Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hart,

I've heard through the grapevine that you're creating a garden at Hardacre. I hope you've got your payment up front. Beresford is notoriously tight, as well as being an utter bastard. Father can't stand him, and the feeling is mutual.

I hope work is progressing well, anyway. I'd get you up here to Goshen Court to help me, but I suspect I can't afford you. Come and see me when you're done at Hardacre anyhow. I'd be pleased to see you and get the benefit of your opinion.

Leo is here at the moment – with the blasted cat, naturally. I'm beginning to wonder if it"s his familiar. Still, Tilly adores it, and I'll give the creature this, it's good natured with her. She dressed the poor devil up in one of her doll's outfits yesterday, and short of sending me baleful expressions, it didn't bat an eye. Of course, her nanny scolded her for taking advantage of a poor, defenceless creature and then told me off for letting her. Terrifying woman. Strangely, Tilly adores her. Children are odd little devils.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Hartley De Beauvoir from The Right Hon'ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton (Son of The Most Hon'ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu)

3rdFebruary 1850, Thistle Cottage, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Fidelia woke reluctantly, waiting for the usual wave of melancholy and pain that accompanied every moment when she was not asleep. When it came, she was aware of something different, of a leavening, a sense of… of hope. With a rush, the events of last night came back to her, her accidental plunge into the freezing lake, accompanied by the certainty that she did not wish to die. The terror of those moments returned to her, making her heart beat too hard, the sensation of iced water flowing down her spine. She had been unhappy, yes, she did not see how that could change until her baby was in her arms again, but she was not giving up. She wanted to fight, for him, and for herself too. Almost losing her life had given her a new desire to live, and surely there was more to life than being here, trapped at Hardacre? There must be.

Her thoughts moved on, considering the man who had saved her.

Fidelia blushed as she remembered. Good lord, he had stripped her bare and wrapped her in a blanket, had held her on his lap as she had broken her heart, and never so much as tried to stop her. He had not told her to stop being hysterical or to behave like a lady, nor had he made her feel ashamed. Her behaviour had not horrified him, and he had not seemed to think it extraordinary. He had simply accepted it and helped her through as best he could.

He had also refused her advances.

With a groan, Fidelia sank beneath the covers. "Oh, you fool," she moaned, toes curling with embarrassment. What had she been thinking? She had never in her life done such a thing, and now… now what must he think? Would he believe her some manner of succubus, rather than a woman who had given in to her lover's demands for intimacy on just two occasions? Good heavens, she'd not even been naked with the man she'd believed had loved her, he'd just lifted her skirts and got on with it. She had felt more intimacy last night, sitting on a stranger's lap, one who had been kind to her, and she'd repaid him by making unwelcome advances. What on earth had possessed her to do such a thing? To discover she'd had a child out of wedlock was damning enough, but to be so horribly bold as to invite him to… Oh, Fidelia!

Yet she remembered how he had reacted, firmly refusing, yet there had been no contempt in his eyes, no judgement. He hadn't wanted her, but he had not seemed to be disgusted by the fact she had reached for him.

That's not what you want.

That was what he'd said. He'd been right too, though she'd have argued the fact last night. The idea of finding some pleasure in his arms—such powerful arms—had been inviting indeed. He was strong and so very alive, so very male. It had been so long since she'd felt anything close to pleasure, and she'd been so horribly alone. Yet, it would have been a mistake. Lord, she might have got with child again, and as much as she wanted her son back, she was not about to repeat her actions.

He—what had he said his name was? She could not remember. But he had told her to find her child, that if she truly wanted something, she could move heaven and earth. At first his words had infuriated her, as if she hadn't tried to do so before now. Yet his certainty had lit something inside her that had long since died out, and she felt a tentative surge of hope. She thought perhaps the hardest thing to endure, had been never being able to speak of her son to anyone, to acknowledge his existence. Even her brother and sister did not know, and her father had been very clear about the retribution he would bring down upon her, and upon them, if she disobeyed him. But perhaps she could find him and build a life for them, away from her father. Perhaps if he would help her.

