He left them with that to think about, detailed Jeff and Angus to watch the prisoners, and headed for the house. On the back porch he paused, gazing up at the starry night and wishing he could take more than a few minutes before joining the others inside.
Because with this problem solved, he had no excuse for tarrying here at Three Springs. Tremaine was no threat, no matter what Sara thought, and Tobias and Timothy were at least on their way to the Antipodes.
And Sara had a letter from her parents, likely inviting her to raise Allie at home in St. Albans.
The sense of turning his sights on home, and being both relieved and disappointed to do so, was familiar to Beck. Before it swamped him, he forced himself to open the back door. Sara alone waited for him at the kitchen table, a tea tray sitting before her.
“Where is everybody?”
“North said something about needing decent attire when he calls on the magistrate in the middle of the night. Tremaine offered to accompany him,” Sara replied. “Polly took Allie to wash her feet off, and then they were headed for bed as well.”
“And you?”
Sara shuddered minutely. “I want to know what you’ve done with those two, and I want to know what Allie was doing out in the barn with Tremaine. She was told…”
“And you were told,” Beck interrupted gently and poured a cup of tea. He added cream and sugar, stirred, then wrapped both of Sara’s hands around the cup. “Drink.”
While she complied, he fixed his own cup.
“Tobias and Timothy are locked in a stall under guard, and no, it’s not one they could climb out of, assuming they’re bright enough to look up while considering escape. Jeff and Angus have a loaded pistol between them to encourage cooperation in the prisoners.”
Sara’s shoulders slumped. “Thank God.”
“You were worried for them?”
“For you.” She glared at her teacup. “I was worried for you. You argued with them and wouldn’t let go of Allie, and then we were running, and I heard a gun go off… North said to stay at the house, then told us you’d confined those two at gunpoint, and if he hadn’t…”
“And I said to stay on the porch,” Beck reminded her. “But your worry flatters me. As for what Allie and Tremaine were doing in the barn, Sara, you’d best ask them. He showed her some mementos gathered by her father, though, and she was all set to ask him more questions about Reynard.”
Sara nodded, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Of course, his trump card, the deceased papa, to whom he was never close, but Allie wouldn’t know that.”
“He answered honestly,” Beck said, and it occurred to him to wonder why Sara wasn’t with her daughter when the child’s welfare had been so overtly threatened. No doubt she wanted to give Polly time with the child, because… because…
The answer landed in his head like exploding ordinance.
“What would you have me say, Beckman?” Sara rose. “I will never trust the man. While I know that isn’t fair—it isn’t even rational, God knows—I can’t change it, either.”
“Will you ever trust me?”
Her answer was a long, pained silence.
“I see.” Beck got to his feet, feeling decades older than when he’d stolen into Sara’s bed. “Very well, then. But, Sara?”
She raised miserable eyes to him.
“Two things. The paintings, the ones you’re so afraid of? Tremaine has them right out in the barn. He told Allie he’d brought them with some other valuables, because he thought you might like them.”
She blinked—nothing more, and Beck wondered if she even comprehended his words. “What else?”
“If you want to join me in my bed tonight,” Beck said quietly, “you are very welcome there, as always, but I’m done carrying you half-asleep where you can damned well get yourself wide awake.”
He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, gently, lingeringly.
If his intent had been to take the sting out of his words, he failed miserably. Sara’s tears started before the sound of Beck’s retreating footfalls had faded.
Nineteen
In the first painting, a naked woman straddled a low-backed dressing stool. She sat in a shaft of sunlight, bowed over to brush her hair, her back to the viewer. The hair itself was glorious, fiery red, molten white, burnished gold, and everything in between. It hung in a cascade to below her hips, catching every sunbeam in its highlights. By contrast, the rest of the scene was in deep shadow, giving the painting an ethereal, dreamy quality.
In the second image, the woman stood in the same brilliantly lit full-length window, her back again to the viewer. She had on a filmy peignoir, and the sunlight pierced it easily, so she might as well have been nude, so clearly were her curves and hollows delineated. Her violin was tucked under her chin, her body curved up as the other hand held the bow poised over the strings. The stillness conveyed in her body, juxtaposed with the sense of the bow about to strike music out of silence, made one want to not only savor the beauty of the painting, but to listen to it as well.
“This one has always been my favorite,” Polly said as she joined North where he stood before the third painting in the ladies’ parlor.
“It’s lovely,” North agreed, slipping an arm around Polly’s waist. They’d had a week since Tobias and Timothy were bound over for the assizes, a week to say good-bye.
Polly cocked her head. “I’ve always thought the cat is particularly good.”
North considered the image of the same woman, curled on her side amid a pile of pillows and blankets. Her face was obscured by the arm she’d flung over her head, but a cat lay nestled in a tidy counter-circle in the curve of her unclothed body. The marmalade cat was arguably the same color as the woman’s hair, but the artist had given the cat’s coat a subtle, muted glow, while the lady’s hair streamed over her body with brilliant glory. Even so, while the cat was clearly contented, the woman was just as clearly exhausted, and again, the contrast made a good painting fascinating.
“Have you seen the one of you and Soldier?” Polly went on, her head resting on North’s shoulder.
