Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Dearest Miss Violetta,

I hope this letter finds you in excellent health and spirits.

I am currently staying at Goshen Court with Leo. The hunting is exceptionally good, and I have caught several rats and a half dozen mice. I almost got a nice pheasant too, but Lord Ashburton seemed displeased by this and so I let it go. A pity.

Despite all this entertainment, I think often of my time at Trevick and the lovely tangle I made of your embroidery silks. I still do not understand why you rejected all my generous presents so heartlessly. That last mouse was a beauty, and it hurt me deeply to see you throw it out of the window with such disgust.

Nonetheless, I think of you fondly and hope perhaps you think of me from time to time.

Yours, ever,

―Excerpt of a letter to the Hon'ble Miss Violetta Spencer (cousin and adopted daughter to The Right Hon'ble Kitty and Luke Baxter, Countess and Earl of Trevick) from The Hon'ble Cat, Mau.

6th February 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Work was progressing very nicely indeed, Hart thought, as he surveyed what the men had done. The lake they were creating would be completed in plenty of time, and the cut stone that would make the pond at the base of the fountains was being put in place on the walk.

It was early afternoon and for once the sun was shining and Hart enjoyed the warmth upon his back, though the day was cool. While he had been sorely tempted to check for himself, he had left the potting shed alone and the seeds in Lady Fidelia's care. He hoped she hadn't killed them all.

As if he had conjured her with the thoughts, Hart looked up to see the lady walking towards him, her brother at her side. They made an enchanting sight, both fair and beautiful, the perfect picture of English aristocracy. Lady Fidelia wore a lovely gown of white-and-blue silk, with a white bonnet trimmed with blue ribbons. Lord, but she was beautiful, it made something in his chest ache as he watched her raise a hand to wave at him, her face alight as she smiled. Was that really for him, that smile? Hart told himself not to be such a bloody fool, but he had never seen her looking so well, and noticed many of the men watching her.

"Take a break," he snapped, irritated by their gawping. The men grinned and walked away, chatting amiably, pleased to go in search of sandwiches and packed lunches after a back breaking morning.

"Lady Fidelia, Lord Alex," Hart said politely, removing his hat.

"Good afternoon, Mr De Beauvoir. We thought you might be hungry after your hard work this morning and have brought you a picnic," Fidelia said with a smile.

Hart's eyebrows went up. "I do eat, my lady. I brought sandwiches and—"

"And sandwiches are all well and good, but you have not lived until you've tasted our cook's ham and chicken pie," she insisted, a determined look in her eyes that suggested he would not escape easily.

"It's very good," Lord Alex said with a smile. "And I, at least, have an ulterior motive," he added, gesturing to the roll of paper sticking out of the basket he carried.

Hart laughed, relieved it had been Lord Alex's idea. "Well, in that case, I shall consider it an exchange. Ham and chicken pie, for the benefit of my advice."

"Indeed," Fidelia said approvingly. "Now, enough chitchat. I'm famished even if you're not. Come along."

Hart followed her, bemused, as she led them up a shallow rise to a corner of the grounds sheltered from the wind by a thick laurel hedge, and with a view of the lake. It was a pretty spot. Hart took the blanket she carried over her arm, spreading it on the ground.

"Thank you," she said, lowering herself gracefully to a seated position.

Alex set the basket beside her, and Fidelia busied herself setting out the picnic. She handed Hart a bottle of beer, smiling as he thanked her. Hart watched her with pleasure as she arranged everything to her liking and then set about piling a plate high for him. Her every movement was graceful and her determination to ensure both he and her brother had exactly what they liked, charming. He could see how hard she was trying, doing her best to make amends to her brother and to prove to him, and to Hart, that she was battling against her fate. He supposed almost losing one's life had a way of putting things in perspective. Fidelia wanted her son, but she wanted to live too, and she was willing to fight for the life she wanted. It was hard not to admire her. Life had been unkind to her, and she had fallen into melancholy, but she was fighting back, and he esteemed her fortitude.

