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He moved closer. ‘I think it means bastard.’
‘Oh, right.’ She gave a small shrug.
‘Nice outfit.’
‘I was thinking of wearing it to the hen do. It’s that or a barmaid wench, which I can’t see me pulling off.’ She tilted her head quizzically. ‘My mother, maybe. Me, not so much.’
‘You’re still insisting on fancy dress?’
‘It’ll be fun,’ she said defensively, her scowl returning.
‘Most sane people would consider it torture.’ Her relaxed demeanour from yesterday had vanished and her agitation was back. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Are you sure it’s not just an avoidance tactic?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Meaning?’
‘It saves you picking out an outfit.’ He removed her hat, admiring the way her long hair tumbled onto her shoulders. ‘Do you ever wear your hair down?’
‘God, no. Too unruly.’ She stepped away from him.
‘It suits you loose. You have very pretty hair.’
Anyone would think it was the first time she’d received a compliment. Her mouth dropped open and she looked lost for words. When her cheeks flushed, she looked away, fumbling with the clasp on the cloak, as she struggled to remove it.
He resisted the temptation to help her, knowing it would only annoy her. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Shame, I slept like a log,’ he said, realising a beat too late that wasn’t helpful. ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’
‘No idea.’ She turned away, and replaced the cloak and hat on the hanger, removing the eyepatch from over her glasses and rubbing the lens. ‘I stargazed for a while, so that was nice. Shall we look at the exhibits?’
‘Sure.’
He followed a step behind, studying her outfit of pristine jeans, sparkling white trainers and rigid cotton top. Her attempts to be casual were hilarious – like when his dad used prison jargon during their visits, spouting phrases picked up from the younger inmates, which just sounded ludicrous coming from a fifty-seven-year-old man.
Thoughts of his dad dampened his good mood, so he switched to watching Beth admiring the exhibits in Daphne du Maurier’s writing room, complete with ancient typewriter, and feather quill and inkwell.
Beth was subdued today, and he could tell by her body language that she was agitated. Her shoulders were hunched and her hands kept balling into fists. Every now and again her fingers would stretch out, almost as if she was reminding herself to relax. Was he the cause of her anxiety? He hoped not.
‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend?’ she suddenly asked, stepping around a barrel of gunpowder on the floor.
The question momentarily threw him. ‘How do you know I haven’t?’
‘Have you?’
He viewed her suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’
She shrugged. ‘Curiosity, I guess.’
‘Ask me nicely, and I might tell you.’
She shot him a look. ‘Forget I asked, it’s none of my business.’ Turning sharply, she walked off to look at a display of photos.
Okay, the situation was becoming very strange. Yesterday they’d been almost friendly, but today he was back to being enemy number one, and he had no idea why.
But then he remembered questioning her last night about her love life and realised she was probably feeling a bit exposed, having divulged personal information about herself, when he’d revealed nothing.
He went over and stood next to her, keeping his gaze focused on the display. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend. I haven’t had much success in the past with relationships.’