Fidelia smiled, allowing hope to burgeon to life and discovering an illicit pleasure in being in his bed, even if he was not in it. She turned into the pillow, breathing in a woody, earthy scent that she knew was his. He was a man who got his hands dirty. His fingers were calloused, not like her father's pale, manicured hands, nor those of most of the gentlemen she knew. The idea made her senses prickle to life, but she told herself not to be foolish. She was in enough trouble, she certainly did not need to seek any more.

A knock at the bedroom door had her heart leaping. Had he come back?

"Yes?"

"It's me, Alex."

Fidelia had to admit she was a little disappointed, but she called for her brother to come in.

Alex peered around the door and Fidelia smiled at him. "I'm quite all right," she said, seeing the anxiety in his pale features.

"But you fell in the lake," Alex said, hurrying to her and setting down a brown paper parcel on the bed. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

Fidelia reached for his hand, holding on tight. "Perfectly sure."

"You're wearing Mr De Beauvoir's shirt," he said, frowning at her.

Oh! So that was his name.

"Well, my things are rather wet, Alex," she said impatiently. "So, I hope that parcel contains my clothes?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, though I had the devil of a job getting them. The staff have been staying out of his grace's way and so your maid spent a good deal of time in your room, sorting things I'm certain didn't need sorting. But Father is on the warpath this morning, so they're all lying low. You know how he gets before he leaves on a trip. He wanted to see you before he left for town, too, so that didn't help. I told him I'd seen you walking towards the village."

"He's gone?" Fidelia asked, perking up.

Alex returned a grin. Life was so much easier when his grace was not at home. "Yes, for two glorious weeks."

Fidelia sat back with a sigh, regarding her little brother. She reached out her hand and took his, squeezing his fingers. "I'm sorry, Alex. Sorry for frightening you and… and for not being the sister you deserve."

Alex frowned at that and shook his head. "You've been unhappy. I… I just wish you had believed you could confide in me. I'm not a silly child anymore, Lia. If someone hurt you or… well, I'm your brother, dammit. I have a right to know."

Fidelia stared at him, seeing the earnest young man he was becoming. Somehow, he had kept his heart intact despite their father's best efforts. Unlike Richmond. Their eldest sibling was a nasty piece of work, worse even than his grace, and they were always relieved that he hated Hardacre, and their father, and stayed clear of them all. Fidelia's younger sister, who had just turned twenty, was different again. Narcissa was far bolder and braver than either her or Alex. She was the duke's favourite child, which was odd, for she was the only one who ever openly defied him.

"I'm sorry, Alex. I promise, from now on I will try to be more confiding, only… only this was rather a private matter."

Alex nodded. "You fell in love with someone. I suppose he was unsuitable?"

Fidelia laughed at that, despite herself. "I suppose he was."

"But you're better now?" he pressed, as if a broken heart could be recovered from in the same way as the measles… but even they left scars, so perhaps he was right.

"Much better," she promised him, realising as she said the words that she was telling the truth.

"I'm glad," he said with a sigh. "I missed you."

Her heart broke a little at that admission. Alex had become increasingly reserved as he'd grown older, but they'd always been close. She had let him down by shutting him out, forgetting she was not the only person in the world suffering life at Hardacre.

"I missed you too, Alex. But I'm back now, and… and everything is going to be so much better."

"Bloody hell," Hart muttered under his breath as he saw Lady Fidelia striding towards him. He'd been doing his utmost to keep his mind occupied so it would not linger on the lovely, melancholy girl who had insinuated herself into his world. Thoughts of her intruded whenever he let down his guard. Those clear blue eyes, the way she had reached for him, her softly curved body a warm weight in his arms… and how it might feel if she were not grieving, if perhaps he could make her smile. However, she did not look melancholy at this moment, he had to admit. Right now, she looked more inclined to do murder.

