“Your parents loved each other, I suppose?”

“They did. Even when you love somebody, you can lose track of them, as we’ve lost track of Ethan, and he of us—and all over a misunderstanding.”

“All families have misunderstandings and secrets.” Sara moved away, and again, Beck let her go. He’d always let her go, and that was also something she valued in him even as it occasioned some sadness.

When his father died, she was going to have to let him go too, wasn’t she?

“Is Allie a secret?” He posed the question softly, the understanding in his gaze more than Sara’s limited store of composure could look upon.

“My parents haven’t met her,” she conceded. “They know I have a daughter.”

“What happened, Sara? I trust they approved of your marriage. You were underage, and you haven’t mentioned eloping. Polly had to be even younger, and yet your parents entrusted her to Reynard’s care as well, even to the point of letting her travel with you on the Continent.”

“They approved my marriage, and they did send Polly with us when Reynard and I departed on tour. Polly was to receive instruction from the Continental masters, according to Reynard. Things did not go as my parents planned, though, and by law and custom, my husband’s dictates prevented their welcoming me back home.”

Dictates. Beck wouldn’t like her word choice, but it was legally accurate.

“Your husband no longer has dictates,” Beck pointed out gently. “Do as you will, Sara. Your parents love you, and they’ve had time to reconsider their positions.”

“How do you know they loved us?” Sara posed the question idly, but it had gnarled roots wrapping around both present and past.

“Because of how you and Polly are with Allie. She knows she’s loved, and you can’t give away a love you’ve never experienced yourself. If you allow this, this silence to remain between you and your family, it can grow. Like a pernicious weed, it will grow without sunlight or water, without marling, until it chokes out the love you still bear each other.”

He used an agricultural image to make an effective point, and the stillness in his gaze suggested he knew of what he spoke.

Sara looked away rather than ask him what besides the loss of a wife illuminated the sadness in his eyes. “Our parents loved us, but not as they loved Gavin. Still, it’s in the past, and if you and I tarry here much longer, Polly will be reduced to ringing the kitchen bell. It will go hard for us if she does, though Allie might be forgiven her artistic absorption.”

He looked at her for one more instant, long enough for Sara to understand that he was allowing her to close the topic, just as she allowed him to hold her.

He looped an arm over her shoulders when she would have marched for the door. “If you’re ever ready to talk, Sara, I’m always ready to listen. My own family isn’t a study in uniform happiness, or good choices and tender sentiments. We don’t always trust each other or take the kindest option among ourselves. It can’t be that different from your family.”

“I suppose not.” Sara pressed her face to his shoulder, a moment of weakness—yet another moment of weakness. She had the surprising thought that when Beckman reached for her, those might be his moments of weakness. As she went on speaking, she addressed the solid musculature of his shoulder.

“When there’s a title, one expects a larger-than-life existence—an earl might have an illegitimate son, his 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 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.”