* * *

“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 is 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.”

“Try confiding in her yourself.” Polly leaned up and kissed Beck’s cheek. He hugged her to him briefly before he handed her up into the window seat he’d reserved for her.

“Safe journey, Polonaise.” Beck’s height put him more than level with the window. “And, Polly? I got a brief note from North in the morning post, and he’s reached his destination safely, though he didn’t elaborate. If I hear further, I’ll let you know.”

Polly’s face broke into a surprised smile as the coachy cracked his whip and the horses clattered off at a bone-shaking trot.

Allie slipped her hand into Beck’s. “You made Aunt smile. What did you say?”

“I wished her safe journey and told her if I heard more from North, I’d let her know.”

“Will you let me know?”

“He’d want me to.”

“I really miss him.”

“I know, princess. I miss him too.”

* * *

Late August would have been the last precious weeks of the summer lull, because the fruit and grain weren’t ready to be harvested yet, except Beck’s red winter wheat had to be planted before harvest. He was glad for the backbreaking work of plowing, glad to fall into bed exhausted every evening after his soak or swim, glad for a way to numb himself that did not involve liquor or worse.

He was not glad to toss much of each night away, despite his burning fatigue. He willed Sara to come to him, and more than once, sat up, grabbed for his dressing gown, and started down the dark corridor toward her room, only to stop himself.

He’d done nothing to deserve her mistrust and much to earn her trust. Polly’s last words rang in his memory though, urging him to confide in Sara. As he tried to rehearse what that might sound like, he gained an appreciation for the magnitude of the task he was requiring of Sara. He was still wrestling with himself mightily when the weather turned autumnally cool, then rainy, then downright chilly.

“Fall grass will come in good for this rain,” Angus observed.

“And the wheat will get a nice start,” Beck agreed as they stood in the barn, listening to the rain drumming on the roof.

“And then we’ll bring in the corn and be glad for winter. Those boys of Lolly’s must have grown four inches each this summer.”

“Polly’s cooking and lots of fresh air.”

And it could have gone on like that for hours, meaningless small talk, cleaning the harnesses again, inspecting the irrigation ditches again. Watching the rain, Beck admitted to himself he was dawdling around the barn, looking for another excuse to avoid the house. But soon the crops would be in, then the fruit harvested, and who knew if there would be any more rainy afternoons like this one?

“Keep an eye on the infants.” Beck shrugged into an oilskin. “Allie cheats terribly, and the boys are only so gallant.”

“Will do,” Angus said with a wink. “And we won’t come for supper until the bell rings.”

Beck sloshed across the stable yard, into the back gardens, wondering what, exactly, he hoped to accomplish. Since her sister’s departure, Sara had become increasingly reserved. Allie wasn’t painting, and there had been no further word from North.

“I could do with a nice hot cup of tea,” Beck said when he found Sara in the kitchen. “And I don’t suppose there are any more muffins?”

“In the bread box,” Sara answered, her glance sliding away from him. “Butter’s in the pantry.”

“Join me?” Beck disappeared into the pantry, then brought himself, butter dish in hand, to stand beside her. “You’ve lost weight,” he said, frowning down at her nape. “I can see it here.” He touched the top of her spine. “All the more reason you should have a muffin with me, Sarabande.”

“One muffin won’t hurt.” She arranged the tea tray and set the butter and basket of muffins on the table.

“In my sitting room.” Beck picked up the tray and was on his way up the stairs before Sara could protest. “I’ve laid a fire, and it’s a chilly day,” he said over his shoulder.

He built up the wood fire in his sitting room while Sara poured, then settled himself beside her on the sofa. She didn’t exactly move away, but neither did she relax against him.

“What did Polly have to say?” Beck asked when Sara passed him his teacup.

“She’s safely arrived,” Sara said, gaze on her drink. “She says there is a considerable cache of items, some of it rubbish, but most of it quite valuable. Reynard was collecting from places subsequently devastated by the Corsican’s passing or occupation.”

“Any violins?”

“She hasn’t said.”

“I’m leaving mine here.” Beck set his tea aside and reached for a knife and a muffin. “In case you get the urge.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s all?” He buttered both halves of the muffin and passed her one. “Just thank you, no protestations you’ll never play again? That your art is lost to you? No ordering me to keep the damned thing where it won’t tempt you?”

“It’s a nice instrument.” Sara took a cautious nibble. “I heard you playing it last week, and you’re good. You should keep it, but I can’t make you do anything.”

Beck wanted to smash his teacup against the far wall, because he couldn’t make her do anything either—not one damned thing.

Confide in her.

“I’m not as competent as you were,” Beck said. “I heard you play on two occasions, you know. I went the second time because I could not believe the evidence of my ears the first time.”

“You heard me?” Sara’s cup and saucer hit the table with a clatter.

“I was frequently on the Continent when you toured, Sara.” Beck risked a glance at her and found her face pale, her eyes full of dread. “Why wouldn’t I have treated myself to your performances?”

“They were ridiculous,” Sara said, her voice glacial. “Perversions of what music should be.”

“Any woman who can play the Kreutzer Sonata from memory is not ridiculous, though I agree, your costumes were not worthy of your talent. The private performance was particularly troubling in that regard.”

Sara’s chin dipped, as if she’d suffered a sudden pang in her vitals. “You attended a private performance?”

“When a woman’s playing is touted as able to restore a man’s lost virility, an ignorant young man isn’t likely to turn down his invitation. I assume they were Reynard’s idea?”

“He was always after me to take a lover,” Sara said miserably. “A wealthy, besotted lover who would shower me with trinkets and baubles. Better yet, he wanted me to have many lovers, who would compete with one another for my favors.”

Many lovers, as if the risk of disease, pregnancy, or mistreatment was of no moment. Beck set the knife he’d been holding on the table.

“Not enough for him to prostitute your art, but he must pimp your body as well. Thank heavens the man is dead, and thank heavens you withstood his selfish plans for you. Would you like another muffin?”