Chapter 7

To Miss Spencer,

What a lovely surprise to hear from you.

I am quite recovered, I thank you and consider myself honoured you remember me so fondly – as I do you, might I add. I promise you needed no excuse to contact me, especially when your letter was accompanied by such a beautiful gift. How clever you are. Your skill with a needle puts my meagre talents quite in the shade.

Mr De Beauvoir is indeed hard at work here, having designed a beautiful garden for us at Hardacre. I am afraid I have not yet seen the plans – my father does not invite my interest in what he considers outside of my purview – but I am looking forward to doing so. I confess it is rather hard to see beyond the muddy mess at present, but Mr De Beauvoir has promised me it will be beautiful, so what else can I do but believe him? He spoke most warmly of you and your family when I mentioned you at dinner last night and sends his regards.

I have never visited De Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping, but I will certainly make a point of doing so in the future.

Do please write again, it was so lovely to receive such an unexpected letter. I do not have many friends and there is little society to be had at Hardacre. I welcome your friendship with gratitude and the happy expectation of further correspondence.

With kind regards and amities,

―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 Lady Fidelia Ponsonby.

15th February 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Hart had not seen so much of a glimpse of Fidelia since the night he'd dined with them at the house. This was hardly surprising, considering the turn the weather had taken. The temperature had plummeted, and rain fell ceaselessly, turning the ground into a quagmire and the men's spirits sour. It was impossible to keep warm. Icy droplets fell from Hart's hat and funnelled down the back of his neck. His clothes were damp practically within the first half an hour of setting foot outside and remained that way the entire day. Half the men were showing signs of going down with coughs and colds, and he did not doubt the other half would follow. It was utterly miserable. Taking pity on the wretched-looking sodden gardeners, Hart called a halt to the day a little earlier than usual and told them to go home and get dry. He'd have no workforce at all if they all went down with bloody pneumonia.

With visions of a hot mug of tea and a seat by the fire dancing enticingly in his mind, Hart was halfway to the cottage when he heard hoofbeats thudding behind him. Turning, he saw Lord Alex and halted as the lad cantered up to him.

"Have you seen Fidelia?" the boy asked, his face creased with concern.

"No?" Hart replied as unease slid beneath his skin. "Why? What's happened?"

"I don't know," Alex replied, looking bewildered. "I got a letter from Father saying he'd be away longer than he expected, at least another week, perhaps more, and she went into a rage. Well, I know he is selfish and all the other things she said, but I don't understand why that should send her into such a pelter. Why does she want him back? That's what I don't understand. It's far nicer without him here."

"She's not at the house?" Hart demanded, understanding why Fidelia had lost her temper. She'd been so patient, waiting to discover the contents of her father's diary, and now she must wait longer still.

Alex shook his head. "She went for a walk, though I tried to stop her, but that was two hours ago. She'll be frozen to the bone by now."

"Damnation," Hart muttered, as angry with her as he was concerned. "Where have you checked?"

"All her usual haunts. I've been all the way around the lake, too. She's not there."

"Right, I'll look for her. You go back to the house. You're wet through."

"So are you," Alex said indignantly.

"I'll find her, Alex. Go home."

Scowling but giving way under the weight of the stare Hart shot him, Alex turned his horse and cantered away, back towards the house.

With a sigh of relief, Hart walked on. He had a fair idea of where Fidelia might have gone, and he didn't want Alex there if he was right.

As the cottage came into sight, he saw the faint glow of lamplight from one window and the tension singing through him eased a little. Well, at least she was safe, but what the devil was he to do with her now?

Hart paused on the threshold to undo his sodden gaiters and unlaced his boots with frozen fingers. He stepped inside, hanging up his hat and coat where they dripped sullenly onto the stone flagstones.

The small figure huddled in front of a meagre fire looked up as he closed the door behind him. It sent an odd sensation through him, seeing her there, waiting for him.

"I lit the fire," she said, a slightly defiant note to the words.

He bit back a smile, wondering if she'd ever done such a thing in her life before.

"So, I see, but you need to feed it if you want to get warm."

