancing over them, Norman spotted his carriage and headed for it, not really surprised when Beatrix tugged her arm away from his.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Away from here,” he said as they reached the carriage and he told the driver to take them for a ride through the city.

After a groomsman hurried to open the door for them, Norman followed Beatrix into the carriage. Settling into the seat opposite her, he nodded as the carriage lurched into motion. “I believe I deserve some answers.”

“I’m not a spy, if that’s an answer you’re looking for.”

“Then why did you withhold your true identity from me?”

Her lips thinned. “Did I, or did I not, introduce myself as Beatrix Waterbury when we first met?”

“You did.”

“Well, there you have it. I didn’t withhold my identity from you. I