Prologue

Dearest Mama,

Thank you for your letter and the package that arrived with it. Whatever possessed you to send so much? You might remember your son is full grown and no longer a schoolboy. I do eat, I promise you, and am quite old enough to see to myself. However, the treats from home were very kind and much appreciated, though I beg you will stop fretting over me.

My meeting with the Duke of Beresford went well enough, though he is a cold fish, and I cannot say I liked him above half. Having said that, his son, Richmond, I know from experience, is far worse, and it is a happiness to me to discover him still in town and not expected to return anytime soon. The atmosphere in the great house is one of oppression and I confess I was relieved when his grace did not invite me to stay, though I do not doubt he intended it as a slight. His children, at least those which I have seen, seem to stand very much in awe of their father. I do not believe this to be a happy household and cannot help but pity them.

I have been given the use of a very tidy little cottage upon the estate, which suits me admirably and means I will not be obliged to spend time among them.

As I suspected, the looser, more natural design I had hoped to carry off in the gardens has not found favour, but instead a formal, symmetrical style with lots of carpet bedding and clipped borders. It is not quite what I would have liked, but it should look very well. I confess I do not relish the idea of spending so many months here, but the opportunity to design gardens for a house as important as Beresford is such that I would endure far more discomfort than merely disliking my employer. I send you and father my best love.

Yours affectionately,

Hart.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mrs Minerva De Beauvoir, from her adopted son, Hartley De Beauvoir.

5th January 1850, Hardacre Hall, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

"I suppose they're well enough," the duke said, his tone grudging as he regarded the beautiful plans that Hart had sweated over for nights on end, determined to present something the idiot man could not refuse.

"Thank you," Hart said, reminding himself that was what he'd wanted to hear. That the plans were far superior to the dreadful schemes the duke had demanded of him was neither here nor there. Hart wanted his own way, and if he had to bite his tongue to get it, he could do that. This was his last chance, though; the men began work on Monday and then it would be too late. As it was, he would need to make significant changes to the supplies he'd estimated for the coming months. "The Italian style will soon be what everyone is crying out for now that Her Majesty is making such a garden at Osborne House. It would be well for you to strike now and be one of the first to have a design of your own at Hardacre."

"Hmmm. It's expensive, I suppose?"

Hart regarded the Duke of Beresford stonily. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his contempt for his grace. The man wanted an outstanding garden to show off his wealth and his status, something that his contemporaries would look at and turn green with envy, but he wanted to pay for a potted fern and be done with it.

"No, actually. Carpet bedding on the scale you were considering takes thousands of plants and constant upkeep. The Italian style is softer, and rather more forgiving. The hard standings and the statuary will of course be an expense, but I can supply everything you need at a price no one else could match."

That was true, but only because this garden would cost Hart a bloody fortune. He wouldn't make a penny from it, but if he created something beautiful, something everyone in the ton could see and admire, his name would mean something, his reputation would be made.

"Are you suggesting I can't afford to pay for exactly what I want, you jumped up—"

"Not at all, your grace," Hart said, fighting to keep his tone even. "Only that you are not foolish with your money. There is no shame in wanting value for money and not letting people cheat you." The effort of being tactful was making him sweat. It was not something he usually even attempted.

"Quite so, and you remember that, sir. I know every trick in the book, so don't you go trying to pull the wool over my eyes."

"If you have doubts about my honour…" Hart said evenly, temper rising despite his best efforts. The desire to tell the man to stuff his bloody garden and ram his plans down the old devil's gullet was becoming hard to resist.

The duke sent him a contemptuous look, one that said he knew damn well Hart had been born in the workhouse and wasn't fit to polish his boots. "Do as you wish, but on your head be it. Build me a garden that's the envy of the ton and I'll be satisfied," he said, waving a dismissive hand.

"I will build a garden that people will speak of long after you are gone," Hart said coldly.

The duke regarded him, a long considering look. "See that you do. Now leave me be. I have things to attend to."

Like the decanter of brandy on his desk, Hart thought sourly as he gathered up his plans and left the room. Not that he cared, the duke could drink himself into a stupor as far as he was concerned, so long as he didn't turn up his toes before the garden was completed. Leaving the duke's study, Hart closed the door and let out a breath. He'd done it. He'd got what he wanted, and he hadn't hit the bastard once. That was cause for celebration. Grinning to himself, he strode down the vast long gallery from the duke's private rooms, making his way back to the main hall.

The house was striking rather than attractive. Built over four floors, it was an Elizabethan prodigy house, and appeared to have more glass than wall, with massive windows on all sides of the building. Hart could only think it must be a nightmare to heat.

His boots struck the polished marble, his footsteps echoing as he walked. Hart suppressed a shudder at the idea of living in such a place. There was an eerie feeling to the hall, a sense of emptiness that had nothing to do with its scale and the size of the rooms, for it would take an army to fill it. He had been in mansion houses like this often enough before. Beverwyck, for example. The massive house belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin was on a monumental scale, but somehow it still contrived to be a home, a place that welcomed family and friends. Hardacre lacked any feeling of warmth or welcome. The hairs on the back of Hart's neck prickled, and he told himself to stop being so bloody foolish. The duke was an unfeeling bastard with a lump of lead where his heart ought to be and he pitied anyone growing up in this environment. That was all.

With that, he nodded at the footman, who managed to open the front door for him and look contemptuous at the same time and strode out into the fresh air with relief.

Hart stared around him. The gardens at Hardacre were not gardens at all, just huge expanses of grass with trees at random intervals. A lake glittered in the distance, and there were many streams crossing the estate. That was what would make Hardacre special. The lake itself was not big enough, large as it was, though, so another six-acre lake would also be dug up on the moors behind the house. Once flooded, that would give enough pressure to supply a series of seven fountains. The fountains would punctuate a wide border over a hundred and thirty yards long, that would take you all the way down to the lake. Hart stood for a moment, imagining it: the water sent sparkling high in the air, the long trellis walk he would make on the south side, dripping wisteria. It was so clear in his mind, so vivid, he could almost hear the rush of the water, the lazy buzz of bees among the blooms.

He could not wait to begin.