The Virtuoso

Nine

He was an awful man, Val chided himself as he ambled home through the rainy woods. Ellen Markham wasn’t suited to dallying and trifling away the summer in each other’s arms. She was too decent for that, too good and innocent and dear. And yet, as Val wandered in the woods, he knew he wasn’t going to give her up.

Not yet. Not when he’d just coaxed her into sharing a bed, and ye gods… Val would never have an uncharitable thought about St. Francis Markham again, because the poor blighter, with his dying breath, had to have known he was leaving Ellen and universes of pleasure with her yet unexplored.

When Val was with Ellen, time was easy and sweet and somehow significant in ways it hadn’t been since Victor died. She soothed something in him and tempted him to offer confidences and assurances and all manner of words he shouldn’t even be considering, much less longing to give her.

So he was awful. Virtuosically awful. A cad, a bounder, and everything he’d ever despised in his confreres among the spoiled offspring of the aristocracy and the flighty artists in their music rooms and studios. He was going to break her heart. The only consolation he could offer himself was the absolute certainty she’d break his, as well.

But not yet.

He continued his meandering in the rain, an awful, very wet man, but for some reason, the dampness felt good, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get dry. On a whim, or because he didn’t really want to face anybody else, he detoured to the pond, where he took off his clothes, stuffed them under the overhang of the dock, and dove in.

The pond felt curiously warm compared to the rain on his skin, and so he set out on laps, trying not to think.

In his head, where nothing should have been, he heard a tune. It was a simple, sweet, wistful melody, but it wanted something sturdy beneath it, so he added some accompaniment in the baritone register. Then, the entire little composition was residing in the middle register of the keyboard, and that didn’t feel expansive enough. As Val sliced through the water, he added an occasional note of true bass, just enough to anchor the piece, not enough to overshadow its essential lightness.

But that affected the balance, so he began to experiment with crossing the left hand over the right, to sprinkle a little sunshine and laughter above the tender melody.

Around and around the pond he went; around and around in his head went the melody, the accompaniment, the descant, the harmonies.

He stopped eventually, because he wasn’t sure what to do with his composition. He was used to having music in his head and used to having a keyboard to work out all the questions and possibilities on. Even then, he’d play with an idea until it needed a rest, then put it aside and let time work its magic. He pulled himself up on the dock and realized it wasn’t even raining anymore.

And he’d been in the water a fair while if his protesting muscles and growling stomach were any indication.

Though he hardly felt like eating when there was such lovely music distracting him.

“Who’s for a sortie over to the neighbors?” Val put the question casually while dinner plates were being scraped clean and Day and Phil were haring off for their evening swim.

“I’ll come,” Darius said. “The alternative is to stay here with the Furies.”

“I’m thinking we should all go,” St. Just said, passing Darius his empty plate. “It will leave the boys a responsibility they’re ready for, create a show of force before the locals, and—most significantly—allow me to walk off my second helping of pie.”

Darius stuffed the plates and silverware into a bucket of water and rose. “What exactly is it we’re trying to accomplish?”

Val finished his ale and put his mug into the bucket. “Fair question. One must consider motive when trying to assign blame for a nasty deed. I have to ask who among all my neighbors and associates has a motive for scaring me off?” Val cast his gaze from St. Just to Darius.

“All my tenants,” Val answered himself. “They’ve been unsupervised for five years, and they’ve grown increasingly shortsighted regarding their care for the land.”

“You think your tenants have turned their children loose on you?” St. Just asked.

“I don’t know about that, but my tenants have a substantial motive for wanting to get rid of me, and they have access to those children.”

St. Just grimaced. “You make a good point. One Sir Dewey should be apprised of.”

“He should. Shall we be off?”

Over a surprisingly good bottle of whiskey, Val established with Mortimus Bragdoll that the home farm would be reverting to the estate’s use, though no rent would be charged for Mort’s appropriation of the land previously. In exchange, Bragdoll agreed to set his hand to cleaning up the buildings, scything down the weeds, repairing the fences, and otherwise restoring the property to good condition. Bragdoll was built on the proportions of a plough horse, with four sons growing into the same physique, leaving Val no doubt the home farm would be adequately tended to.

