Beckman: Lord of Sins

in June or so, and you have two months to harvest and fertilize before you put in another crop. We have plenty enough at Belle Maison to seed this field and several more.”

North’s scowl became more heavily laced with curiosity. “So if we’re not planting until fall, how do you keep the cover from going all to weeds, and is there any corner of the semi-civilized world to which you haven’t wandered?”

“Pen the sheep here,” Beck said, ignoring the second question. “Same as you normally would over winter. Let them eat down the weeds and fertilize while they do.”

“You’ve seen this done?” North’s face conveyed the resignation of the typical man of the land, such fellows being inured to facing multiple variables and having little solid information.

“I’ve seen it done in Hungary. They’re more partial to goats there.”

“I am not raising goats at Three Springs.”

Lest there be a species underfoot more stubborn than North himself? “I’m not asking you to, though they make a respectable poor man’s cow.”

“So if we don’t plant here, where do we plant? The place can’t go a whole year without a crop to sell.”

“We break sod, North.” Beck raised an arm. “There, where the drainage is equally good and the land looks like it’s gone halfway back to heath. It’s fallowed plenty long enough, and the field lies low enough we could irrigate it from that corner if we had to.”

“We could, if we’re to bloody well break our backs digging ditches and serving as plowboys.”

Our backs, because Gabriel North would not permit others to work while he sat on his horse and supervised—any more than Beck would.

“You can’t keep farming the one patch forever without letting it fallow,” Beck argued. “And a better use of the place might be to farm produce and sell it in Brighton.”

“Brighton is a damned long day’s haul, usually two days. Just how many teams and wagons do you think Three Springs owns?”

This was North’s version of taking time to think something over, so Beck did not raise his voice. “Three teams. My four can be worked in pairs, and two wagons, because I’ll not be returning the one to Belle Maison. We can use your old team to haul produce.”

“Why in God’s name are we hauling produce to bloody Brighton?”

Beck grinned, because this was North’s version of enthusiasm for an idea with promise. “Stop whining. Our bloody Regent has nominally finished his bloody Pavilion and must show it off to all his gluttonous, bibulous friends. Your little patch of coast has become frightfully fashionable.”

North’s habitually grim features became even more forbidding. “Brighton is already a horror. The Pavilion will bankrupt the nation so Wales can pretend he’s some Oriental pasha before his drunken guests.”

Beck pulled a doleful face. “You flirt with treason, Mr. North, and a singular lack of appreciation for Eastern architecture.” Beck did not lapse into raptures about Prague or Constantinople, though it was tempting. “We’ll have to broaden your horizons, North.”

“Spare me.” North nudged his horse into a walk. “I’m sufficiently sophisticated for Hildy, Hermione, and Miss Allie, so we’ll leave the broad horizons to you.”

Beck let Ulysses walk on beside North’s mount. “You do not account yourself sophisticated enough for Miss Polly?”

“Stubble it, Haddonfield.” North’s tone was deceptively—dangerously—mild. “Polly Hunt has seen every capital in Europe, converses passably in a half-dozen languages, can out-paint most of the Royal Academy, and out-cook whatever Frog rides the Regent’s culinary coattails. I will never be sophisticated enough for her.” North fell silent while his horse crouched in anticipation of leaping a rill. “But you might be.”

Ulysses chose to wade the little stream. When he was again parallel to North’s mount, Beck studied his companion for a moment before replying.

“Polly Hunt is a lovely lady, but she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you. You matter to her.”

“I matter to her,” North said patiently, “because she is a good Christian woman, and I eat prodigious quantities. You matter to her on the same account, as does Hildegard.”

“How flattering. I am likened to a market hog.”

“Not a market hog, our best breeding sow.”

“Our only breeding sow. North, you are truly obtuse on the subject of Miss Hunt. Don’t compound it by seeing competition where there isn’t any.”

“You are not competition. I’m not sure what you are, but you’re an earl’s son, and Polly deserves at least that.”

“You’re daft.” Beck urged Ulysses up to a trot, and North’s mount smoothly followed suit.

“What?” North cued the beast to a canter. “You’re a picky son of an earl? A woman as accomplished as Polly won’t do for you?”

Beck scowled over at him. “Polly is in every way lovely, but she hasn’t got…”

“She hasn’t got what? No title? No pedigree? No dowry?” They’d gained the lane, such as it was, and North’s voice had gained an edge.

“She hasn’t got the right color hair.”

Beck tapped his heels against Ulysses’s sides, and the race was on.

* * *

“I thought you had a thousand things to do today.” Polly set a tea tray down on the low table, clearly intent on a rare late-morning respite.

“Perhaps only a hundred. I can smell that pot of tea from here.” Sara’s nose told her the leaves were fresh, Polly hadn’t skimped, and the blend was heavy on the Assam.

“A bit of bliss, courtesy of Mr. Haddonfield’s Wagon of Wonders.” Polly did the honors, adding cream and sugar to both cups. “Weren’t you going to clean out the carriage house, scrub the floor to the back hallway, change the sheets on the men’s beds, and”—Polly paused to pay homage to the steaming cup of tea she held before her nose—“about eight other things?”

“Morning light is best for fine work.” Sara hitched her embroidery hoop a bit closer for emphasis. All those chores and tasks and duties could wait for a single, perishing hour, couldn’t they?

“You look different today.”

When an artist made that sort of observation, evasive maneuvers were in order. “I’m sitting still for a change, perhaps? With Allie busy sketching, the twins banished, and North and Mr. Haddonfield in the village, it seemed like an opportunity to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”

While pondering the feel of the man’s palm, pressed snug low against her belly, or his lips grazing across the back of her neck.

“You’re not wearing a cap.”

The tea was excellent—stout without a hint of bitterness, fragrant, and perfectly brewed. Sara savored one swallow, then another. “I don’t always wear a cap.”

“You didn’t used to always wear a cap, but lately, you’ve done so more and more.” Polly wasn’t making an accusation, she was reviewing historical facts. The accusations would come soon.

“I approach the age of thirty, and I am a widow in service. A cap is appropriate to my station.”

“A widow who is using her maiden name. If I had hair that color…” Polly muttered.

“Be grateful you don’t. Be grateful you sport dark auburn hair, not this, this… regimental scarlet gone amok.”

Polly’s artistic gaze narrowed, as if she’d launch into a sermon about light, luminosity, and points of interest. Then, “North has teased you about your caps. North seldom teases outright about anything. I was sure he’d flirt you out of them eventually.”

“Polonaise Hunt, you well know the difference between teasing and flirting, and Mr. North never flirts.”

Polly’s gaze shifted to the day outside the window, one leaning a bit in the direction of spring, at least as far as the morning sunshine was concerned. “North flirts with that damned pig. I thought he’d get you to budge on the matter of your silly caps.”

“I am not Hildegard, Polly.”

And North was not Beckman Haddonfield.

* * *