Hart went to the hearth and crouched down, stirring the coals to encourage them to burn hotter and adding several more scoops. By the look of her, she was soaked. Once the fire was blazing merrily, he turned back to her, his expression bland.

"You ought not be here," he pointed out, as much for his own benefit as hers. The knowledge that she had come to him made dangerous emotions he had no business feeling burn hotter. A sudden shaft of resentment struck at him, for she was stirring him up to burn hotter too, making him feel things he had no wish to feel.

"I went to look at the seeds," she said. "They've come up. I wanted to tell you. I don't know what to do with them now."

As excuses went, it was a poor one. "They'll need pricking out soon and potting on into bigger pots. They'll do for a few days yet, though."

"You'll show me how?"

Hart nodded. "I will." He turned back to the fire, checked the kettle was full, and swung it over the flames. "Alex was looking for you. He's worried sick, and rightly so, it seems. You'll catch your death, walking about in this weather and getting wet through. What were you thinking?"

"I told you, checking on the seeds," she said irritably. "I promised not to kill them, remember?"

"So, you did, but I don't remember asking you to contract lung fever in the process. Look at you, as sodden as a drowned rat. Do you expect me to dry you off again?" he asked, his own temper warming now as he realised he was worried for her, that he would continue worrying if she had caught a chill, damn her.

Her cheeks flushed, whether with temper or embarrassment, he was not entirely sure. But what was he to do with her? She was cold and wet, but she needed to be anywhere else but here with him, alone. The temptation to get her out of her wet clothes and into his bed was so delicious he was struggling to fight it. It wasn't as if she was a virgin. The turn of his thoughts made him angrier still, and as furious with himself as much as her. He sorely regretted sending Alex away now, for all his sister's behaviour might have shocked the boy. Yet he could hardly throw her out into the rain again.

She got to her feet, her saturated skirts hampering her movements and almost pulling her down again. Rising by holding onto the arm of the chair and hauling herself up, Fidelia glared at him. "I beg your pardon for the inconvenience. I'll go at once. Good evening, Mr—"

She'd taken two steps before Hart grasped her arm.

"Don't play the martyr, we both know you're not going out in this weather when you're already drenched," he said in frustration. "What the devil are you playing at, my lady, coming here? Are you trying to start people talking about us?"

The flash of anger and pride subsided as quickly as it had arrived, and she looked away from him. "I don't know why I came. I wasn't thinking clearly, I suppose. I… I was so angry when I left the house, and I walked for a while to calm down, but then I got cold, and I went to check on the seeds."

She smiled then, and Hart told himself not to let the warmth of her expression soften his rightful annoyance with her, but it was hard when all he could think of was pressing his mouth against those plush lips.

"They're growing," she said, her eyes shining with delight. "I was so utterly wretched when I got there, so very disappointed and then I saw them growing and it was like—" She laughed then, throwing up her hands. "Like a sign from God not to lose hope."

Despite himself, he smiled. "Then you'd best heed the sign, had you not?"

She shrugged, her expression hard to read now. "Perhaps, but then I came to tell you, and, on the way, it rained harder and harder, and I was frozen to the bone and… and by the time I got here, I felt foolish."

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her head bowed. Though he knew better, Hart stepped closer and put his finger beneath her chin, raising it. "Your father will not be gone forever. A few more days, a week, it changes nothing."

"But it does!" she cried, such passion behind the words, her eyes flashing, that his breath caught. "My son is without his mother for those few more days, for that week. Years have passed, and he is growing up not knowing who I am, if I ever loved or wanted him. How do I know he is being cared for? How do I know he's happy, well fed, that he's even alive?"

She burst into tears and Hart pulled her against him, for what other choice was there? Her arms went around him, her hands fisted in the fabric at the back of his waistcoat.

She sobbed uncontrollably for a while as Hart rubbed slow circles on her back. Lord, but she was slender, her slim frame fitting into his embrace with ease. Once again, the scent of violets drifted from her damp hair, teasing his senses, tempting him. If he took her to his bed, he could chase away such feelings of sorrow, at least for a little while. He could stop her feeling so very alone… but then what?

