He was an awful man, Val chided himself as he ambled home through the rainy woods. Ellen Markham wasn’t suited to dallying and trifling away the summer in each other’s arms. She was too decent for that, too good and innocent and dear. And yet, as Val wandered in the woods, he knew he wasn’t going to give her up.
Not yet. Not when he’d just coaxed her into sharing a bed, and ye gods… Val would never have an uncharitable thought about St. Francis Markham again, because the poor blighter, with his dying breath, had to have known he was leaving Ellen and universes of pleasure with her yet unexplored.
When Val was with Ellen, time was easy and sweet and somehow significant in ways it hadn’t been since Victor died. She soothed something in him and tempted him to offer confidences and assurances and all manner of words he shouldn’t even be considering, much less longing to give her.
So he was awful. Virtuosically awful. A cad, a bounder, and everything he’d ever despised in his confreres among the spoiled offspring of the aristocracy and the flighty artists in their music rooms and studios. He was going to break her heart. The only consolation he could offer himself was the absolute certainty she’d break his, as well.
But not yet.
He continued his meandering in the rain, an awful, very wet man, but for some reason, the dampness felt good, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get dry. On a whim, or because he didn’t really want to face anybody else, he detoured to the pond, where he took off his clothes, stuffed them under the overhang of the dock, and dove in.
The pond felt curiously warm compared to the rain on his skin, and so he set out on laps, trying not to think.
In his head, where nothing should have been, he heard a tune. It was a simple, sweet, wistful melody, but it wanted something sturdy beneath it, so he added some accompaniment in the baritone register. Then, the entire little composition was residing in the middle register of the keyboard, and that didn’t feel expansive enough. As Val sliced through the water, he added an occasional note of true bass, just enough to anchor the piece, not enough to overshadow its essential lightness.
But that affected the balance, so he began to experiment with crossing the left hand over the right, to sprinkle a little sunshine and laughter above the tender melody.
Around and around the pond he went; around and around in his head went the melody, the accompaniment, the descant, the harmonies.
He stopped eventually, because he wasn’t sure what to do with his composition. He was used to having music in his head and used to having a keyboard to work out all the questions and possibilities on. Even then, he’d play with an idea until it needed a rest, then put it aside and let time work its magic. He pulled himself up on the dock and realized it wasn’t even raining anymore.
And he’d been in the water a fair while if his protesting muscles and growling stomach were any indication.
Though he hardly felt like eating when there was such lovely music distracting him.
“Who’s for a sortie over to the neighbors?” Val put the question casually while dinner plates were being scraped clean and Day and Phil were haring off for their evening swim.
“I’ll come,” Darius said. “The alternative is to stay here with the Furies.”
“I’m thinking we should all go,” St. Just said, passing Darius his empty plate. “It will leave the boys a responsibility they’re ready for, create a show of force before the locals, and—most significantly—allow me to walk off my second helping of pie.”
Darius stuffed the plates and silverware into a bucket of water and rose. “What exactly is it we’re trying to accomplish?”
Val finished his ale and put his mug into the bucket. “Fair question. One must consider motive when trying to assign blame for a nasty deed. I have to ask who among all my neighbors and associates has a motive for scaring me off?” Val cast his gaze from St. Just to Darius.
“All my tenants,” Val answered himself. “They’ve been unsupervised for five years, and they’ve grown increasingly shortsighted regarding their care for the land.”
“You think your tenants have turned their children loose on you?” St. Just asked.
“I don’t know about that, but my tenants have a substantial motive for wanting to get rid of me, and they have access to those children.”
St. Just grimaced. “You make a good point. One Sir Dewey should be apprised of.”
“He should. Shall we be off?”
Over a surprisingly good bottle of whiskey, Val established with Mortimus Bragdoll that the home farm would be reverting to the estate’s use, though no rent would be charged for Mort’s appropriation of the land previously. In exchange, Bragdoll agreed to set his hand to cleaning up the buildings, scything down the weeds, repairing the fences, and otherwise restoring the property to good condition. Bragdoll was built on the proportions of a plough horse, with four sons growing into the same physique, leaving Val no doubt the home farm would be adequately tended to.
And at Darius’s prompting, Bragdoll started making a list of improvements—beginning with the roof on the hay barn—the present Lord Roxbury had declined to see to.
All in all, Val thought the gathering on the Bragdolls’ porch productive, though it failed entirely to illuminate the question of whether his own tenants were attempting to burn him out and possibly bring harm to Ellen as well.
“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Darius said, folding a list into his pocket as Bragdoll put up the whiskey bottle. “If you have the other tenants here, we can decide what comes next after the hay barn has been seen to.”
“Aye.” Bragdoll pulled on his ear. “And my Ina will join us, too. She’s the smartest among us, and she’ll tell you exactly what needs doing.”
He looked like he might say more, but marital loyalty apparently trumped an urge to commiserate with his own gender. Val, Darius, and St. Just took their leave, unaware Hawthorne Bragdoll, youngest of the four sons, sat with his mother on the second-floor porch and watched their departure.
“Think he means it when he says he’ll make the improvements?” Thorn asked.
“Mr. Windham?” Ina pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I think he means to do right, but as to whether he knows what he’s about, I’ve no clue, young Thorn. The man is a stranger to us, and to hear Deemus tell it, he wears gloves no matter what he’s about, like a dandy. Works hard, though, if you can believe Deemus or Soames.”
Thorn nodded. Neither Deemus nor Soames was much given to exaggeration when sober, and that was too bad. It meant Mr. Windham was likely a decent sort, pouring a great deal of time and money into a dilapidated estate. If Thorn’s instincts were accurate—and they very often were—poor Mr. Windham was in for one hell of a hiding.
And Thorn knew what it was like to get one hell of a hiding a fellow had done nothing to deserve.
“Go back to sleep,” Val whispered. For the past three nights, he’d slipped into Ellen’s bed after she’d retired then slipped out again in the dead of night. He’d made it a point to cross paths with her during the day as well, but with people around, so she might get used to being near her lover in relative public.
This, however, this quiet closeness in the night, it drew him. He didn’t make love to her—not when pregnancy was a greater risk—and he hadn’t found a way to explain to her about sponges and vinegar. Those were not entirely reliable, in any case, and he wasn’t about to go purchasing what he needed in Little Weldon’s apothecary and herbal shop. He could have withdrawn, of course, but that bore risks, as well, and with Ellen, he found he’d rather just damned wait a couple weeks than settle for half measures.
Then too, waiting meant he did not give his conscience yet more ammunition with which to assail him.
So he held her and cuddled and whispered in the darkness, sometimes falling asleep for a while, sometimes holding Ellen while she slept.
“I wasn’t quite asleep.” Ellen stirred and rolled to face him, slipping one arm under his neck and hiking a leg over his hips. She located his lips with her fingers then leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. “I’ve missed you.”
“Since luncheon, you’ve missed me? I’ve missed you too,” Val said, grazing one palm over her breast. “I’ve