They ate, admiring the view, though Hart found his gaze moving back to regard Fidelia more often than he liked. It was hard not to look, though. He was a man who appreciated beauty, who could be moved by the elegance of the landscape, or by the perfection of a single flower, and there was Lady Fidelia. She was a faultless example of aristocratic loveliness, with her English rose complexion and her elegant gown, which probably cost ten times more than one of his men could earn in a year. Not that he begrudged her the gown. It would be foolish to have wealth and not spend it. Cruel too, when so many other trades relied upon supplying the affluent. She had spent her money wisely on this ensemble, he thought, finding his gaze returning to her again. He could not help but wonder what might happen if her brother were not here to play chaperone. Hart was aware of the way she looked at him, the speculative quality of her gaze, and could not help but imagine tumbling her back on the blanket in a flurry of silk and petticoats. In his mind's eye he saw her reaching for him, pulling him down, his hands sliding up her stockinged legs to find the warm silk of her inner thighs and then…

Pack it in, he told himself, aware of a surge of heat beneath his skin and of his body stirring to life. Despite this excellent advice, his gaze returned to her once more. He was only looking, after all. There was no harm in that. If there was one thing he knew, it was not to get involved with aristocratic ladies.

He had, as a younger man, enjoyed the attentions of those high-born women who found him so exciting, but he had soon become heartily sick of being the secret bit of rough, which was how they all seemed to regard him despite his education and carefully learned vowels. Inevitably, he'd played up to it, dressing like a labourer and allowing his old accent to creep back in. They had despised him and wanted him in equal measure, and it had left him feeling adrift, struggling to find his place in this world where he had been raised a gentleman and yet was not a gentleman. And then he had found the thing that had given him solace and joy in equal measure, and he had never looked back.

Now, he dressed as he did because it was practical for his work, not to cause outrage or make a point, and he spoke the way he did because he was a product of his upbringing. His first six years in the workhouse, followed by his upbringing by Minerva and Inigo De Beauvoir, his adopted parents. His mother was a lady born and bred, if an impoverished one, until her cousin Prue had become the Duchess of Bedwin. Minerva had married below her station though, falling in love with another product of the workhouse, Inigo. His adopted father had climbed out of poverty by sheer determination and was a brilliant natural philosopher, regarded as one of the finest minds in the country. Hart was immensely proud of him, and his mother too, who was a forceful voice for women's emancipation. Their drive and ambition, and their unfaltering support and love had shaped Hart, and made him what he was.

So, as much as he admired the picture Fidelia made, he told himself he knew better than to get involved with a high-born lady. Besides, she was far younger than him. If she had not lived so sheltered a life, and if she had not been so alone of late, she wouldn't give him a second glance. She too must know better now than to dally with someone who was unsuitable. He wondered if she would ever marry. Certainly, many gentlemen would shun her for having a child out of wedlock, idiots that they were.

"That was delicious, thank you, my lady," Hart said, shaking his head as she offered him another queen cake. "No, I've had three already. I'll need a nap if I eat more."

"Oh, go on. Just one. It's nice to see a man enjoy his food," she said, looking as though she meant it.

Hart shrugged and took the little cake, popping it into his mouth in one go and chewing with pleasure. They were very good, light and buttery and full of sultanas.

"Show me these plans then, my lord," Hart said, using the napkin beside him to wipe his fingers.

Lord Alex beamed at him and took the plans, shifting around to sit beside Hart. He had created three designs, two of them far simpler than the first he had done, and much smaller.

"These two are very good," Hart said with approval. "I don't like that one. Too fussy. All those tiny panes of glass would cost a fortune. Anyone wanting to pay that much would want something bigger. These two I could consider, though."

"Really," Fidelia said, sounding as excited as her brother. "You would really buy the designs from Alex?"