And at Darius’s prompting, Bragdoll started making a list of improvements—beginning with the roof on the hay barn—the present Lord Roxbury had declined to see to.

All in all, Val thought the gathering on the Bragdolls’ porch productive, though it failed entirely to illuminate the question of whether his own tenants were attempting to burn him out and possibly bring harm to Ellen as well.

“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” Darius said, folding a list into his pocket as Bragdoll put up the whiskey bottle. “If you have the other tenants here, we can decide what comes next after the hay barn has been seen to.”

“Aye.” Bragdoll pulled on his ear. “And my Ina will join us, too. She’s the smartest among us, and she’ll tell you exactly what needs doing.”

He looked like he might say more, but marital loyalty apparently trumped an urge to commiserate with his own gender. Val, Darius, and St. Just took their leave, unaware Hawthorne Bragdoll, youngest of the four sons, sat with his mother on the second-floor porch and watched their departure.

“Think he means it when he says he’ll make the improvements?” Thorn asked.

“Mr. Windham?” Ina pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I think he means to do right, but as to whether he knows what he’s about, I’ve no clue, young Thorn. The man is a stranger to us, and to hear Deemus tell it, he wears gloves no matter what he’s about, like a dandy. Works hard, though, if you can believe Deemus or Soames.”

Thorn nodded. Neither Deemus nor Soames was much given to exaggeration when sober, and that was too bad. It meant Mr. Windham was likely a decent sort, pouring a great deal of time and money into a dilapidated estate. If Thorn’s instincts were accurate—and they very often were—poor Mr. Windham was in for one hell of a hiding.

And Thorn knew what it was like to get one hell of a hiding a fellow had done nothing to deserve.

“Go back to sleep,” Val whispered. For the past three nights, he’d slipped into Ellen’s bed after she’d retired then slipped out again in the dead of night. He’d made it a point to cross paths with her during the day as well, but with people around, so she might get used to being near her lover in relative public.

This, however, this quiet closeness in the night, it drew him. He didn’t make love to her—not when pregnancy was a greater risk—and he hadn’t found a way to explain to her about sponges and vinegar. Those were not entirely reliable, in any case, and he wasn’t about to go purchasing what he needed in Little Weldon’s apothecary and herbal shop. He could have withdrawn, of course, but that bore risks, as well, and with Ellen, he found he’d rather just damned wait a couple weeks than settle for half measures.

Then too, waiting meant he did not give his conscience yet more ammunition with which to assail him.

So he held her and cuddled and whispered in the darkness, sometimes falling asleep for a while, sometimes holding Ellen while she slept.

“I wasn’t quite asleep.” Ellen stirred and rolled to face him, slipping one arm under his neck and hiking a leg over his hips. She located his lips with her fingers then leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

“Since luncheon, you’ve missed me? I’ve missed you too,” Val said, grazing one palm over her breast. “I’ve missed particular parts of you intensely.”

“Is that why you haven’t made love to me since Monday?”

“You’re blushing.” In the dark he could not see her blush, but when he laid the back of his hand against her cheek, he felt it.

“I am. I’m also asking you a question.”

Val dropped his hand and went back to thumbing her nipple gently. “I have left you in peace for a variety of reasons, the first of which is consideration for your tender person.”

“Oh.” It clearly hadn’t occurred to Ellen her person might merit such consideration. “My thanks. Do men get sore?”

“Not as easily as women, or I don’t think we do, but you inspired me to a prolonged and lengthy performance. Blazing hell, that feels good.”

Ellen had one hand on his cock and used her free hand to rake his nipples with her nails. “What were your other reasons?”

“For what?”

“Abandoning me.”

“Ellen?” Val caught her hand, stilling it wrapped around his member. “Abandoning you?”

“You make passionate love to me,” she said, all teasing gone, “and then you essentially avoid me, unless we’re among your fellows or it’s the dark of night. You hold me tenderly in the dark then depart with a kiss to my cheek, Valentine. I would not have you reporting to my bed out of guilt or the sense you’ve embarked on a course you cannot gracefully depart from.”

“Blue blazing… You think I could stay away? From you?”

“You have. You’ve stayed away from me in one sense, at least.”

