Allie crowded in behind the men. “Wash your paws. Aunt will smack your fingers if you don’t, and she’s got good aim.”

Sara smiled at her daughter, glad for the interruption. “Good morning to you, too. Gentlemen, when you’ve seen to your hands, you can tell us what you’re arguing about.”

“I’ll tell you now,” North volunteered as he approached the sink and worked the pump. “Haddonfield’s esteemed brother has sent him a half-dozen peach trees, for pity’s sake, and now we must find them a sheltered, well-drained but fertile location, as if we’ve that to spare.”

Beck joined him at the sink. “It’s the first remotely civil gesture my brother Ethan has made in years—many years—and the gift isn’t to you, it’s to Lady Warne. It isn’t as if you’re expected to plant the deuced things yourself.”

“Deuced.” North shook his wet hands out, spattering Beck liberally. “That’s precious. I say the ladies can find a place for your deuced trees.”

“We can,” Sara interjected, as clearly, North was a bear with a sore paw—or back—about something. “And the walled garden strikes me as one possible location. Polly, do you need help with that? There are at least two healthy, full-grown men here capable of carrying food to the table.”

Or possibly, a pair of oversized, hungry little boys.

“And me!” Allie reminded her indignantly.

“Well, of course there’s you,” Beck piped up. “Though your paws have yet to be washed.”

Breakfast was noisy, and Sara was grateful for the hubbub, for she was, as predicted, having trouble meeting Beckman’s gaze. He left her in peace, for which she was also grateful, and moment by moment, the meal progressed.

“See?” Beck whispered as he held her chair for her to rise. “No thunderbolts, no cataclysms, and you look lovely this morning.”

“I slept well.”

“Mama…” Allie’s tone approached whiny. “You said we could try my dress on right after breakfast, and it’s after breakfast.”

“I did say that, and the last of the alterations are done, so let’s be off. I’ll bring it to our apartment, while you get your boots off.”

Allie was off like a shot, so Sara hurried up the steps to the small parlor she’d used as her sewing room. She gathered up the dress then draped her sewing apron over her head, reaching behind her to tie the sash. A crackling in the pocket had her frowning then reaching down.

“Oh, dear…” Her fingers closed on the letter she’d received almost a week past, the one she’d forgotten about entirely. She put it back in the pocket—nothing would be permitted to delay Allie’s final fitting—and hurried from the room, only to run smack into Beckman Haddonfield loitering in the hallway.

“And now”—he settled his hands on her upper arms—“for the other greeting, the one I’ve looked forward to since I woke from my dreams of you.” He lowered his mouth to hers while she was still blinking at him in consternation. When he’d thoroughly greeted her—scattered her wits to the compass points—he drew back and smiled down at her.

“Now, it is truly a good morning.”

He sauntered off, leaving Sara nigh panting with… well, not indignation, which would have been a proper response, but maybe surprise and a bit of appreciation as well.

It was a good morning. She smiled to herself and hurried back down to her apartment, finding Allie prancing around in her new finery.

“May I wear my new dress today, Mama?” She twirled dramatically. “Can we put my hair up? Just to see?”

“We can try a few things with your hair, but your new dress should be saved for a special occasion.”

“This material makes my eyes really green,” Allie said, swishing her hips to make the fabric swirl around her calves. “Mr. North would look nice in this color.”

“Mr. North would look a lot nicer in any material if he’d just smile,” Sara said as she undid Allie’s long coppery braid.

“His back still hurts,” Allie said. “I think he’s homesick, too. He went to London last year just after planting. Maybe he should go again, particularly when Mr. Haddonfield, Jeffrey, and Angus are here. Ouch. And the Odious Boys, too.”

“Sorry.” Sara freed a skein of Allie’s hair from a hook. Allie had a point: North hadn’t gone up to Town for at least a year, though he’d darted into Brighton and Portsmouth. “You have such pretty hair.”

“Mr. Haddonfield said so too.” Allie preened, sliding her hands over her dress. “He also said what’s under my hair is just as impressive and likely of greater value.”

“He paid you a compliment. Now, pay attention. You’ve a decision to make. Do you prefer it twisted up like this, bound in a coronet like this, or swept back to your nape like this?”

“Do them all,” Allie crowed. “I have to see them to choose, but this is fun!”

It was fun and sweet, and soon Polly came in to offer advice and commentary and suggest accessories. Allie eventually settled on a double coronet, which was simple to do and very secure “for painting.”

When the new dress was hung lovingly on a hook in Allie’s alcove and Allie had bounced out to visit with Amicus and Hermione, Sara sat down beside her sister.

“Thus ends the short and illustrious childhood of Allemande Adagio Hunt.”

“There, there.” Polly patted her hand. “She still doesn’t like boys, unless they’re Beckman or North.”

“And who wouldn’t like that pair? She likes Soldier as well.”

“We’re getting old,” Polly observed. “Our little Allie is dreaming of putting her hair up.”

“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.”