Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 04]

by Beckman

  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 go shopping with me?”

  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 comte who did not use his title, of course.”

  “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 don’t…”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I don’t want Allie’s art to consume her, to sweep away her common sense and put her in the path of licentious, profligate dilettantes who think a little art excuses a lot of immorality.”

  He didn’t ask—Is this what befell you and Polly?—but he would ask, eventually.

  “Forgive me.” Sara rose and picked up the tea tray. “Again, I blunder onto difficult subjects, and it’s growing late. My thanks for the muffin, and I will look forward to seeing Mrs. Grantham on Monday.”

  “I’ll walk you to your door, unless you want me to casually tuck Hildy in and shoo your sister back to your worried arms first?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’d like to send Hildy to go shoo my sister inside, because Hildy is a very conscientious and forceful parent. Polly is an adult, though, and Gabriel is a gentleman, but he’s going to leave, isn’t he?”

  “Why do you say that?” When she set the tray down, he slipped his arm around her and began walking her toward her apartment.

  “Because for two years Gabriel has hidden his regard for Polly from all, including himself sometimes. He arranged to spend time with her tonight, privately, and at some length. I can’t imagine him permitting himself such a liberty except in parting.”

  “If he is leaving,” Beck said as they reached her door, “I am sure he has been absolutely honest with Polly about his plans, Sara. Maybe she can permit herself to acknowledge their feelings only for the same reason.” He knew far too well the emotional dynamics of leave-taking. Beck wrapped his arms around Sara, held her for a moment before kissing her on the mouth and stepping back. “Sweet dreams, Sarabande. I’ll see you in mine.”

  “Good night, Beckman.” She rose on her toes and brushed her lips across his. “I’ll dream of shopping with you in Portsmouth.”

  In the kitchen, Beck poured himself another cup of tea and wondered if he would wait up for Polly—or North—had Sara not expressed concern. He appropriated pen, ink, and paper from the library and started on a list of his own. A good hour later, he heard Polly’s voice in the back hall, followed by the less distinct rumble of North’s baritone.

  About damned time.

  North ambled into the kitchen, clearly having sent Polly to her bed. “You’re still awake?”

  “Making my list.” Beck pushed the teapot toward North. “How’s your back?”

  “Aching.” North lowered himself to a chair—slowly, slowly. “Thank God it’s merely aching, not cursing and making me wish I were dead.”

  Beck put his pen down and considered his companion. North’s saturnine features held the usual complement of banked suffering. “Does it really hurt so much?”

  “The physical pain is only part of it.” North stirred a littl
e sugar into his tea, sipped, then added cream. “I know that’s likely temporary, and can cope with it. The indignity, however, remains intolerable even as it becomes mere memory rather than fact. But I suppose your golden life has not taught you this, yet anyway.”

  Beck took off his glasses and waited until North was done stirring his damned tea.

  “My brother had to carry me, bodily, covered in my own filth, from an opium den in Paris, and I fought him to my last breath to be left where I was. I cannot recall a great deal about months of self-indulgence in the same spot, but I can recall clearly the look on Nick’s face when he realized which bag of noisome bones was what was left of his little brother.”

  North picked up Beck’s glasses and started polishing them on his handkerchief. “One would find that a tenacious memory.”

  “He cried,” Beck said. “They weren’t tears of disgust or rage, though they should have been. They were tears of relief, because I was still alive.”

  “Beckman…” Some of North’s characteristic gruffness slid away. “It isn’t that I’m ungrateful… I had last rites in Spain, you know, twice. It’s just I’ve made a muddle of things, and one grows… weary of one’s situation.”

  “So you hare off,” Beck finished for him, knowing exactly the terrain North called home turf. “You leave, and you hope the change of scenery or people or horses or whatever helps, and it doesn’t.”

  “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” North poured more tea for them both.

  Beck waited while North appropriated the cream and sugar. “Sara worries about Polly and Allie, but I worry about you.”

  “You needn’t.” North rose very slowly with his teacup. “I’m fully breeched, and I’ve made my bed, Haddonfield. One copes.”

  Beck slid his chair back to look up at North. “Tomorrow one is going to cope by making a visit to the springs, and in the light of day, before the temperature drops back down to nippy, North.”

  “Not a bad idea.” North sipped his tea and aimed a look at Beck. “Did you mean to kill yourself in that opium den?”

  “I thought I did. I’d tried running and drinking and stupid risks and all manner of idiot means to deal with the low cards I’d found in the hand life dealt me, but I also made halfway sure Nick knew where to find me, and eventually, he did. Part of me just wanted to know somebody would try.”

  North set his mug on the counter. “When I leave, you needn’t engage in such heroics, Haddonfield. I have a trade, and some means, and will land on my feet. But as for you…” He turned to go. “I’m glad this brother of yours found you in time.”

  He left before Beck could reply, while Beck hoped wholeheartedly that there was a brother out there looking for North.

  Eight

  “North is leaving.”

  The studied calm in Polly’s voice didn’t fool Sara for an instant. She put aside the pinafore she was mending, and put aside the urge to give Gabriel North a stern talking to as well.

  “Why now?”

  Polly sank into her rocking chair and sat still. “He says he must, that it’s a family matter, and that Three Springs will come around in Beckman’s care. I’m not to worry.”

  So much had been taken from Polly, it seemed wrong that North should try to deprive her of her justifiable concern too. “He didn’t ask you to go with him?”

  Polly shook her head once, a gesture of defeat and heartache.

  “What will you miss the most?” If Sara didn’t ask, then Polly would bottle all the misery up inside, making extravagant desserts out of it, and subtly spiced dishes fit for the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton.

  The kitchen would be spotless—more spotless—and there wouldn’t be a weed within ten yards of the spice garden.