“Dear heart.” Val shifted to crouch over her. “You are so wrong. If I join with you now, I can get you with child. I’ve kept a respectful distance during the day so you might have some privacy and a chance to tend your flowers. I am hesitant to disturb your sleep because I know how hard you work and I do not want to impose.”

“So I was… adequate?” She buried her face against his neck.

“No.” He shifted up and she let him go.

She held her tongue while Val got out of bed and lit an oil lamp using a taper and the embers in the hearth. He turned the wick up to let her see not only his naked body but his features as well.

“Look at me, Ellen Markham.” Val sat at her hip and reached for her hand. “I want you to see my face when I tell you this, so you’ll know I’m not flirting or prevaricating or being what you call sophisticated and what I would call false.

“You were not adequate,” he went on. “You were every wish and prayer I’ve ever articulated or dreamed made flesh. You were my most generous fantasies brought to life; you were an experience I could not have conjured from my wildest, most selfish and creative artistic imagination. I hunger for you.”

Hunger. He’d chosen the word advisedly. It was an order of magnitude more compelling even than adore.

“You can blow out the lamp,” Ellen said, dropping her gaze.

“Do you believe me?” Val scooted closer and looped his arms around her shoulders.

“I believe you.” But she kept her forehead against his shoulder.

“Let me hold you.” Val blew out the lamp and climbed under the covers. How in the blazing hell could he have been so remiss? Women needed reassurances; he knew this, and he wasn’t usually so unforthcoming. There was always something he could tell a woman—she had smooth skin even if her figure was less than average. She kissed enthusiastically if not with much skill. She was restful if not inspiring.

And he realized why he’d had no pretty words for Ellen.

She was beyond the little consolation compliments Val might have come up with for his usual fare. She was beyond flirtation and banter and superficial kindnesses.

And she was well beyond his silly duplicity regarding his station in life.

“Why the sigh?” Ellen stretched up and kissed his jaw. He’d put her on her back while he’d kept to his side. Her leg was again hiked over his hip, her cheek against his chest.

“You won’t be safe again for another week at least. That looms as an eternity.”

“It does seem like a rather long time.”

“We can settle for half measures,” Val suggested, not liking the idea they had options he would keep from her.

“Like on the blanket under the willow?”

They did not indulge in those half measures Val alluded to, but Ellen was giggling and blushing far into the night, and for Val, that was just as enjoyable, if not more. He explained to her all the taunts and insults and naughty terms she’d heard on darts night and not understood. He listed not less than a dozen terms, all referring to his member, and stopped only when Ellen was laughing so hard she cried.

Summer in London stank, literally.

Summer at Roxbury Hall stank literally and figuratively, but thank all the gods Freddy’s third-quarter allowance had arrived with the first of July and he was free to leave for Town.

Freddy took himself to the stables where his handsome bay gelding had been kept walking the better part of an hour. It was just as well, as Freddy’s mood was not suited to a fresh horse with spunk and sport on its mind. He swung up from the mounting block, thinking the ladies’ block might have been the better choice, as his blasted breeches were far tighter than the expense of having them tailored merited.

By the time he reached Great Weldon, Freddy’s breeches were fitting a little more comfortably, and his mood was improving. He needed more coin if he was to be ready for hunt season in the fall and Portugal in the winter, hence the necessity to tend his schemes and detour through the rural provinces of Oxfordshire.

He rapped on the polished bar of The Hung Sheep. “Whiskey, my good man.”

He detested the place, particularly the image of the cheerfully leering ram that swung over the main entrance. Nonetheless, a certain kind of business could be transacted here, and so here he would bide at least for a few minutes.

When his whiskey appeared, Lord Roxbury leaned across to catch the bartender’s eye. “Be a good fellow and tell Louise to attend me in the snug.”

The bartender barely nodded before disappearing into the kitchen. A young lady emerged a few minutes later sporting a smile Freddy knew was as false as her truly impressive breasts were genuine.

“Milord.” She beamed at Freddy where he sat frankly ogling her breasts. “May I fetch you another?”

Freddy wrinkled his nose. “It’s a pathetic brew, but I’ve miles to go yet, so yes.”