Her sobbing calmed and she let go of his waistcoat. Hart felt her hands lay flat against the small of his back. They seemed to burn through the fabric of his waistcoat, making him want things he could not have. He put his hands to her shoulders, pushing her gently, but firmly, away.

"That's better," he said, his tone still kind but stern too.

"I beg your pardon," she said, avoiding his eye and accepting the handkerchief he gave her.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and Hart wondered how she could stand there, looking like a drowned cat, with a red nose and puffy eyes, and still be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He had missed her, he realised, missed the woman he was coming to know. She was revealing herself to him a little at a time, her care for her brother, for the seeds, her determination to find her son, even her newfound skill for painting. Each revelation drew him deeper into her world and made it increasingly difficult for him to resist the pull. Unsettled by the thought, his next words were cool.

"You'd best go into the bedroom and take those wet things off. I suppose you remember where it is," he added, which was unkind, but he was annoyed now and not feeling terribly gentlemanly.

Fidelia put her chin up, and there was the duke's daughter again, haughty and imperturbable.

"I do not wish to put you to any trouble. If you will give me my cloak, I am quite capable of walking home."

"If you didn't want to put me to any trouble, you'd not be here," he shot back, aggrieved by frustration and regret and baulked lust. "But as you are, I'll thank you not to go getting pneumonia and laying the blame at my door."

"Oh! As if I would," she exclaimed, incensed by the accusation.

"There are clean shirts in the drawer, and you can take the cover off the bed. I'll go to the house and tell your brother you're here. We'll say you twisted your ankle, and I found you. He can send your maid with the carriage to collect you."

"You're just as wet and cold as I am," she said, folding her arms. "You ought not go out again in this weather. I'll thank you not to contract a lung fever on my behalf and lay the blame at my door."

"I'm never ill," Hart replied, terse now, though secretly rather amused by her sally.

"Oh, because you're a big, powerful man and nothing gets in your way, not even a cold," she said in disgust.

Hart threw up his hands. "Now you're just being silly."

"Silly?" Her eyes blazed, and she looked like she would throw something at him if she could lay her hands on a suitable object. Hart scanned the cottage, taking note of possible missiles. "Oh, if I had a farthing for every time a man has told me I'm being silly, I'd be a wealthy woman in my own right!"

Hart suspected that was something of an exaggeration, but wisely held his tongue. He got the point.

"A poor choice of words then," he allowed. "But the fact is, I'm used to working in all weathers, to being cold and wet. You are not. Besides which, your brother will be frantic if you don't arrive soon. Now, get out of those wet clothes at once. I'll make you tea and leave it by the fire. I'll send your maid back for you shortly."

"As you command." Her reply was chilly and curt, and Hart watched her go, letting out a breath of relief as the bedroom door closed behind her. All he had to do now was resist the urge to follow.

Muttering curses, he readied the tea things and found the parcel of crumpets his mother had sent. He stabbed a fork through one of them with rather more force than was required and held it close to the flames while he waited for the kettle to boil. Once he'd toasted four crumpets and slathered them with generous amounts of butter and jam, he made the tea and left everything to keep warm in front of the fire.

His coat was cold and damp and Hart grimaced as he shrugged it back on and reached for his boots. Despite telling it sternly to behave itself, his mind drifted to the bedroom door and what was going on behind it, imagining the soft flutter of petticoats falling in a heap of lacy femininity beside his bed, those pretty ankles revealed, and long, slender legs and… and he slammed the door hard on the images forming in his mind. That way lay madness and the destruction of all his ambitions. Lady Fidelia was a distraction he did not need, a temptation to reach for something that was never meant to be his. She was not his responsibility, nor did he wish for her to be, he reminded himself fiercely. He'd help her where he could, as he would anyone who came to him in need, but that was all.

Squaring his shoulders against the blast of cold that swept in as he opened the cottage door, Hart thrust his hat on his head and walked out into the rain once more.