Giving Harris instructions to relay to the men working down by the lake, he sent the man off, hurrying to intercept Lady Fidelia, so they'd be out of earshot.

"It's locked!" she exclaimed in frustration.

Her cheeks were becomingly flushed, whether from her annoyance or the brisk way she'd been walking on a chilly afternoon, he could not be certain. The last he'd seen of her before he'd left for work that morning, she'd been tucked up in his bed, wearing his shirt. The knowledge had been nagging at him ever since, no matter how he tried to ignore it.

"Keep your voice down," Hart growled, glancing around to see if they were being observed. "And you knew the desk would be locked, you told me it would be."

"Not the desk, the room!" she said, folding her arms. "And it will remain locked until his grace returns. In two weeks!"

Hart shrugged. "So what? You'll have to wait a bit longer, that's all. You've waited this long."

"I don't want to wait," she said, eyes flashing. "I'm tired of living this miserable half-life. If last night showed me anything it proved to me that I want to live, not simply exist in this vast prison the duke keeps me locked in. I want to do something. I want to make something happen now!"

Hart stared at her, wondering what exactly she expected him to do about it. "Then find another key or learn to pick a lock."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, apparently pleased with that idea. "Do you know how?"

Hart glared at her, irritated by the assumption that anyone of a lower class than her would know such a trick. "No. I don't. Now, if you'll excuse me, my lady, I have work—"

"I'll break the glass, then," she said, a determined glint in her eyes that boded ill. "The door leading outside to the gardens is half window. If I break the glass, I need only to turn the key, and I'll be inside. I'll need to figure out how to do it quietly, though," she mused, turning and walking away.

Alarmed, Hart reached for her without thinking and grasped her arm. "You bloody well won't!"

"I beg your pardon?"

And there was the duke's daughter, her chin up, generations of pride in every line of her body.

Hart let go of her like he'd been stung. "And just who will get the blame for breaking into the study?"

Fidelia considered this. "No one. Nothing will be taken, after all. I'll just read the diaries and leave."

"From a locked desk, to which you don't have the key? So, you'll break into that too? Everyone will assume the thief was looking for something. Perhaps they got disturbed and ran off before they had time to grab anything valuable. And do you know where they'll go looking for a likely culprit?"

Fidelia shook her head, frowning.

"From among my men," Hart said angrily. "And it won't matter a jot that there's no evidence, that they're innocent. One of them will cop the blame for it, you mark my words. So, no, Lady Fidelia, you will not break into your father's study, unless you'd like me to explain who did do it and why."

"Oh!" she gasped, the colour leaving her face in a rush. "And I thought you meant to help me!"

"Not at the expense of an innocent man," Hart shot back.

She stood staring at him, chest rising and falling hard. Her blonde hair was caught in a severe style, rolled at the back of her neck, and a pretty bonnet, lined with dusky pink, framed her face. She was all neat and tidy, except for a few wayward strands curling about her cheeks. Hart glowered harder, refusing to allow himself to admire the picture she made.

"I-I hadn't considered that," she admitted, her expression becoming sombre. She tangled her fingers together, and he heard the frustration in her words… and the honesty. "I would not want anyone to suffer for my actions. You were quite right to scold me. It was thoughtless. I'm sorry. I just feel so helpless when nothing goes my way."

Surprised and utterly disarmed, Hart didn't know quite what to say. "There's no reason why you should think of others. Your kind don't as a rule." It was ungracious of him, and rather unkind, but she took the criticism on the chin.

"We're taught not to do so," she said, only a touch defensively. "Servants do not exist, other than to serve. We are taught not to acknowledge them, much less thank them."

"I know," Hart said, having got himself into trouble for demanding something resembling basic manners on a servant's behalf in the past. Neither the servant nor the stuck-up lordling had thanked him for it.