Her smile slipped a bit, though Freddy wasn’t about to admit the drink was both decent and inexpensive.

“So there ye be.” She set the drink down a moment later, not spilling a drop. “What else can Louise get for ye?”

“Answers.” Freddy scowled at the drink. “It’s been two weeks, my girl. What news have you for me?”

“Plenty of news.” Louise smiled broadly. “What coin have ye for me?”

Freddy’s scowl became as calculating as Louise’s smile. For God’s sake, she took his coin, and all he asked of her—almost all—was that she pass along to him a few bits of gossip and keep her younger relations’ eyes sharp in the same cause.

“I have something for you, Louise,” Freddy said, “but it will have to wait until we can be private. But then, as I recall, the stables are private enough for a woman of your refined tastes, aren’t they?” He slid his hand over her wrist and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Talk, Louise, and then you’ll walk me to my horse.”

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed tightly. She didn’t wince—peasant stock was tough.

“From what Neal’s pa says, Mr. Windham is improving up a storm at the old Markham place. The roof is almost done, the floors and windows are all in, the plastering and painting is thundering along, and even the grounds are looking tidy and spruce.”

“How charming,” Freddy drawled. “What about the estate itself?”

“Mr. Windham met with Neal’s pa and says he’ll look after the place, now he owns it. Mort and Neal and the boys are to clean up the home farm, since Mr. Windham will be setting that to rights too. The hay barn is to get a new roof, but quick-like, as there’s already hay in it.”

“Did your cousins set up the kindling where I showed them?”

“They did.” She made another effort to withdraw her hand, which gave Freddy another opportunity to exert his superior strength.

“And the lamp oil?”

“It’s there.”

“Where can I find your cousin Dervid now?”

“He’ll be in the livery.” Something in her tone suggested the boy might be anywhere but in the livery.

“Then he might want to watch us, hmm?” He was hurting her, but for his coin, she’d endure the hurt and afford him the pleasure of her wide, clever mouth. “Come along, Louise.” Freddy rose to his feet, tossing coins on the table. “And best be loosening that bodice of yours. I wouldn’t want to rip it when you earn your coin, would I?”

He’d rip it anyway. Breasts like that begged for a man’s attention. Begged for it.

And he was nothing if not a man, after all.

Val was smiling when he walked into the Rooster, mentally challenging himself to come up with another twenty terms for the male member. Ellen had laughed so hard the sound had actually filled his ears with music. Light, scampering melodies that would require lightning quick fingers with unerring accuracy—and be great fun to play.

He paid for a pint and some purchases at the Rooster, posted his letters to family, picked up a few for himself, and stopped by the livery, letting the grooms know he’d one more errand before he’d need Ezekiel for his trip back to the estate.

He owed Ellen, and in a way that didn’t feel exactly comfortable. She worked on his sore hand diligently at least once per day, usually more. Val himself had been increasingly conservative about using his hand, not quite willing to admit he had grown more hopeful in the past week.

It was never going to be as good as it had been. Never.

But it was better when he didn’t use it, better when Ellen worked with it. Better if he was careful not to fall asleep with that hand tucked in its customary spot under his pillow. So Val took himself to the apothecary, there to attempt compliance with more of the medical wisdom David Worthington had dispensed weeks ago.

“Good morning, fine sir,” came a cheery voice from the back of the shop. It was a tidy little place but crammed to the gills with jars and bins and trays and sachets. “Thaddeus Crannock.” A little wizened man appeared to go with the voice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. You’d be Mr. Windham, now, wouldn’t you?”

“I have that pleasure.” Val smiled slightly, while Mr. Crannock produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and fitted them over his ears—which were not pointed but perhaps should have been.

“What might I do for you, Mr. Windham?” Mr. Crannock peered at his customer, looking like a turtle in bright sunshine. His neck was a leathery brisket, but his clothes were immaculate, if twenty years behind fashion.

“I’m looking for a particular tea,” Val said, glancing around the shop.

“Teas and tisanes are right here.” Mr. Crannock bustled across the room. “We’ve dozens of teas, and I can mix them for you in any proportion. The mints are very popular now, as is the chamomile, particularly with the ladies.”

“And willow bark tea? Do you have a quantity of that?”