  “I’ll miss his voice. I love Gabriel’s voice. I love the way he cleans his plate at every single meal. I’ll miss the way he talks to Hildegard as if she really were some society dowager. I’ll miss the way he and Heifer commiserate without a word.”

  Polly turned her face away, as if the darkness beyond the window held some consolation.

  “When Beckman goes,” Sara said, “I’ll miss his scent.”

  Polly glanced at her. “Bergamot and some other notes. It’s… soothing.”

  “I’ll miss the way he puts his hands on me, like I’m precious but not fragile—even if he’s walking with me in the garden, he handles me confidently. I adore that.”

  Polly’s lips quirked up in a sad smile, and both sisters spoke in unison.

  “Men.”

  ***

  Monday arrived, bright, mild, and more May than April, much to Beck’s relief. He’d marched North to the springs the previous day, and the soak had done them both good, but North was still in no shape to man a team of draft horses.

  A half-dozen men showed up from Sutcliffe Manor, five of them in a farm wagon and one driving a dray, a willowy blonde on the bench beside him.

  “Mrs. Grantham.” Beck assisted her to the ground. “I’m pleased you could call. The Hunt womenfolk are much in need of company. I’ll show you to the house while North gets the men sorted out.”

  Beck had escorted his guest to the front door, an entrance he hadn’t used since arriving at Three Springs weeks ago. The front approach, he realized, was neglected. Weeds cropped up through the crushed shells in the driveway, bushes sprouted willy-nilly much in need of pruning, and flower boxes sported nothing so much as robust… weeds.

  When he introduced Mrs. Grantham to Sara and Polly, it took about two minutes to realize he was de trop. The ladies launched into an intense discussion of the best layout for a spice garden, so he returned to the barnyard. North had a harrow hitched up behind one of the Sutcliffe teams and the second team standing in the traces waiting for its harrow to be secured.

  Beck sidled up to North. “It’s killing you, isn’t it? To send others out to do the heavy work?”

  “Not killing me, exactly. I’m just used to doing it, is all.”

  “Mrs. Grantham says you were born to give the orders, not take them.” Beck patted the leader of the second team.

  “Susan Grantham is one to talk. This team is ready to go.”

  Beck stepped back, and the second harrow scraped and dragged its way out of the yard. The next task was loading some barley and spring-wheat seed into bushel baskets, so it could be sown broadcast in portions of the field not congenial to the seed drill Beck had borrowed from Sutcliffe.

  The third and final harrow, owned by Three Springs, was hitched up behind a team Beck had brought down from Belle Maison, and one of the rangy, muscular Sutcliffe plowmen took up the reins.

  “Mind the ladies bring us some nuncheon,” the fellow cautioned. He signaled the horses to move out, and soon another piece of heavy equipment was bumping and dragging its way toward the field.

  Only to come to an abrupt halt before even gaining the farm lane.

  “What’s amiss?” Beck hustled over amid the plowman’s cursing; North followed more slowly.

  The plowman hopped around, shaking one heavily booted foot. “The bedamned, blighted harrow is come undone.” He wrapped the reins, fanned himself with his battered hat, and pointed at the harrow. “If we’d been in the field, this would have taken m’foot clean off.”

  “The bolts are loose,” North growled, squatting carefully beside the heavy iron frame. “Those two sheared just now, and the rest are likely to at the next bump or rock. God above, I should have checked this over. I should have seen this.”

  “Good thing yon beasts is well trained,” the plowman said. “If they weren’t so quick to mind, they would have pulled me along, regardless.”

  Beck knelt to examine the problem. “Can it be repaired?”

  “It will be a damned pain in the ass.” North rose stiffly. “We’ll have to get the parts in to the blacksmith and hope he has the means to weld and bolt on hand, then get the whole business back here somehow.”

  “It can wait,” Beck said. “We’ve two in the field,
which is twice what we had on hand, and Sutcliffe can spare the help.”

  North gave a terse nod but gestured with his chin to indicate they needed some privacy.

  “Is your foot all right?” Beck asked the plowman.

  “Right enough. It got a good stubbing, but no real harm, thank the good Lord.”

  “Unhitch the team, and you can assist with the seeding,” Beck said. “We’ll switch teams at midday to rest the horses.”

  “Right, guv.” The man moved to the horse’s bridles, pitching his voice to the horses as he did. Beck accompanied North to the side of the barn and waited, because clearly, North had something to say.

  “I did check that equipment,” North began in a low, angry rumble. “I work largely alone here, and I don’t relish the thought of bleeding to death trapped beneath a faulty piece of equipment. I checked that thing over before I put it up last spring, and I checked every piece of equipment on the property as part of the winter inventory. I checked it again when we finished plowing.”

  “What are you saying, North?”

  “Somebody broke our damned harrow. It’s the only one on the property still functional, and the repair will take at least two weeks. Even if you went to Portsmouth for a replacement, by the time you got one here, you would have lost several weeks of spring growing.”

  “I believe you, North, but who would have had access to the harrow?”

  “Any damned body in the neighborhood. The hinges on the sheds and barns are so rusty a determined old woman could get into any building on the premises.”

  “Or she could just peel off the rotten shingles and drop down from the leaky roof. Who would be motivated to do such a thing?”

  “Anybody who wants to buy the place,” North said. “Anybody with a grudge against me, Lady Warne, or the Hunts.”

  Beck eyed the steward thoughtfully, because this was the first time he’d seen Gabriel North truly upset. “Are those lists long?”

  North glared back at him. “How the hell should I know? I have no enemies here that I know of, but perhaps you have an enemy. Three Springs has been rotting on the vine for years, but malicious mischief passed us by until you showed up.”