"Not like this," Hart said with a soft laugh. "I need elevations of each side, drawn to scale. Detailed drawings of every element and every measurement marked clearly. But then, I might consider buying them. They're certainly good enough. I think my clients would buy them."

"Oh, well done, Alex. Didn't I tell you they were good?" Fidelia said to her brother, who was blushing fiercely and looking dreadfully pleased with himself.

"Oh, yes, but you don't know, Lia, and you're my sister, so you would say something nice, but… but if you really think they're good, sir?"

"I do," Hart said. "Said so, didn't I?"

Alex reached for his hand and shook it, his expression one of delight. "Thank you, Mr De Beauvoir. I shall get started on these at once," he added, gathering up his plans and hurrying away.

"Alex!" Fidelia called after him in bemusement. "Well, drat him. He seems to have forgotten about me and the basket," she added with a laugh.

"I'll carry it for you," Hart said, as she gathered the picnic things together and put them away.

"That's kind, but I don't want to interrupt your work," she said, darting a look at him from under her lashes.

"It will only take a moment, the men can survive that long. How are the seeds? You've not drowned them?"

Fidelia grinned at him, and Hart looked away, a little startled as his heart reacted to her delighted expression with an erratic thud. Instead, he concentrated on putting the cork back in the empty beer bottle.

"You've been dying to ask that, haven't you?"

"No," Hart retorted, and then caught the look in her eyes and shrugged. "Well, yes. You mustn't over water them. They'll rot."

She smiled then, a softer look that would have any man with a pulse losing his wits. Hart returned his attention to the basket. "I am taking good care of them, at least I hope I am. I go every day, in the morning and in the late afternoon. There are no signs of life yet, though your sweet peas are growing admirably."

Hart made a sound of approval and got to his feet, offering her his hand. She took it, her small, white-gloved fingers all wrong against his large, work-hardened hands. He let go at once, hoping he'd not dirtied the pristine gloves.

"Take one end, please," she instructed, picking up the blanket and giving it a shake.

Hart did as she asked, helping her to fold it and putting it on top of the basket. "I'll walk you back, then."

"Thank you."

"You ought not to have come," he added.

"Whyever not? It was quite unexceptional with my brother as chaperone."

"Your brother is not here now," Hart pointed out. "And people talk. You've enough trouble. Just don't seek me out. It doesn't take much for rumours to start."

She snorted at that. "They'll talk enough once I claim my son."

"About you, not about me," Hart said, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.

Fidelia paled. "No, of course, I-I didn't think as usual, did I? I beg your pardon. I would not wish to create gossip about you."

Hart cursed, feeling like a brute. "Dammit, I don't give a tinker"s cuss what people say about me, but you need to be careful. Don't give your father any more reasons to confine you to the house, and don't lose me this job, that's all I ask."

She nodded, her expression grave, and Hart wished he'd not chased away her good humour. It had been lovely to see her smile.

"It's all right," he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "I'm not cross. Just be careful, for both our sakes, yes?"

She did smile then, though not so freely as before. "Yes," she said quietly. "I will try to remember. Good day, Mr De Beauvoir, and thank you for what you're doing for my brother. You've given him such a lot of confidence. He admires you a good deal, you know."

Hart nodded, uncomfortable with the praise, but encouraged to think the boy was gaining self-assurance. They walked the rest of the way in silence until the house loomed over them.

"I can manage now," Fidelia said, reaching for the basket. "Thank you again."

"Thank you for the picnic, my lady," Hart said, touching his hat with his fingers respectfully. "Good day to you."

"Good day, sir."

Hart watched her walk away, saw a footman hurry out of the front doors to take the basket from her, and the great doors close as she went inside. He let out a breath, telling himself he was relieved to be out of her presence. Perhaps next time she'd think twice before seeking him out, he thought hopefully, and returned to his work.

"You like Mr De Beauvoir, don't you?"

Fidelia jumped at the question, the pencil she was holding scratching over the paper. "Oh, drat it," she muttered, staring down at the drawing she'd been working on with frustration. "Certainly. He seems a good sort," she said nonchalantly, slanting a look at her brother who had asked the question.