“Oh, aye.” Mr. Crannock began peering at his glass jars. “When the fevers come in summer, everybody needs their willow bark tea. Bitter stuff, though it does the job.”

“If you mixed the willow bark with this stuff”—Val lifted the lid of a jar at random and took a sniff—“would the willow bark still be effective?”

“Why, yes.” Mr. Crannock looked pleased with his customer. “It would provided you let it steep. And that pennyroyal will soothe a bilious stomach.”

“This is pennyroyal?” Val took another sniff. “It’s rather like spearmint, isn’t it?”

Mr. Crannock nodded. “Aye, ’tis, but we have the spearmint itself, and peppermint and catmint, as well. Shall I blend some for you?”

“Why don’t I take some of each,” Val suggested. “The willow bark and the pennyroyal, and some of this…” He sniffed the jar labeled peppermint. “And some chamomile.”

“We’ve lemon verbena sachets, as well,” Mr. Crannock offered. “I expect you can procure those from Mrs. Fitz, since she provides the sachets to me.”

“What else does she sell to you?” Val asked, still ambling around, sniffing a jar here and a sachet there.

“Only sachets and soaps,” Mr. Crannock said, weighing out Val’s purchases. “I’ve asked her to grow me some herbs or grind me up some simples and tisanes. She won’t do it. Says it’s too easy to make an error.”

“Is there really so much danger of making an error?”

“Oh, my.” Mr. Crannock’s expression was horror-stricken. “You can kill a man with the wrong potion, Mr. Windham. The digitalis aids the heart, but too much, and the patient expires. Arsenic is just as dangerous. And if you don’t know your plants—the belladonna and nightshade, the mushrooms and toadstools—you can do the same again, and it’s not a pleasant way to go.”

“So you’re sure you’ve sold me only harmless teas?” Val teased good-naturedly.

“Don’t leave the pennyroyal around the womenfolk unless they understand what it is,” Mr. Crannock said. “It can solve certain female problems but cause others.”

Val put his coin on the counter and picked up his purchases. “As I do not suffer female problems, I will not inquire further. Good day to you, and my thanks.”

Mr. Crannock beamed. “Good day. My regards to Mrs. Fitz, if you see her.”

Val left, wondering if that last happy aside was intended as a fishing expedition, a polite nothing, or a reflection of local speculation regarding Val’s dealings with Ellen. People, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, always said, were going to do at least two things with unfailing regularity, and one of those things was talk. Val had been nine before St. Just had taken pity on him and explained what the second activity was, though the disclosure had seemed nonsense to a boy enthralled with his piano and his pony.

Val repaired to the livery, finding Zeke tacked up and sporting a small keg trussed behind the saddle. When Val was in the saddle, the groom handed him a covered pie plate, a burden which required that Zeke be kept to a moderate pace.

As Val made his way back to the estate, he found himself considering what the Duke of Moreland might say about Ellen Markham. Much to Val’s surprise, the duke had welcomed Anna James into the family on Westhaven’s arm, without a peep of protest or bluster.

And what in the bloody, blazing, stinking hell, Val wondered as he approached his own lane, was he doing considering Ellen Markham as a marriage prospect? The improvement in his hand was encouraging, yes, but he’d known the woman only a few weeks, and she’d shown no inclination to seek a more permanent union. He’d swived her once—thoroughly and gloriously, true, but only the once. They were a long and difficult way from considering each other as potential spouses.

Which nonetheless didn’t put the notion out of his head entirely. He was still pondering possibilities when St. Just met him in the stable yard.

“If we cut this now,” St. Just said, taking the pie from Val before Zeke was even halted, “we can destroy all the evidence before the infidels come back from the home farm. Sir Dewey and Darius are making an inspection of the pond and can help us dispose of the evidence. Ale goes with pie. Put up your pony, Valentine, and we’ll save you a little slice.”

“I will tattle to Her Grace,” Val said, swinging down. “I traveled six miles in a sweltering heat, paid good coin, and carried that pie back with my own two hands.”

“Traveling uphill both ways,” St. Just added solemnly, “with a scalding headwind. Last one to the pond is a virgin with a little pizzle.”

