“I suppose.” Polly considered the hoop that had been set aside. The beginnings of a Tree of Life sprouted up in soft greens and muted golds, and a peacock strutted about its base. “It’s good you can say that, good you can be that honest.”
Sara kept her gaze on Polly’s domestic artistry. “Do you miss him?” An even more delicate question.
“I used to. I never understood exactly what he was up to, Sara, and he was always kind to me, as long as I behaved, that is. But then I see that Allie is almost ten, and I realize I was fourteen when Reynard came to St. Albans—I thought I was so grown up then, as all little girls do, but I was a child. He exploited a child, and that child was me. So no, I don’t miss him.”
“I miss things I thought I could have had with him,” Sara said softly. This realization was… sad enough that Sara took a seat in her rocker.
“Could you be any more tentative?” Polly’s smile was sad too. “Things you thought you could have had?”
“Dreams,” Sara said. “When he proposed, I had dreams for a happy marriage. When he talked of travel on the Continent, and touring, I had dreams of artistic recognition, of making some contribution to music. When we bought the villa in Italy, I still at least dreamed of good things for my sister. Despite all the hardship and travel, and… all of it”—even in this extraordinary conversation, Sara could not be more specific—“I dreamed, Polly. Now I fret.”
“What do you fret about, Sara?”
“I fret about Allie. I fret whether we’re doing the right thing for her. Beckman complimented Allie’s talent, and I almost took his head off. I fret Lady Warne will die, and we’ll be begging for crusts or worse. Allie is so pretty…”
“You can’t think like that,” Polly rejoined earnestly. “We can go back to St. Albans, pride be damned, Sara. Mama and Papa would provide something for Allie, at the least. We both have trades, and we’d have characters. Beckman sees clearly what we’ve been up against, and he’d make provision for us in any case. An earl’s son knows people, and I’ve a little put by. We’d manage, Sara. We would.”
“We always have.” Barely and badly, sometimes not even speaking to each other, but they had. “Mr. Haddonfield assured me he’d find something for us, but he’s a man, Polly, and here on some sort of lark or familial obligation. He could be gone tomorrow. We can’t rely on his word.”
“We might have to,” Polly said, “though for the present, I’d say things are improving. North is certainly more sociable with another man shouldering some of the load, and Allie seems to like having more company as well. Can you believe the twins were pilfering our household money?”
“Yes, I can believe it. What I can’t believe is none of us guessed it.”
“Just as he spotted that problem,” Polly went on, “I think Mr. Haddonfield can bring a fresh eye to the whole undertaking here. North works like a demon, but it’s as if he’s already too tired to see the larger perspective.”
Sara did not ask if Polly’s interest in the man was part of that larger perspective. She did not have to. “He does have a weariness about him. I fear I’ve acquired it too.”
“Then, Sister”—Polly picked up her hoop and frowned thoughtfully at the unfinished peacock—“you must allow Mr. Haddonfield to bring you a fresh perspective as well.”
“I still say he’s married.” Any man that fine looking had to have been dogged with opportunities to marry. “He’s just too… canny, too at ease with females in the kitchen and the laundry and the still room.”
Polly stabbed the thread through the fabric. “If he’s so married, then why hasn’t his wife written to him? Why hasn’t he written to her? Why doesn’t he wear a ring? Why doesn’t he get a faraway, missing-his-wife look on his face when he lingers over his last cup of tea? Why does he watch your fundament at every turn, and why, when I heard North telling him of the boarding house in the village that caters to men, did I hear Haddonfield disdaining to know of it?”
“Polonaise Hunt, you are a naughty, naughty girl—for eavesdropping so, and for not telling your only sister sooner.”
“I want to show you something, Mr. Haddonfield.” Sara’s tone made it plain, if the crisp
Beck ignored the glance exchanged between Polly and North, ignored everything except Sara, rising from the table and moving off to the back hallway.
“Polly, my thanks for an excellent meal.” The compliment was sincere. That he’d again beaten North to expressing his appreciation for Polly’s cooking was no little satisfaction.
“Where are we going?” Beck asked as Sara held his coat out for him.
“A short walk. I won’t keep you long.”
Pity, that. When she would have swished off ahead of him across the yard, Beck instead captured her hand and put it on his sleeve. “I’m not in any hurry, and I think Polly and North might appreciate a few minutes’ privacy.”
North might also kill him for it, but men were fools where true love was concerned. This truth might not be universal, but in Beck’s experience, it was at least international.
Sara’s steps slowed. “Do you think so? I used to be able to read my sister like a simple etude—you look at the melody on paper and you can hear it in your head and feel it in your fingers and your bowing arm. Now I must interpret her cooking spices and her silences.”
“While I interpret your caps and the way your skirts whip and swish as you rampage through the house.” They reached the end of the garden, and Sara kept moving Beck away from the house. “I’m glad you’re not avoiding me, Sara. Did I offend last night?”
He wasn’t going to mention her lack of cap. He was instead going to hope that if he had offended, he’d also disappointed a bit too, when he’d chosen to limit his offenses.
“You did… not offend. I’m a widow, not some pampered lady.”
She was taking him in the direction of the trees that formed the hedgerow of the home wood, a dark, tangled mess sporting two decades of deadfall and windfall.
“I’m told widowhood can be lonely.” God knew, being a widower was lonely. “That it can feel like an ongoing wound, an indignity, not just a loss. I’ve wondered why you and Polly use the same last name.”
And yet if she was lonely, like him, she hadn’t remarried.
“Lonely is a good word, an honest word, but I don’t think you mean lonely, exactly.”
“Where are you taking me, Sara?” Because she was leading him down a declivity, such that the house had disappeared from view.
“To the springs.”
“One suspected a property named Three Springs might boast some of same.” He switched his grip on her as they approached the trees, linking his fingers with hers. They circled around the side of a medium-sized pond and traveled a little ways into the woods along the stream feeding the pond.
“Hot springs?” Beck guessed. Steam rose from the water in the deepening twilight, creating a land-of-the- faery quality. He took a whiff of the air. “And not sulfurous. Shall we sit a moment?”
Because hot springs were worth noting, but they weren’t the reason she’d dragged him away from home on an increasingly chilly night, nor why she’d dodged his question about her surname.
“We can’t sit for long. It will be dark in just a few minutes.”
Dark enough for kissing? As a very young man, Beck had cadged a tumble or two under the stars, but always with the benefit of a blanket and some congenial weather. Then too, Sara was giving off not a single hint she intended to tumble him.
Which ought to have occasioned more disappointment than it did. If Beck coaxed Sara Hunt into intimacies, he’d be using sex with her as an antidote to lust and something else—grief, maybe. That she would use him wasn’t the comfort it ought to have been.
“There’s a bench.” She tugged him over to a rude plank and arranged her skirts while Beck came down beside her. “You should have Gabriel bring you here. His back gets to bothering him, and he’s too stubborn to find what relief he might.”
Beck took her hand as an experiment in modest comforts. Sara’s weight settled against his side, perhaps her own version of an experiment.
“This is a pretty spot, Sara. Thank you for showing it to me.”