“I have.” North turned his face to inhale the scent of her. “I wanted to see these before I left, though. They are brilliant, but you will please not tell Sara I peeked.”
Polly shifted closer. “I’m leaving as well.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Tremaine has asked me to inventory the things he has from Reynard, and I’m going,” Polly said. “I might see our parents while I’m gone, and I might decide to find another post as cook.”
“You’ve had a falling out with Sara?”
Polly smiled slightly. “She asked me to go, probably hoping I wouldn’t be as upset when you left. She’s considering her options as well, but she doesn’t know I’m thinking of not coming back.”
“Polly…” North did not at all like the idea of the three Hunt ladies splitting up. But Polly put her fingers over his lips before he spoke.
“I have been happy here, Gabriel, but sometimes not so happy too.”
“Thus sayeth we all.”
“I will think of you,” Polly said, turning to slip her arms around his waist. “I’ll dream of you.”
“You will forget me,” North admonished. “The sooner the better. If what Tremaine says is true, you’ll soon have some money from selling Reynard’s plunder, and you can reestablish relations with your parents. And you’re lovely, Polonaise. You can have any man you please.”
“Hush.”
“I want you to be happy.” North kissed her forehead—only her forehead. “I need you to be happy.”
Polly shook her head and stepped back. “You need me to let you go.”
“I do.” He surveyed her features warily. “You’ll manage?”
“Of course.” Though her smile was a painful, forced thing. “I’ll not see you to your horse, though. You have other good-byes to say.”
And in the few beats of silence that followed, North wanted
to say he’d write, to give her his direction, to tell her something of his plans, but he couldn’t. For all he knew, he was riding to his death, and he would not involve her, nor would he be so unkind as to give her hope.
“God be with you.” He half turned, as if to go, hesitated, then turned back, gathered her into his arms, and settled his mouth over hers. He didn’t plunder, but neither did he content himself with a mere gesture. With his kiss, he let her know he’d dream of her, worry for her, pray for her, and miss her every day and night he had left on earth.
Then he stepped back, gave her a grave bow, and left.
* * *
“So when are you leaving?” Allie’s tone was casual, but in her watchful expression, Beck saw the question was not.
“What makes you think I’m leaving?” Beck asked. They were lounging on the fence outside Hildegard’s wallow, watching her nurse her twelve new piglets.
“Mr. North left, Uncle Tremaine left, Aunt is leaving.”
“I have family elsewhere, Allie. Soon they’ll have use for me some place besides Three Springs.”
“We have use for you here,” Allie shot back. “All of us. We have use for Mr. North too, but his younger brother is in trouble.”
“He told you that?”
“He’s my friend,” Allie said, her gaze on the piglets. “He told me the truth.”
“Truth is sometimes uncomfortable,” Beck said carefully, but he’d surreptitiously studied the paintings in the days since North’s departure, and studied the three Hunt ladies with particular care. There were some truths that needed to be aired, regardless of how uncomfortable they might seem.
Allie peered at him. “More like the truth is always uncomfortable, at least at first.”
“I’ll miss you when I leave. That’s a truth.”
“I’ll miss you too. And it will not be comfortable.”
She fell silent, regarding the pig where she lay, piglets rooting at her greedily.
“Mama cries,” Allie said, her voice soft. “At night she thinks I’m asleep, and Aunt is asleep, but Mama cries. I’ve asked her what’s wrong, but she just smiles. I don’t know what to do.”
Beck felt the misery that had taken up residence in his gut spike, hot and painful, up toward his throat. He hadn’t resorted to the bottle yet, but the temptation loomed with enormous appeal as he considered the uncertainty on Allie’s face.
He slipped a hand to her shoulder. “Sometimes people just need to cry, Allemande.”
“She used to cry,” Allie said. “Before we got our house in Italy, she cried a lot. But she didn’t cry when Papa died. I did, though.”
“I cried when my papa died, princess. My brother did too, and he’s bigger than I am. We all cried.”
“Does it still hurt?” Allie asked, regarding him gravely.
“It does, though I don’t think of only the hurt when I think of him. I think of his laugh, and his silly jokes, and the way he’d stay up with a colicky horse, even though he was the earl. I think about the good things, not just the parts that hurt.” To his surprise, his words were the truth. Two months after his father’s death, it wasn’t hurting as much to think the earl had gone to his reward.
“I wanted my papa to be proud of me,” Allie said. “I painted as best as I could, and Papa liked what I did, but Mama yelled at him when she saw what I’d done.”
“Cried over that too, did she?”
“No.” Allie shuddered against Beck’s side. “And it was worse when she didn’t cry. Aunt helped me, though, and I think that made Mama mad too.”
“Seems the two are connected sometimes, loving someone and being frustrated with them.”
“Hildegard doesn’t look frustrated. She looks tired.”
“But at peace.” To the extent the mother of twelve could ever be at peace. “You’re very close to your aunt, aren’t you?” Beck offered the question, knowing he shouldn’t be tempting the child to reveal confidences.
“I love Aunt Polly, and she loves me and Mama. I’m glad I have family, but sometimes…” She scuffed her half boot on the bottom fence board. “I wish you and Mr. North and Uncle didn’t have to leave.”