“Pizzle,” Val muttered, loosening his horse’s girth. “I forgot pizzle. That makes thirteen.”

“You’re daft, Valentine. A man doesn’t forget his pizzle.” St. Just spun on his heel and headed for the trail to the pond.

When Val—bearing the small cask and some tin cups—joined his brother on the dock, Sir Dewey was sitting on the planks, boots neatly to the side, feet immersed.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” Val asked as he started to work on his own boots.

Sir Dewey shrugged. “Thought the king’s man ought to see and be seen. The local lads aren’t talking, and Vicar hasn’t heard anything of note either.”

They both watched as St. Just set down the pie, straightened, and began to unfasten his breeches. “Tap that keg, why don’t you, baby brother? It’s hot out here, and we’ll need to wash down our pie.” His shirt followed, and he was soon standing naked at the end of the dock. “You have the prettiest pond, Valentine.”

He executed a clean, arcing dive into the water, the movement combining grace and strength.

Darius quickly followed suit, while Val merely swizzled his feet in the wonderfully cool water.

“Are you always so quiet?” Sir Dewey asked.

“I’m hearing a song in my head,” Val mused. “A sort of rollicking, triple meter that men might sing in German.”

“A drinking song?”

“To the Germans, if it’s triple meter and rollicking, then of course it’s a drinking song. Even if it isn’t, enough schnapps and beer, and it will do whether the piano’s in tune or not.”

“There’s a decent piano in the assembly rooms over the shops,” Sir Dewey said. “The damned thing is sorely in need of tuning, not that anybody seems to care. It would serve for pounding out a drinking song and I’m sure you’d be welcome to use it.”

“Why not get it tuned?”

“Hire a tuner to come work on one instrument?” Sir Dewey scoffed. “Even in the enchanted confines of Little Weldon, the concept of economy is practiced to an art. Each year, I think they’ll simply inflict a pair of violins on us at the summer assembly, as the humidity afflicts the instrument badly.”

“Who tunes your piano?” Val asked, swirling his feet thoughtfully. He was grateful, he realized, for the particular pleasure of simply soaking his feet on a lovely summer day while a merry little oom-pah-pah tootled along in his head.

“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.”

Abby rose and put her arms around Ellen, enveloping her in a cloud of sweet, flowery fragrance. “Whatever you think you did, it can be forgiven by those who love you. I know this, Ellen.”

“I am not you,” Ellen said, her voice resolute. “I am me, and if I care for Mr. Windham, I will not involve him in my past.”

“You’re involving him in your present, though.” Abby sat back, regarding Ellen levelly. “And likely in your future, as well, I hope.”

“I should not,” Ellen said softly. “I should not, but you’re right, I have, and for the present I probably can’t help myself. He’ll tire of our dalliance, though, and then I’ll let him go, and all will be as it should be again.”

“You are not making sense. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“But you should,” Ellen said. “The gentlemen will be done with their baths and hungry for their luncheon. I’ll take a tray here, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll leave you the cheese and fruit for now.” Abby got to her feet, her expression unconvinced. “Perhaps you’re done with the wine?”

“I think some tea is in order. You mustn’t take my dramatics too seriously.”

“I won’t. I’ll make your excuses to the fellows and send you up some reading with your luncheon.”

“My thanks.” Ellen let herself be hugged again. All three times she’d been pregnant, Ellen had felt the same wonderful, expansive affection for everyone in her world—well, almost everyone, as there was no genuine affection to be had for Freddy or some of his friends.

“Perhaps I’ll take a nap,” Ellen suggested.

“I never realized how invigorating a nap could be,” Abby replied, drawing back and picking up the wine bottle. “Not that kind of nap, though those are delightful, but simple rest. My first husband frowned upon it, unless one was sickening for something or suffering a migraine.”

“What a disappointing man he must have been, and what a lovely contrast Mr. Belmont must make.”

“Mr. Belmont encourages me to nap when I’m tired.” Abby’s smile was feline.

“Out.” Ellen pointed to the door, smiling back. “Out, out, out, and thank you for the visit, the wine, and the privacy.”

Though when Abby had left her alone, Ellen did not nap. Indeed, it took her some time to cease weeping.