He, too, was drawing, brow furrowed in concentration.

Fidelia rubbed out the mess she'd made and returned her attention to the book she was studying, and one particular illustration: Les liliacees by Pierre Joseph Redoute?. The book was a beautiful volume of botanical illustrations she'd found in her father's library, and she had become enchanted by the pictures. How had she not noticed it before?

"Oh, that's not bad at all, Fidelia," Alex said with approval, coming to look over her shoulder. "Will you paint it?"

"Yes, I'll try," Fidelia said with a nod, giving the drawing a critical once over. "It's a long time since I painted anything, and never anything like this."

"I'm sure Mr De Beauvoir will like it," Alex added ingenuously.

Fidelia blushed, frowning at her brother in consternation. "What makes you think I'm doing it for him?"

"Oh," Alex said, glancing at her in surprise. "Well, I just assumed… but, anyway, it's very pretty."

"Thank you," Fidelia replied, frowning. Mr De Beauvoir was right, she must be more careful. She had been doing the painting for him, but it would not do for people to speculate, even Alex. Only it was so lovely to have a friend, and especially one who knew about her son, that she could feel nothing but warmth and admiration for him. She had wanted to give him something in return for trusting her with the seeds. It was a small thing, obviously, but the gesture had meant a lot to her. No one ever trusted her to do anything.

Since the day she'd been born, everything had been done for her, and she had been told what to do. Of course, the only time she had done anything for herself she had ended up with a baby and no husband, but she would not think of that. Fidelia had learned her lesson, but she would allow no one to dictate to her any longer. If she wanted to be friends with Mr De Beauvoir, then she would be, but she would take far more care this time.

"I think he's a capital fellow," Alex said, sitting back down at his drawing again. "I wish father wasn't such a snob. It would be nice to chat to him over dinner, don't you think?"

Fidelia tried to imagine Mr De Beauvoir at the dinner table with her father, the oppressive atmosphere that always reigned when his grace was home infiltrating everything, even the soup. Food became tasteless when eaten in the Duke of Beresford's presence, if she could even swallow it at all, such was her anxiety in his company.

"No," she said firmly.

"But you enjoyed our picnic with him. I know you did," Alex pressed.

"That was different. Mr De Beauvoir would not be comfortable in Father's company."

"Oh, I don't mean with him here," Alex said scornfully. "But we could invite Mr De Beauvoir, couldn't we?"

Fidelia stared at her brother. It was a tempting idea. Too tempting. She wondered what the man might look like in evening clothes and hurriedly pushed the image away. Too dangerous. He was a friend, that was all, a man who had been kind to her. She'd made enough of a fool of herself by making unwelcome advances to him and he'd made it very clear he wasn't interested.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Alex," she said, squashing the idea before her brother could run away with it. "I doubt very much he has brought evening clothes with him, he's here to work, remember, and father would not like it at all."

"Oh, pooh. Father doesn't like anything or anyone, but we'll never get to do anything if we don't choose for ourselves now and then."

The words were so close to what she'd been thinking herself just moments earlier that Fidelia hesitated.

"I—" she began and then paused, glancing at Alex, at the hopeful light in his eyes.

He had so little company, and so few opportunities to be in the company of an intelligent man, and moreover, one who had values, a deep moral code, and a sense of honour. Those qualities were sorely lacking in the Ponsonby family, certainly in their father and eldest brother. She could already see how much good Mr De Beauvoir's company had done for Alex, and after all, it was only dinner. What was the harm in that? If the duke had been any other man, Mr De Beauvoir would have stayed with them at the house and eaten with them every night.

"I'll think about it," she offered.

Alex grinned at her.

"Jolly good, Lia, I knew I could count on you," he said, beaming as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Fidelia sighed and returned her attention to the beautiful illustration of the tiger lily. A smile touched her lips, and she reached for her paints.