“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?”

“Another muffin?” Sara’s tone was incredulous. “You bring up some of my worst memories and offer me a muffin?”

“You won’t accept anything else from me, Sarabande,” Beck said softly. “Would you like to know some of my worst memories? Probably not, but I will share them with you in any case, because I have lost my well-honed ability to thrive on silence.”

“Well-honed?” Sara’s tone was more bewildered than indignant, so Beck marched on, his anger for her warring with his frustration with her.

Beck poured himself more tea and gestured with the pot. “When I was a mere boy, I learned why my father was banishing Ethan, and got a stout boxing of my ears when I tried to tell him he was wrong. Not long after that, I learned my youngest sister was a by-blow, then learned the earl’s solicitors were blackmailing him over it. It seems my lot in life has been to collect secrets, Sara, and I find it a distasteful pastime.”

“My private performances weren’t a secret from you,” Sara said. “They just never came up.”

“This is true.” Beck stirred cream and sugar into his tea and sipped in an effort to calm himself. He was letting his emotions tear at his composure, and anger wasn’t what he wanted to convey to Sara. “I could not care less about those private performances, Sara, though I’m sorry you were subjected to them.”

She nodded, clearly not willing to argue with him in his present mood.

“For the love of God, Sara, when I say I do not care, I mean I do not hold it against you that you earned coin for playing half-naked before leering idiots. You should have been paid handsomely, at the least.” Beck set his teacup down very carefully, and went on in precise, dispassionate tones.

“When I first beheld you here, I had a sense of what the French call déjà vu, of having seen you before, and I had. I’d seen the Gypsy Princess perform, though it would have been almost six years ago, on my way back from Budapest by way of Vienna. My companion for that stretch of the journey insisted we take in your performance, and I, ever willing to dawdle on my homeward journeys, assented. The house was packed, all levels of society turning out to hear you.”

He stopped, pulling himself back from the memory. “Cost of admission to the private performances was exorbitant, obscene—much like your costumes.”

Sara wasn’t blushing. She looked like she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and flee the room.

“Sara, you were magnificent, your talent obvious even to my relatively undiscerning ears. Your hair had been arranged artfully, and had just as artfully come undone as you plied your instrument with wild, passionate, exotic melodies. Then, just when the entire room was roaring and clapping and pouring out its demand for more, you brought us to hushed stillness merely by holding your bow poised above the strings.”

He risked touching her, a brush of his fingers over the knuckles of her clenched hands. “The heartbreak that poured from your violin thereafter tore at me, made me nearly weep for my distant home and feel again every regret I’d ever known. I’ve since realized that for a man to overcome his regrets, he must first acknowledge them. Your performance was the first step on my journey home, Sarabande Adagio. I’ve yet to take my last.”

She gave him no reaction, but rather, sat staring at her hands like a monument to silence. Beck withdrew his hand.

“I care very much that you were alone, Sara, without the support of friends or family when you needed them. I care that you were exhausted and exploited and made to cast your pearls before swine. I care that you had responsibility for your sister thrust on you when you were least equipped to deal with it.” His voice dropped, becoming bleak. “I care that you bear the sorrow of all of this, the pain and anguish of it, and you won’t let me even hold you as you do.”

Beside him, Sara made a sound, a low, grieving sound, from deep inside, a sound Beck recognized. When she might have pitched to her feet and bolted for the door, Beck manacled her wrist and drew her back down beside him, looping an arm across her shoulders and drawing her close to his side.

Confide in her, Polly had said. Confide in her, put into her keeping all the silences and secrets and private burdens of one man’s lifetime. Beck kissed Sara’s temple for courage—or possibly in parting—and kept speaking.

* * *

“I was married, you’ll recall.” Beckman spoke quietly, as if his previous volley of verbal arrows hadn’t been launched directly at Sara’s heart. “But you do not know my wife was in love with another, a relation of some sort. She married me because her family would not approve the match with her beloved, and she’d already conceived his child. She was desperate but thought I’d tolerate a cuckoo in the nest, if it ever came to light.”