Chapter 5

To the Hon'ble Cat Mau,

Thank you for your letter and your enquiries as to my wellbeing. I am in excellent health and spirits. I hope you too are well, and that Leo is not causing you too much aggravation. He is rather a handful and takes a good deal of looking after so you have my deepest sympathies for the trouble he must cause you. I pray his escapades have not diminished your enjoyment of Goshen Court.

I too, am partial to pheasant, a pity you had to relinquish your trophy, but it's always best not to upset one"s host.

I am glad you think of your time at Trevick with fondness. However, I find my recollection of the tangle you made of my embroidery silks is one of less appreciation. I believe I also made my feelings known to you, regarding the presents. It is unkind and ungentlemanly for a fellow to press his attentions on a lady when she has made her sentiments clear.

I do not enjoy dead mice or rats, and most especially not birds – except for pheasant, providing it is roasted with a wine and mushroom sauce.

Despite all the above, I do think of you fondly, Mau, and hope we meet again one day, providing your manners have improved.

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

10th February 1850, Thistle Cottage, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Hart glowered at his reflection in the small looking glass and sighed. He disliked getting dressed up, but his mother would be displeased with him if he did not go to church on Sunday and it set a poor example to his men. So, he'd put on his Sunday best and even attempted tying a half decent cravat. He stared at it critically. Not half bad, though Ash would have a fit, he thought with amusement. Ashton Anson took such details seriously and had been trying for years with no success to reform Hart's wardrobe and curb his offenses to fashion.

Picking up his gloves and shoving his hat on his head, Hart left the cottage and began the walk to church. It was a lovely bright morning but bitterly cold and he picked up his pace, hoping to keep himself warm. The sound of hooves on the road behind him made him turn to see an elegant equipage coming towards him. Two beautiful greys trotted towards him, stepping high, sunlight glinting on shiny tack as they drew nearer.

Hart stepped to one side to allow the carriage to pass him on the narrow path and was surprised when it came to a stop. The window slid down, and Lord Alex stuck his head out.

"Mr De Beauvoir, here's a lucky thing. Come, get up with us. It's a perishing cold day for walking."

Hart hesitated. It was bitter, but he did not wish to become too familiar with Lord Alex or Lady Fidelia… and yet he could hardly refuse such a kind invitation.

"Thank you," he said, removing his hat and thanking the footman who let down the steps for him.

"Lady Fidelia," he said, nodding a greeting at her.

"Good morning, Mr De Beauvoir, and how smart you look," she said, and then blushed.

Hart hid a smile. He suspected she had not expected him to dress so elegantly, and the sight had surprised her into making a tactless comment. Not that he minded, for he knew she had not meant it with any sly double meaning, inferring perhaps that he was aping his betters.

"Thank you," he said, holding her gaze for the delight of watching her colour deepen.

"We were wondering if you would care to come to dinner with us," she said, blurting the words out so hurriedly Hart wondered if she'd thought about it or had just panicked. Perhaps she believed she'd offended him and wished to make amends.

He opened his mouth to refuse, albeit with as much tact as he could muster, when Alex exclaimed.

"Oh, capital! Yes, Mr De Beauvoir, do come. I told Lia to ask you, but I wasn't sure she would, but now… Please come. We don't stand on ceremony when his grace isn't home, you know. It will be quite comfortable, just the three of us."

That's what I'm worried about, Hart thought, groaning inwardly, but he could hardly say so.

"Please come," Alex pressed, looking so crestfallen at the suspicion he was about to receive a refusal that Hart wasn't sure he could bring himself to do it.

"We would be so happy if you would come," Lady Fidelia added, her voice soft. "We get very little company."

She glanced at him and away again and Hart sighed. There was no escape.

"I would be glad to come," he lied, wishing fervently he'd left the house five minutes later.

"Wonderful!" Alex said, beaming at him. "Shall we say tomorrow night? Mondays are always such dreary days; it will be nice to have something to look forward to."

"Certainly," Hart said, amused and rather touched by the lad finding his company something to brighten the day. Still, from what he could tell, Hardacre was not a place that welcomed visitors. There were no parties, no entertainments apart from occasional shooting parties. He doubted either Fidelia or Alex enjoyed such events.

Rather to his relief, they arrived at church and the carriage stopped. Alex got down first, leaving Hart to hand down his sister. Her gloved fingers clasped his lightly as she stepped carefully down, and Hart was left with no choice but to offer her his arm.

"Thank you," she said, smiling up at him.

His heart gave a hard thud behind his ribs as he saw the way she looked at him, trusting and happy to be in his company. Nonsense, he told himself. Stop being idiotic. Yet he could not tear his eyes from her. Perhaps it was today's outfit, a fawn-coloured silk redingote that fitted so tightly about her waist, Hart wondered if he could span it with his hands. Her blonde hair was once again in a neat coil at the base of her neck, and a pretty bonnet adorned with white silk roses framed her lovely face. He was not the only one to notice her. Everyone greeted her with pleasure as he led her through the gathering congregation, and he saw many a man's eye turned towards her with admiration.

Alex found them again as Hart led her to the front bench, reserved for the duke and his family. "I hope you enjoy the service," Hart said once she was settled and was about to make his escape when Alex asked him to sit with them.

"No," Hart said firmly, shaking his head. "That would not be proper."

"Oh, well, wait for us afterwards, won't you?" Lord Alex demanded, giving Hart little choice but to agree.

He inclined his head in acceptance of this scheme and went to find a pew at the back of the church.