"But I know that doesn't make it right," she added and then let out a huff of vexation. "Oh, but it's so unfair! I am so tired of feeling powerless."

"I know you're angry. It's maddening when you can't begin something at once," Hart offered, knowing how that felt at least.

Tears sparkled in her eyes now, and Hart felt bad for her. She had rallied herself at last and hit an immediate wall.

"What about the father?"

She started at the bold question. "I beg your pardon?"

Hart glanced over his shoulder and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Would the child's father know anything?"

"No. He wanted nothing to do with his son once he realised he could not force my father into allowing our marriage," she said, and with such certainty he did not doubt her. "Besides, I believe he is no longer in England." She blushed scarlet, avoiding his gaze.

"Right. He's no use, then. What about servants, your father's steward, or his valet? I know some men tell their valets everything."

She shook her head. "No. I cannot believe he would tell anyone about this. It's family pride and lineage. That's too serious to put in the hands of a servant. Besides, you forget the fact that my father is not well liked, and he knows it. No, this is one thing he would have dealt with personally, for there was no other way."

Hart nodded. "Then you need to investigate the possibility of a spare key. With the housekeeper, perhaps?"

Another shake of her head, and Lady Fidelia's shoulders drooped. "No. He wouldn't trust it to anyone. He's not a trusting man, you see. I shall just have to wait until he comes home," she said with a despondent sigh. "Oh, I shall run mad. How will I endure it?"

"By keeping yourself busy," Hart said firmly.

"You expect me to sit and embroider a doily?" she asked, her tone scathing.

"No."

"Then what?" She folded her arms, a challenging glint in her eye he could not ignore.

Hart clenched his jaw. Damn the woman, was he to be responsible for her every minute of the day?

"Fine," he said, looking around to ensure the men were well occupied and not watching them. "Come with me."

Hart strode off, not modifying his long strides or slowing down. If she wanted to come, she could damn well keep up.

Fidelia cursed under her breath, what little there was of it, as she hurried to keep up with Mr De Beauvoir. He was leading her down a path she'd never taken before, and she hoped that wasn't a metaphor. In the days after her father had discovered she was pregnant, she had endured a great deal of judgment and been called all the disgusting names he could think of for a woman who gave away her virtue willingly. Though the duke had never struck her as being religious, outside of showing his face at church at the relevant times, he'd read her several religious homilies about women who had strayed from the path of righteousness and got their just rewards. None of them were pleasant.

As Hart led her around to what she presumed must be the kitchen gardens and glasshouses, Fidelia had to suppress a bubble of laughter. Ridiculous to find it funny, her once more straying from the path a lady should take, plus the way he was stalking off, and she was trotting along to keep up, but it was so long since she'd found anything amusing that it tickled her immensely. He led her down another path, this one overgrown, clearly having fallen out of use, and by the time he stopped, glowering, outside of a small potting shed, she was snorting with laughter, unable to do so properly because she could not breathe.

Fidelia clutched at her waist, the corset far too tight as she gasped, tears streaming from her eyes.

"What's funny?" he demanded suspiciously, setting her off into whoops.

"N-Nothing," she gasped, wishing she could undo the blasted corset. "Only, you were leading me up the garden path and…"

She spluttered a bit more. Mr De Beauvoir only scowled at her.

"I will never understand women," he muttered, shaking his head as opened the door to the shed.

"Are you not married, then?" she asked, knowing it was rude of her to pose such intimate questions, but she had been dying to know ever since the possibility had occurred to her.

He must be in his late thirties and was a fine, imposing figure of a man. Thoughts of his broad shoulders and naked muscular chest kept intruding upon her, making her blush whenever she remembered her temerity in reaching out and touching him. The brief sensation of warmth and hard muscle beneath her fingertips had been quite delicious and far too quickly over.

"No," he said shortly. "And I've not the least intention of doing so."

