“At least she liked her dress,” Sara said, rising and hearing again the crackling in her pocket. “My heavens, I’ve never neglected a piece of mail quite so consistently.” She sat back down and slit the little epistle open with her thumbnail.
“Oh, dear saints…”
“Sara? What is it?”
“Polly, he’s found us.” Sara put the letter down only partly read. “He’s found us, and he’s asking after Allie.”
April passed into May, and the trip to Portsmouth grew closer, but matters between Beckman and Sara did not move forward. She hadn’t reneged on their trip, and she hadn’t been exactly chilly, but neither was she quite as… warm as Beck had anticipated, based on their encounter in his bed.
And perhaps this was for the best, because daily, the probability grew that he’d receive a summons from Belle Maison.
So he stayed busy ripping the bracken from what should have been drainage ditches, trimming the trees whose limbs encroached over the gutters and sheds, and mending wall. North groused and griped but heeded Beck’s admonition to stay away from the heaviest work, and occupied himself supervising the four other men when Beck was otherwise engaged.
As the days went along, Beck began to feel as if the next task to be supervised was a sound beating of one Gabriel North. North argued, resisted, and grumbled at every turn, to the point where Beck was increasingly willing to let the man tend to the stone walls single-handedly, bad back be damned.
When Beck suggested that barley straw sunk in the pond would reduce the algae growing on the surface, North came back with a lecture about straw floating and lordlings who would be best advised to limit themselves to making muffins.
When Beck wanted to investigate certain crosses for the sheep that would result in more twins and two lambings a year, North informed him that they were not in Dorset, where such sheep thrived, though perhaps Beck might enjoy a visit there.
As they took their noon meal beneath the hedgerow of oaks, Beck mentioned planting some American sycamore trees to dry out a boggy patch of one field. Around bites of ham and buttered bread, North lapsed into a sermon about leaves creating shade, which contributed to the bogginess.
“We’re planting the bloody trees,” Beck bit out and found North looking at him in sharp consternation.
“I do believe,” North replied slowly, “this is the first time you’ve actually given me an order. Of course we’ll plant the trees if you feel that strongly about it.”
Beck scowled at a cinnamon bun. “A steward on this estate willing to take direction is a frighteningly humble thing.”
North rubbed his chin, surveying Beck speculatively.
“The truce,” North said quietly, “the one I’m negotiating with Polly—was negotiating? It isn’t going well.”
“Sara’s got the female complaint,” Beck said, still studying his bun. “Maybe they’re synchronized, like a harem or a brothel.”
“The naughty little things you know, child… Polly is not having her menses.”
Interesting that North should know such a thing, and volunteer it.
“Are they arguing over Allie’s painting?”
“Polly defers to Sara in all matters pertaining to the child. Allie said something the other day, suggesting she’s noticed her elders are in a taking about something.”
“What did she say?”
“Something to the effect of ‘what’s the fun of putting up your hair and having a new dress if everybody’s in a bad mood all the time anyway?’”
“You don’t suppose Polly is objecting to Sara coming into Portsmouth with me?”
“Who can fathom the mind of the female?” North sighed the sigh of Every Man. “I have some reason to believe Polly encourages the outing, and not entirely out of sororal selflessness.”
“Does this have to do with that truce you mentioned?”
“A man can dream.” North studied the clouds beyond the filmy new leaves on the oak.
“Maybe the argument goes the other way,” Beck suggested. “Maybe Sara is getting cold feet, and Polly is being obdurate.”
“Polonaise Hunt could write the book on being obdurate.”
“With a forward by your lovely self.”
“Beckman?”
North’s use of his given name had Beck studying the clouds too.
“Hmm?”
“I don’t mean to be so contrary, at least not all the time.” North rose very carefully.
“So who is telling the meek and selfless steward on your estates what to do now?” Beck asked.
North braced his hands on the small of his back and arched slowly. “The rightful heir, of course. Now let’s be about planting your magic trees.” North’s reply was airy and unconcerned. When he quickened his step, Beck let him move on ahead alone, for that seemed to be how the man functioned most comfortably.
“Tremaine is Reynard’s brother,” Sara pointed out for the dozenth time. “There is no giving him the benefit of the doubt. Even Reynard didn’t trust him.”
“He never struck me as cut from the same cloth as Reynard,” Polly argued. “And he kept his hands to himself.”
Sara spoke more quietly, when she wanted to scream. “You were a girl, Polly. At the risk of opening old wounds, your judgment of a man’s character was not necessarily your best feature.”
“My judgment of some men’s characters was miserable, I admit it. But Tremaine wasn’t one of those men, and I credit him for that. And when we did run across Tremaine, Reynard received him with every evidence of affection.”
“Reynard would have received the devil with every evidence of affection if Old Scratch’s pockets were full, but I did not receive Tremaine with every evidence of affection, and neither should you.”
Polly folded her arms and braced herself against the shelves of the small pantry housing their altercation. “At least write back to him, Sara. Tell him his niece is provided for. Tell him to stay in perishing France, impersonating a comte or whatever he’s doing.”
“He’s not in France,” Sara said miserably. “He rents out the chateau—Vive le roi!—and he’s bought a place not far from Oxford.”
“Near St. Albans?” Polly verbally cringed.
Sara stopped pretending to arrange the rack of spices Beckman had brought with him. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
“You have to warn Mama and Papa,” Polly pleaded. “He’ll call upon them, and there will be no end of fuss.”
“I doubt it. We haven’t made a secret of where we are, not to Mama and Papa, Polly. If they wanted to fuss, we would have heard from them.”
“I have left the decision of how to deal with them to you, Sara.” Polly’s tone became thoughtful. “If you’re tiring of that responsibility, I can change my position.”
Sara regarded Polly narrowly, but when she saw Polly’s offer was genuine, her shoulders dropped.
“You miss Mama and Papa.” Sara missed them too, and Allie didn’t even know them, her only maternal relatives.
“I miss them, and I can’t help but think Allie has the right to know them. She can’t know her father’s parents, but Mama and Papa are decent people, Sara. Stubborn, true, and misguided and provincial, but they’d love her.”
They would. They would love the child regardless of her origins. “You’d want to tell Mama and Papa all the sordid, sorry details, Polly. They aren’t that forgiving.”
“That is not the decision before us,” Polly countered gently, uncrossing her arms. “The decision before us is if, given that Tremaine is making overtures, we can continue to cling to the fiction that we’ll be safe standing alone and ignoring him.”