Beck had nothing to say to that. He wished he didn’t have to leave too.
* * *
“You will be back,” Sara assured her sister as they stood outside The Dead Boar waiting for the post coach. “Go paw around Reynard’s treasures, sell whatever you think needs selling, then come back to us.”
“Sara…” Polly eyed her sister and saw a woman holding on by a thread. “I may not come back. We’ve discussed this.”
Sara’s smile was resolute and not at all convincing. “You might walk away from me, Polonaise. In fact, you should have walked away from me long ago, but you won’t leave Allie.”
“It hasn’t worked, Sara.” Polly held her sister’s gaze. “Being here with you and Allie, I put my life aside, thinking this was my life. Being with Gabriel, or rather, not being with him, makes me realize I’m just existing here. I haven’t really painted in years, haven’t flirted, haven’t slept past dawn because God knows, somebody has to get the bread in the ovens, will she, nil she. I haven’t heard a foreign language, unless you count the Yorkshiremen who came through last summer. I’m dying by inches here, no matter how much I love you and Allie.”
“You’re tired,” Sara said. “We’re all tired, and you need and deserve a break. Go to Oxfordshire and exorcise Gabriel’s ghost.”
“Will you manage?” The question North had asked Polly herself wasn’t nearly adequate to cover all it needed to.
“Manage the house, of course. Lolly and her mother will keep the kitchen functional, and once Beckman goes, there really won’t be much housework. It will be back to weekly dusting, weekly laundry, weekly marketing.”
“About Beckman.” Polly glanced around and saw they would not be overheard. “You are making a mistake with him, Sara. Just as I made a mistake thinking I could be happy cooking at Three Springs for the rest of my life.”
Around them, passengers secured their luggage at the back of the coach, then climbed inside.
“I’m older than you,” Sara temporized, “and I had my chance to wallow in my art, Polly. Beckman is an earl’s son, and my past leaves me ill-suited to be anything more than a diversion for such as he.”
“You are being ridiculous. You think you’re doing this for Allie, or for me, but, Sara, I promise you, she and I would both rather you gave Beckman the truth and trusted to the consequences. He’ll not disappoint you.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t, but then what, Polly? He should be on about his life if anyone should, but instead of walking away puzzled, he’ll feel honor bound not to walk away, and that’s worse.”
Polly resisted the urge to shake a woman who didn’t know when to think of herself. Above them, one of the porters cursed roundly as a bag came tumbling down, nearly striking a half-grown boy.
“For the love of God, Sara. You think you know, you think you can predict another’s heart, you think you’ve made the best choice, but it’s all so much arrogance and cowardice driving you. Talk to the man, I beg you. If not for my sake or yours, do it for Allie’s. She’s in danger of shifting all the affection she had for North onto Beckman, and he’s ready to bolt as North has.”
“Allie’s affection lies with you, Polly.”
Polly held up one gloved hand. “Don’t play that card, Sara. We agreed not to trade in that coin, and we’ve done well by each other so far. I love you, I want you to be happy, and I am begging you to talk to Beckman. Please.”
The head porter called “five minutes” as the fresh team was backed into the traces. Beck came striding out of the inn, Allie’s hand in his as she trotted to keep up with his longer paces.
“We bought you lots and lots of goodies, Aunt!”
Beck bent down and hefted Allie onto his hip to close the distance more quickly, the sack of food from the inn’s kitchen in his other hand.
“Your trunk i
s loaded?” Beck set Allie down when they reached the coach.
Polly nodded at the luggage rack on the boot. “Up there. Hug me, Allemande, and promise to be good. I will want to hear about your paintings.”
“Good-bye, Aunt.” Allie hugged her fiercely around the waist. “You’ll write and tell me of all the things Papa collected?”
“I promise, Allie. Sara.” She hugged her sister but said nothing more.
“And you, Beckman.” Polly turned to him. “Walk me to the leaders.” She gestured to the powerful pair in the front harness. Beck obligingly held out an arm and led Polly away. In the noise and bustle of the inn yard, the short distance was enough to make their words private.
Polly glanced back at Sara and Allie. “I can’t ask you to look after them, but I can ask you to be patient. There are things Sara needs to…”
Beck stilled her with a single finger to her lips. “I know, or I know much of it, and if Sara won’t confide in me, I can’t make her.”
“You can encourage her,” Polly said. “You can understand she’s been alone with her burdens so long she doesn’t know how to put them down. I was little more than a child, Reynard worse than a child, and then Allie came along…”
Polly let the words trail off, lest she say too much. From the look on Beckman’s face, perhaps she’d said too much already.
* * *
Beck had a retort ready for Polly’s little homily. He was mentally building his defenses day by day against the moment he’d leave Three Springs, but Polly’s words hit him low in the gut. He knew what it was to keep making foolish decisions out of sheer emotional exhaustion, bad habit, and lack of obvious alternatives. That kind of inertia and despair had damned near killed him.
“I can’t make her trust me, Polly. I’ve tried what I know to do, and she remains steadfastly opposed to confiding in me.”
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