"Whyever not?" she demanded, following him into the shed before she could think better of it.

"I can see how you got yourself into difficulties," he said, ignoring her question and looking exasperated as he turned in the small space to find her standing close behind him.

Fidelia blushed. "I thought I was supposed to come with you."

"Well, I told you to, but that doesn't mean you had to do it. Don't just do what you're told, for the love of God. You've a brain. Coming with me was a daft thing to do. You ought to have refused," he grumbled.

"B-But…" Fidelia stared at him in consternation.

Mr De Beauvoir took off his hat and rubbed irritably at his hair. It ran the gamut of brown, from almost golden tones through to a rich chocolate colour and was cut severely short at the back and sides, despite the fashion for men of longer hair. It was longer on top, though, and now stood up at strange angles after his brusque treatment of it.

"Well, you're here now, and this place is out of the way. Just have a care."

"I will," she promised meekly, and then realised she was doing what he told her again. Frowning over this, she watched as he set his hat down and peered at a tray full of earth. Wondering what he found so fascinating, she moved closer. Tiny green shoots punctuated the fine soil.

"Sweet peas," he said gruffly.

"Oh, I love sweet peas," Fidelia said with a sigh.

"These are called Painted Lady," he said, glancing at her.

"I hope that's not an insult," she replied dryly.

He sent her a dark look which made her smile, as she believed it would never occur to him to say such a thing to her. Not that she used make-up. His grace frowned upon such things.

"These are lovely, with a beautiful perfume. They are a deep pink, with pale rose wings and a white keel."

"Keel?"

"The centre," he explained automatically, reaching for another tray. He moved along the bench to where a quantity of rich soil was piled with a scoop shoved into it. Taking the scoop, he filled the tray and tapped it hard to get the soil to settle. Then he took a small watering can and watered the soil, so it was damp. Fidelia watched with interest as he reached into his pocket and pulled out half a dozen paper squares.

"These arrived yesterday. I've not had a chance to plant them yet," he said, inspecting the names. "They're chrysanthemums."

"What's that?"

"An impressive flower head with lots of petals. These are dark purple. Here, take your gloves off."

Fidelia quirked an eyebrow at him, and then watched, amused, as he rolled his eyes.

"If you want to," he added.

She laughed and stripped off her gloves, laying them carelessly on the dirty bench. Mr De Beauvoir hesitated for a moment before he took her hand and shook some seeds into her palm. They were tiny and unprepossessing looking things.

"Scatter them carefully over the surface of the soil," he said, watching critically as she did so. "Very good."

Fidelia smiled at him, pleased.

"Now, get a small scoop of the soil, and carefully shake a fine layer over the top. You want to barely cover them."

Following his instructions, she did as he told her.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Now we wait. They need sunlight and to be kept out of the frost while they germinate. They ought to be in a glasshouse, really, but then the gardeners will see you and wonder. This little corner seems to have been abandoned. If I can, I'll make some cold frames, but we'll have to make do with the light from the windows. Here, you do this tray."

Fidelia took it from him and carefully scooped soil into it, watering the tray with care under his critical gaze.

"You need patience in gardening," he said, his voice soft.

He was standing close enough that his breath fluttered against the back of her neck, making her senses leap. For a moment she closed her eyes, wondering how different things might have been if he had been the man she had lost her wits over. His deep voice rumbled on, pleasantly gruff, and she thought she could listen to him speak all day and never grow bored with the sound.

"You can't rush nature. She'll take her own sweet time, but then she'll reward you with a fine healthy plant, or a burst of colourful flowers. I plant trees all the time, yet I know I might not see some of them reach their maturity. You plant for the next generation as well as your own, you see."

Fidelia paused with the watering can in her hand, staring at him. She had never met a man like this before. There was an intensity about him that seemed to radiate energy, and yet he was a peaceful presence, solid and reassuring.

"You love this, don't you?" she asked, smiling.

