Grace Burrowes: Beckman: Lord of Sins

“I have a request of you ladies,” Beck said when everybody’s bowl was empty. “I want to ask you to make a list of household necessities, things that are getting old, worn, or in low supply. I noticed the bath towels are nearly rags, for example, and the runner in the back hallway is nigh coming unbraided. The wagon is empty now, and the team is here. There’s time before planting to make several trips to Portsmouth or even Brighton.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Mrs. Hunt said, meeting Polly’s guarded gaze, “but we’re managing adequately.”

“Lady Warne is a marchioness,” Beck replied, and why had he anticipated having to coax this from them, despite the condition of the estate? “Her lineage is old, much respected, and deserving of a certain dignity. Three Springs falls short of that dignity, through no fault of present company, and I am charged with addressing the oversight. I’d like to see it done before I am recalled to the family seat, which summons might come at any time.”

“Make your list, ladies,” North said as he rose. “You won’t get a better offer, and the poor man thinks a few towels and rugs will restore his grandmama’s kingdom.”

Beck kept his seat. “You as well, North. I realize the situation with the land is growing dire, so prioritize accordingly.”

North sat back down and scowled mightily.

“The first priority would be sending those four mastodons that hauled your treasures here back where they came from. They eat everything in sight, and the new grass is weeks away.”

The wagon had been heavily loaded and pulled not by coaching horses but by the largest draft animals Belle Maison could spare.

“You’re that short of hay?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow what we have on hand,” North said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s enough for our stock, if spring makes a timely appearance, but not much more. I sold off what we didn’t absolutely need, because last year’s yield was surprisingly good, given the generally miserable yields elsewhere.”

“The past few seasons have been odd,” Beck said. “I’ve made my requests, and if you’ll all think on it, that’s enough for the present.”

“We’ll think on it.” Polly rose and caught her sister’s eye. To Beck, the message was clear: Not now, Sister; we’ll talk later. “Allie, I assume you’ll want to scrape out the pan I baked the dessert in before we set it to soaking?”

Allie kept her seat, bouncing around on it in anticipation. “May I, Mama?”

“You may, and thank you for not bolting off as if the table caught fire. Did you put Mr. Haddonfield’s clothes on his sofa?”

Allie looked puzzled. “You didn’t ask me to.”

Mrs. Hunt smiled at her daughter. “My apologies. I meant to, but then the scent of Polly’s flan tickled my nose, and I must have forgotten. Mr. Haddonfield, if you want to gather your laundry, I’ll light you up.”

“I’ll meet you in the laundry,” Beck said. “Miss Polly, my compliments on another splendid meal. If you’ll write the recipe down for that flan, I’ll send it along to my father’s cook. The orange zest is a magnificent touch.”

“Of course.” Polly looked pleased but wouldn’t meet his gaze—though North was looking a bit disconcerted—so Beck contented himself with tweaking Allie’s braid and bidding the child good night.

Beck cocked a finger-pistol at North. “Scrambled eggs at dawn, Mr. North. Last man out of bed has to clean up and take the scraps to the fair Hildy.”

“I’ll lie awake all night rather than suffer such a fate.” North bowed with disconcerting elegance and disappeared up the steps.

Beck fetched an impressive pile of laundry, more than he’d realized a week of living could create. He’d arranged the load in a wicker basket when Mrs. Hunt joined him, a single candle in her hand.

Beck picked up the basket, lest she attempt to carry both the laundry and her candle. While they were wending their way through the darkened corridors of the house, Beck felt the chill seeping into his bones.

“I cannot recall a time when I was so desperately looking forward to my bed,” he mused, mostly because his escort did not offer any conversation. “Whatever I expected of this place, it wasn’t immediate exhaustion.”

“You learn to pace yourself. It wasn’t what I expected here either.”

“How did you come to be here?” Beck asked, keeping his tone casual.

“My husband died while we were in Italy,” she said, slowing to navigate a set of stairs. “Lady Warne was touring and had called upon us socially. She heard of Reynard’s situation and offered us passage back here and employment for me. The packet landed in Brighton, and we’ve been here ever since.”

This recitation struck Beck as a radically abbreviated telling of a more complicated tale. “And that was when?”

“A few years ago. A month after we got here, the old cook quit without notice, so Polly took over.”

“She does very well with it,” Beck said as they approached his room. Since his hands were full, Mrs. Hunt opened the door and preceded him into his sitting room. Once again, somebody had lit his fire, set his wash water by the hearth, and refilled the pitcher of drinking water. The room smelled good too, as if someone had freshened the lavender sachets hanging from the curtain sashes.

The effect was pleasant and welcoming, and yet Beck wasn’t entirely comfortable with the notion that Mrs. Hunt herself had troubled over his comforts.

“I’ve added to your burden,” he said, glancing around the room. “Just by being here, I make more work.”

“But you lightened Gabriel’s load.” She lit the candles on his mantel and moved off to light some in his bedroom. “I’m surprised he allows it.”

“He’s an independent sort. I also think there’s a bit of putting me through my paces going on.”

“Maybe.” She stood in the door between the two rooms and offered him a half smile. “Do you blame him?”

“Of course not.” Beck put down his basket of laundry. “I meant what I said, Mrs. Hunt, about making a list.”

Her smile became a quarter smile, then an eighth. “Of course you did. The question is, when you’ve replaced the towels and rugs, as Gabriel terms them, then what?”

“Then you have a livable property worthy of the Marchioness of Warne.” Beck was tired and not up to deciphering females’ moods.

“Or you have a saleable property, don’t you?”

This again? “You think I’d turn out three females and a man who has worked himself to the bone simply to add to my grandmother’s coffers?”

Her chin came up in a very unservile manner. “We’re hired help, and you’re the son of an earl. We live in an age of clearances and enclosures, Mr. Haddonfield. The working man can riot all he wants over the price of bread, but the price of bread doesn’t change. You’re perfectly within your rights to work us nigh to death and then sell the place for a song.”

Beck advanced on her, fatigue letting his temper strain its leash. “Firstly, any decision to sell would be made by my grandmother, whose generosity of spirit has been proven by her dealings with you. Secondly, my task is to put the place to rights, not sell it. It’s no more for sale now than it was the day you got here, Mrs. Hunt. Thirdly, I am a gentleman and would not leave you and yours to starve when you’ve served the family loyally under trying circumstances.”

“I know better than to depend on any man’s word,” Mrs. Hunt said, her voice low and fierce as she glared up at him. “You mean what you say, now, Mr. Haddonfield, I’ll grant you that much. But if your grandmother should die or the earl redirect your task, you can’t stop the place from being sold.”