The vicar was a fire and brimstone merchant, the sanctimonious, judgemental and hypocritical sort of Christian that Hart particularly disliked. Where was forgiveness, the commandment to love thy neighbour and throw no stones? It was missing in this morning's diatribe, which made Hart increasingly agitated as the vicar's voice rose. He was in fine form, attacking women who strayed from the righteous path and illustrating how these poor creatures ended in misery and eventually, burning in hell to atone for their sins.

The desire to get to his feet, take Lady Fidelia's hand and drag her outside became harder to ignore as the vicar warmed to his subject. Hart wondered how she was faring, enduring such vile comments which would be aimed at her if anyone here knew her secret. He hoped she knew he did not judge her or think badly of her. Perhaps knowing that she had an ally here would help her get through the interminable rant.

Finally, it ended, and he did not think he was the only one who let out a sigh of relief. He left the church, taking in a deep breath of clean, cold air to dispel the tightness in his chest. Waiting by the lychgate, he watched for Lady Fidelia, relieved when he saw her walking towards him. She was pale, her soft mouth set in a tight line, but outwardly she appeared composed.

Wordlessly, Hart placed her hand on his arm and she clung tightly to him.

"Where's your brother?"

Fidelia shook her head and Hart observed her eyes glittering too brightly. He could not have her breaking down in front of everyone. Deciding that Alex could catch them up, Hart walked her straight past the carriage and along the road that led back to the house.

"A good walk will put some colour back into your cheeks," he said.

Fidelia said nothing, just followed him, clinging tightly to his arm. Hart moderated his steps so she could keep up, but maintained a brisk pace until they were out of sight of the church. He slowed then, glancing down at her.

"Don't you heed a bloody word that was said in there," he growled furiously. "Sanctimonious bastard," he added for good measure.

Fidelia made a hiccoughing sound, and he looked down to find pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle her shocked laughter. She composed herself, dashing a tear from her cheek with her hand. "Thank you," she said, looking both amused and appalled by his terrible language and yet relieved too. "You always know just what to say to make me feel better. He… He made me feel so… so very wicked and—"

"Stuff," Hart said fiercely. "You made a mistake. It's the fellow who took advantage of your innocence and your trust who ought to have a sermon preached at him. He's the one who ought to face the fiery inferno, and any God I believe in would only pity you for the suffering you've been caused, and so I shall tell that miserable old devil if you wish me to."

"Indeed, I do not but… but you don't think I shall go to hell, then?"

Hart turned to her in outrage, seeing the fear in her eyes and furious that this beautiful girl who had likely never done or said anything wicked in her entire life should fear such a fate.

"Don't be an idiot," he said frankly.

She gave a startled laugh, and he patted her hand.

"Of course you're not going to hell," he said, his voice milder this time, but no less sincere. "You're a good person who made a mistake. God doesn't send such people to hell. You're quite safe."

"How kind you are," she said, gazing up at him with a soft look in her eyes.

"I'm not," he said. "I just can't abide hypocrites."

"Well, I think you are kind, and quite the nicest man I have ever met. I am so glad to count you a friend, Mr De Beauvoir. I—I may consider you a friend?" she queried, hesitant in the light of the scowl on Hart's face.

He rearranged his features, wishing fervently he had not gone to church that morning, except then Fidelia would have been alone and there would have been no one to reassure her that she was not wicked and would not go to hell.

"Of course," he said, wondering what the devil he was playing at. He was supposed to be staying as far from her as he could get, and now they were friends.Bloody marvellous.

"And you will come to dinner tomorrow night?"

Hart suppressed a sigh. Hell and the devil. "I will," he agreed, wondering just how much worse he could make the situation in one evening.

They turned as the carriage drew up beside them and Alex's head appeared in the window. "There you are! Well, hop in then, Lia, your nose is turning red from the cold."

Sending her brother a less than affectionate look of exasperation, Fidelia allowed Hart to help her into the carriage before he closed the door firmly.

"Are you not coming with us?" Alex demanded through the window.

"No, I'll walk, thanks all the same."

"Oh, very well, but we'll see you tomorrow. Country hours, remember. Don't be late!"

Hart watched the carriage roll away, back to the grandeur of Hardacre Hall, and cursed under his breath.

"Bloody, buggering hell," he muttered, and strode back to the cottage where he hung up his suit and put on a pair of well-worn moleskin trousers, a thick brushed cotton shirt and wool waistcoat, and tied a kerchief about his neck.

Feeling far more comfortable, he went to the kitchen and to the stew he'd set to simmer early that morning. Though he got most of his meals sent from the big house, he could fend for himself. He wasn't much of a cook, but he knew some basic recipes and he made a good stew. The smell of the rich gravy and the pleasant herby scent of the wild thyme he'd found and added made his belly grumble and he swung the pan of potatoes over the fire to boil.

An hour later, replete and content to leave the washing up, Hart settled himself down beside the fire with a glass of burgundy and the Gardener's Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette, which he still hadn't finished reading. It seemed he wouldn't finish it today either, as Fidelia's beautiful face kept intruding into his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to banish it. He felt a swell of anger, directed at anyone who made her feel she was damaged goods, a fallen woman, and at her, for making him care. He didn't need her problems upon his shoulders, and yet she needed someone, and God knew she had no one else. Her brother seemed a nice lad, but he was little more than a boy. She was alone with her worries and cares, and he was the only one who knew it.

"She'll bring you trouble, Hart, my lad," he told himself, but despite knowing it was the truth, there was damn all he could do about it.