He glanced at her, reaching for another tray. "It quiets my mind when it won't stop turning."

Fidelia nodded, beginning to see how that might be. It was cosy in the shed, the scent of damp, fresh earth and growing things all around. Outside, the day was clouding over, a fine rain pattered against the windows and a stiff breeze rattled the bare branches of the trees. In the potting shed, out of the wind and rain, with the two of them working side by side, planting seeds, Fidelia discovered she was happy. The pain of her missing child was never gone, but it did not overwhelm her in this moment. She would get her son back, but in the meantime, perhaps she could endure the passing days if they held moments of serenity and content like this.

"Are these for my father's garden?"

He laughed at that, a deep rumble that seemed to fill the small shed and wrap around her. Fidelia darted a glance at him, for it seemed a wonderful sound that melted away a little more of the shell of ice she had encased herself in of late. She smiled, pleased to have coaxed the sound from him, no matter how unwittingly.

"Hardly," he said, clearly amused at the idea. "No. I thought I'd plant them around the cottage."

"Because it pleases you to make things beautiful," she guessed, for he had no reason to take care of the cottage garden.

"It does," he agreed, turning to face her. "I like beautiful things, and I enjoy watching things grow."

For a moment their gazes locked, and Fidelia held her breath, certain her heart had stopped beating as she waited for him to tell her she was beautiful. The look in his eyes certainly suggested he thought so, but then he looked away and Fidelia's heart stuttered back to life. She scolded herself for being a fool, remembering that he did not want her. Hadn't he told her as much?

"I'm so sorry my father did not invite you to the house," she said hurriedly, knowing she was being idiotic and needing to dispel the tension between them. Besides, she felt guilty for the duke's intentional rudeness.

"Lord, I'm not! Don't you go getting him changing his mind either," he added with alarm.

Fidelia had to laugh at that. "No. I won't, I promise. Not that I could. I have no influence with his grace."

She knew why her father had done it. Mr De Beauvoir was not a gentleman. He had a well-cultured voice which, with the correct dress, would have allowed him to pass himself off as a gentleman. Yet, he dressed like a gardener, like a man who preferred to get his hands dirty, and she suspected that was deliberate on his part.

"Right. Well, you need to keep these damp. Don't over water them. If you do a good job, you ought to see the seedlings emerge in ten to fifteen days."

It was Fidelia's turn to look alarmed. "You're not expecting me to look after them?"

"Why not?"

"I might kill them all!" she said, agitated by the sudden responsibility.

"Don't kill them," he said sternly. "You planted them, now you take care of them."

Fishing another packet out of his pocket, he handed it to her. "These are marigold seeds. You can plant those too. You might think to make some labels for them so you can tell them apart from the others. The first leaves all look the same."

"B-But…" Fidelia said as he went to the door.

"Good afternoon, Lady Fidelia, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"But what do I do when the seedlings emerge?" she demanded.

"I'll come and show you when they're ready." He picked up his hat. "Don't worry so. You'll be fine," he said, and smiled at her. She had never seen him smile before and it transformed his strong, rather gruff features into something entirely different.

His eyes were a very dark blue, the darkest she had ever seen, almost indigo, framed with thick, black lashes any woman would covet, and his eyebrows were heavy and dark, giving him a rather fierce countenance. He had a prominent nose too, which on any other man would have looked out of place, but it suited him, with his broad shoulders and heavy frame, though it did nothing to make him appear less imposing. But the smile softened his face and made his eyes sparkle, and Fidelia's breath caught.

"Good afternoon, Mr De Beauvoir," she managed, and watched him stride off, head down against the wind as he disappeared back down the path.

Fidelia closed the door, pleased to shut out the grim afternoon and return to the seeds. She looked down at her hands, the pale skin grubby now, dirt visible under her neatly trimmed nails. Goodness, but his grace would have a fit if he could see her.

Fidelia smiled.