“I’ve had my piano only a few months, and because you so generously provide that it gets tuned before your delivery crews depart, it still sounds lovely.”

Val looked out over the water. “Why aren’t we in the water, earning our pie?”

“You’re not going to tune that piano for us, are you?” Sir Dewey observed softly. “Belmont said you hadn’t set foot in his music room, either, which is puzzling. You are Lord Valentine Windham, and if there’s one epithet attributed to you, it’s ‘the virtuoso.’ Your musical artistry precedes you even in the rustic circles I frequent.”

Val eyed the pie. Lovely summer day, indeed. “Since when does the cavalry teach reading tea leaves and tramping around in a man’s head for a pastime, Fanning?”

“I’ve heard you play,” Sir Dewey said. “It was at a private gathering at Lord and Lady Barringer’s last year. There were the usual diligent offerings and even competent entertainments, but then there was you, and the true art of a genius. I ordered one of your instruments the next day. You have a gift, Windham, and you likely deny yourself as much as you deny those around you when you don’t use it.”

“Oh, likely.” Val started working at the cork on the small keg. “We artists are a complicated lot. Are you going in for a swim or not?”

Sir Dewey drew his feet from the water. “When you’re willing to play for us, I’ll join you all for a swim, how’s that?”

Val scowled, watching as Sir Dewey rose and gathered up his boots. There were implications there, about exposing one’s vulnerabilities, and trust and self-acceptance, but it was a pleasant afternoon; there was plenty of ale to drink, and Val wasn’t the least bit interested in tramping around in his own head, thank you very much.

Particularly not when there was a very charming German drinking song rollicking about there already.

“How are things coming?” Abby asked as she turned Ellen around to undo the hooks on her dress. “And how did you get this thing on?”

“You fasten it most of the way then drop it over your head, then contort yourself in a learned maneuver that takes years to perfect.”

“I know that maneuver, and I know the tendency to choose practical clothing over the pretty. Shall I brush out your hair?”

Ellen intended to politely refuse. Abby Belmont had a busy household to run, her stepsons would no doubt want to greet her, and there was a meal to get on the table.

“Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” Abby hung Ellen’s dress in the wardrobe and fetched a brush from the vanity, while Ellen took the low-backed chair before it. “When I was married to That Man, he thought I should not have a lady’s maid, claiming it set an example of sloth and dependence on one’s inferiors. The Colonel was so full of nonsense. You have beautiful hair.”

“How do you reconcile that?” Ellen asked, closing her eyes. “How do you put up with knowing you were married to Stoneleigh for years, and in some senses those years were wasted?”

“Like five years of widowhood might feel wasted?” Abby asked softly. “With regard to my first marriage, it was the only marriage I knew, and the Colonel wasn’t overtly cruel. But I am convinced, as well, years in his household gave me a particular independence of spirit and resilience.”

“Independence of spirit is no comfort on a cold winter night,” Ellen said, her smile sheepish.

“I didn’t know what all I was missing,” Abby reminded her. “I think sometimes, what if I lost Axel now, especially with the baby coming and the boys not yet off to school? God above, I’d go mad with grief and rage.”

“You do,” Ellen said quietly. “A little bit, you do go mad, but the world does not take heed of your madness, and you must get up, don your clothes, tidy your hair, and put sustenance in your body all the same.”

Abby leaned down and hugged Ellen’s shoulders for a long, silent minute, and Ellen found tears welling. She swallowed and blinked them into submission, but the intensity of the emotion and the relief of Abby’s silent understanding surprised her.

Abby straightened and resumed brushing Ellen’s hair. “Axel says it’s like this: He loved his Caroline and so did the boys. In some ways, they all still love her, and that’s as it should be. He keeps some of her clothing in a trunk in the attic because they carry her scent.”

As Abby spoke, Ellen realized abruptly that part of her misgivings regarding Valentine Windham stemmed not from her own duplicity with the man, or even fear of entangling him in her past, but simply from a widow’s guilt.

Like sun bursting through rain clouds, it hit her that loving Valentine Windham, being intimate with him, did not betray Francis. Francis would want her to find another love, to be happy and to be loved.

Love?

Abby looked a little concerned at Ellen’s expression. “Perhaps I should not have been quite so personal on the topic of grief.”

“Of course you should.” Ellen met Abby’s gaze in the mirror. “I am glad you were. It’s a topic nobody wants to bring up, and you can’t very well stroll up to the neighbors and tell them: I’m missing my spouse who has been gone for years, would you mind if I had a good cry on your shoulder?”

“We should be able to, but we don’t, do we?”

“I didn’t.” Ellen closed her eyes as Abby drew her hair in a slow sweep over both shoulders.

“Maybe you did, a little, just now. Let’s put you in the tub and wash this hair. As hot as the weather is, it will dry in no time.”

Ellen let Abby attend her, let her wash her hair, pour her a glass of wine while she soaked, and wrap her in a bath sheet when she was done. She hadn’t permitted herself this luxury—an attended bath—since Francis had died.

Punishing herself, perhaps? Or maybe just that much in need of bodily privacy.

“We can sit on the balcony and I’ll brush out your hair,” Abby said when Ellen was in her dressing gown, her hair hanging in damp curls.

And Abby went one better, having a tray of cheese and fruit brought up to go with the wine. They spent the time conversing about mutual neighbors, gardens, pie recipes, and the boys.

“They are splendid young men,” Ellen said after her second glass of wine—or was it her third? “And I think having them around makes us all less lonely.”

“Lonely,” Abby spat. “I got damned sick of being lonely. I’m not lonely now.”

“Because of Mr. Belmont. He is an impressive specimen.”

Abby grinned at her wineglass. “Quite, but so is your Mr. Windham.”

Ellen shook her head, and the countryside beyond the balcony swished around in her vision. “He isn’t my Mr. Windham.” It really was an interesting effect. “I think I’m getting tipsy.”

Abby nodded slowly. “One should, from time to time. Why isn’t he your Mr. Windham?”

“He’s far above my touch. I’m a gardener, for pity’s sake, and he’s a wealthy young fellow who will no doubt want children.”

Abby cocked her head. “You can still have children. You aren’t at your last prayers, Baroness.”

“I never carried a child to term for Francis,” Ellen said, some of the pleasant haze evaporating, “and I am… not fit for one of Mr. Windham’s station.”

Abby set her wine glass down. “What nonsense is this?”

Ellen should have remained silent; she should have let the moment pass with some unremarkable platitude, but five years of platitudes and silence—or perhaps half a bottle of wine—overwhelmed good sense.

“Oh, Abby, I’ve done things to be ashamed of, and they are such things as will not allow me to remarry. Ever.”

“Did you murder your husband?” Abby asked, her tone indignant. “Did you hold up stagecoaches on the high toby? Perhaps you sold secrets to the Corsican?”

“I did not murder my h-husband,” Ellen said, tears welling up again. “Oh, damn it all.” It was her worst, most scathing curse, and it hardly served to express one tenth of her misery. “What I did was worse than that, and I won’t speak of it. I’d like to be alone.”