countess a little affair, his firstborn be estranged. My father was a lowly squire who enjoyed scribbling the occasional composition for the choir at St. Albans, my mother a vicar’s daughter who made a solid, comfortable match. Our story should have been prosaic.”
She slid out from under Beck’s arm, having given up enough of the difficult tale that was her old life. Her existence at Three Springs was prosaic in the extreme, tiresomely so, and yet, she could not say it was exactly comfortable.
“Polly and North haven’t come in yet?”
“You are not to fret, Sarabande Adagio,” Beck said, flipping the last muffin out of its pan. “I can assure you, North is in no condition to threaten anybody’s virtue. He’s still moving like an eighty-year-old veteran of the Colonial wars. If he asked Polly to introduce him to the new foal, then that’s exactly what’s afoot.”
More or less. A man did not need a supple back to kiss the woman he loved.
Sara stood, arms crossed, watching him arrange muffins on a rack to cool. “It will take him a few days to come right. A trip or three to the springs wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll suggest it to him tomorrow, as it’s the Sabbath, and he’s not up to any work anyway.” Beck fetched a pat of butter from the window box. “Join me?”
“For a few minutes.” Sara preceded him to the table. “And yes, I will have a muffin as well, just so your feelings won’t be hurt.”
“Such a considerate lady.” Beck put the butter on a tea tray with three muffins and brought it to the table. “And while we enjoy my baking, there are things I want to discuss with you.”
“This sounds ominous.” Sara sugared her tea, half a teaspoon then a second half teaspoon.
“Not serious, but needful. First, you should know I rounded up some help today from Sutcliffe Manor for the harrowing and planting, so Polly might have some extra cooking to do at midday come the first of the week.”
“Is this why you added some stores from the Saturday market?” She dabbed a little butter on her muffin, then a little more.
“In part. You should also know I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Grantham, the Sutcliffe housekeeper, who might well be calling on you and Polly.”
Sara closed her eyes and inhaled a whiff of her muffin, looking like some decadent kitchen angel. “Susan Grantham? Tallish, blonde, and goes about with a not-to-be-trifled-with look?”
Beck did not snort at that observation. “I would have said it’s a housekeeperish look, but yes. She’s isolated at Sutcliffe. The roads between there and here are miserable, and I gather she doesn’t have a riding mount. I will notify the property owner of the oversight, but if it holds fair tomorrow, she might be over with the farm help.”
“I’ll let Polly know.” Sara took a sip of her tea. “Allie will be excited.”
“Planting is an exciting time, or it should be. But when the planting is done, Sara, we’ll need to make a trip into Portsmouth, and I will want your company for that excursion.”
She paused in dabbing yet more butter on her muffin. “My company? Why not Mr. North’s?”
“For one thing, I don’t think hours on a wagon will appeal to his abused back,” Beck said, for which Beck really ought not to be so grateful. “For another, I would rather he and I are not both gone from the property overnight.”
“Beckman, we manage here by ourselves often enough.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Besides, North has no idea which tea towels will go with what’s on hand, how many lamp chimneys need to be replaced, or whether we’re lower on lamp black or boot polish. I can speak for the needs of the land and the buildings, but you are the one who must address the needs of the house.”
“We’d have to spend the night.”
The very point of the outing, since goods could be ordered by mail and hauled overland if a man preferred to spend his coin that way.
Which Beck did not. He appropriated the butter knife from her and doctored his own muffin with a generous dollop of butter. “I know of several very reputable and discreet inns in Portsmouth, Sara.” Beck held his muffin up to her lips. “And honestly, the prospect of having you to myself, away from the rest of the household, appeals greatly.”
She nibbled a bite off, peering at him curiously while she chewed. “Are you offering to
Lest she attribute to him saintliness beyond his aspirations, Beck replied honestly. “I suppose I am, among other things.” He topped up their teacups and bit into his muffin from the same spot she’d nibbled. “But I’m warning you, Sara, when we’re in Portsmouth, I expect to spend a great deal of money, and some of that on you and yours.”
“Don’t say that. You need not spend a ha’penny on us, Beckman, particularly not on me.”
“I mean you no insult.”
“I did not mean to imply…” She covered his hand with hers for the duration of one quick, warm squeeze, which was something—a small bite of a tasty muffin. “Don’t be offended, I’m just… not used to generosity. My parents were frugal, and with Reynard, we rarely left town but that the creditors were nipping at our heels. It was no way to live.”
She was coming to Portsmouth with him. He could afford to be not just generous but gracious. “How exactly did he support his family?”
“He purported to be a gentleman, one of the many exponents of the dispossessed French aristocracy—a
“I’m sorry. I know what it is to be disappointed in a spouse, but my wife wasn’t particularly evil, she was just a victim of circumstances.”
“As are we all.” She worried a thumbnail then stopped herself.
“Will you come to Portsmouth with me?”
She knew what he was asking and what he was offering. She’d all but accepted, but he wanted to hear the words from her.
“After planting, we really must tend to the shopping, Beckman, and if I go with you, I don’t want to tarry. I’ve not been away from Allie for a night before, and I don’t want her to fret.”
Maternal fretting he could understand—up to a point.
“Polly and North will look after her, and you have a couple of weeks to accustom her to the idea.”
Sara nodded but took to staring at her tea as Beck passed her another half of a muffin slathered with butter, holding it out to her and waiting for her to take it from his hand.
“Sara?”
Her chin came up, as if prepared for confrontation.
“I will not force my attentions on you,” Beck said. “Not ever. Going to Portsmouth, sharing a muffin, even sharing a kiss, does not obligate you to anything more.”
She took the muffin.
He did not smile, but the moment was sweet. “I’ll arrange for our trip in a couple of weeks, and you and Polly should finish up your shopping lists. I already have Allie’s.”
As a change of topic, as a distraction, that apparently served well enough. “Allie made a list?”
“I asked her to, and, Sara, there is not one damned thing on that list for the girl herself. She wants me to get you some dress fabric and two new bonnets, the same for Polly. She says North needs a new set of farrier’s tools and two new shirts, as well as winter stockings. For Hermione, she wants harness bells, and for Hildegard, she wants one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. She claims the pig ate such a book last year then had thirteen piglets.”
“Even North laughed when Polly pointed that out.” Sara smiled in remembrance.
“As did Mr. Hildegard, no doubt.” Beck smiled as well, glad for the lighter mood. “You have to believe you’re doing very well with Allie, Sara, and I would like to buy her some paints and books on art when we’re in Portsmouth.”
Sara’s smiled faded into a staring contest with her last bite of muffin. “Is it important to you?”
“I think it’s important to her,” Beck countered. “If something important to her is denied by her elders, it will eventually foster rebellion in the child. I don’t gather any of the Hunt womenfolk are possessed of malleable spirits, and talent like Allie’s isn’t simply going to fade.”
“We’re not weak spirited,” Sara agreed, reluctantly. “We haven’t had that luxury, in any case. Just