"Mr De Beauvoir?" Fidelia clutched the blanket around herself and peered around the bedroom door. With a sigh of regret, she realised he'd done as he'd said and gone to the house. The poor man. He'd been working outside all day in this filthy weather, and now he must trudge all the way back to the Hall on her behalf. Guilt settled in her stomach, and she wished she'd not acted so foolishly. She had never considered herself frivolous or silly, but her behaviour of late did her little credit. Seeing herself through Mr De Beauvoir's eyes, she understood too well why he might think her a spoiled, selfish creature, of the kind she had encountered all too often during her time in society.

Padding into the main room of the cottage, she smiled as she saw the tea things laid out for her. The large, steaming mug of tea held liquid of a deep golden brown, far stronger than anything she usually drank. Fidelia lifted it carefully and took a tentative sip. It was heavily laced with sugar and made her sigh with pleasure as warmth puddled in her stomach. Perking up somewhat, she reached for the crumpets, touched that he had troubled to toast and prepare them for her. He probably thought her incapable of such minor exertions. She bit into one, exclaiming as butter dripped down her chin. Fidelia licked her fingers, amused to think how unladylike she must appear as she settled into the chair, the plate balanced on her lap, the huge mug in one hand, a crumpet in the other. Both were utterly delicious.

Munching on crumpets and sipping tea from the mug, she reflected upon her row with Mr De Beauvoir. He'd been furious with her, and rightfully so. She had no business throwing herself at him in such a manner, and anyone else would certainly interpret it that way. Yet in that moment in the potting shed, seeing the first little green shoots, so tiny and fragile having pushed their way through the soil, she had needed to share the minor triumph with him. She smiled ruefully, for it seemed daft now, sillier still as the driving rain and cold had quickly extinguished her joy on the horrid walk to his cottage. All her previous frustration with her father, with herself, with life, had fallen heavily upon her, and by the time she'd reached the cottage she was dripping wet and miserable, and she had needed to see him more than ever.

That was the crux of the matter, she realised. She had wanted him. Fidelia had been unhappy and alone and she had wanted to turn to her friend for comfort. She had wanted to feel his arms go around her, to hear him tell her it would be all right in those gruff tones she found so reassuring. So, she had come to his cottage, alone, despite knowing it was wrong, despite knowing the trouble that could erupt if anyone saw her. Not that she had considered that. Fidelia had not gone out of her way to cause him trouble, she had simply not thought at all, not past the need to be with him.

"Oh, Fidelia, you fool," she told herself, staring at the fire he had made for her. She had watched his big hands as he'd stirred the embers and added more coal, while his nearness had added more fuel to the feelings bursting inside her. Like the seedlings, and despite their fragile nature, they had broken through the ice and misery of the past years. Though she had not recognised them as such, they had given her hope, and yet she realised now she was riding for another fall. He did not want her any more than the father of her child had wanted her. What was wrong with her, that the men she chose rejected her?

Fidelia gazed down at the empty plate, a hollow feeling opening up inside her despite the crumpets she'd eaten.

The door banged, a gust of cold air swirling in before it closed again, and she recognised the soft cursing as belonging to Mr De Beauvoir.

Fidelia got to her feet, clutching the blanket around herself.

"I spoke to your brother. He's sending your maid in the carriage. Just remember to limp and keep off your feet for a day or two," he said, setting his muddy boots down on a piece of newspaper left out for the purpose.

How practical he was.

"I will," she said, too embarrassed to hold his gaze but noticing he was sopping wet. "You should go and get some dry clothes on. I'm terribly sorry for the trouble I've caused you, Mr De Beauvoir. You may rest assured I will not trouble you again."

He paused in the act of hanging up his coat to send her a curious glance, his eyes narrowed. Fidelia looked away and turned back to the fire.

"What's this?" he demanded, and she felt his presence close behind her, could smell the cold air and rain emanating from him. "Why so meek? You were ready enough to cross swords with me before I left. What's happened?"

"Nothing. Only I troubled to consider my behaviour, my… my real reasons for coming here. I only wonder that you didn't throw me out at once. You ought to have done, you know. Your kindness will get you into trouble one of these days."

"How's that?"

She gave a soft laugh, staring at the fire. "Some foolish woman might mistake your kindness for something else, despite being told very clearly that you did not want her, that you had no interest in her past doing your duty as a good man."

There was a silence that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

"Fidelia," he said, his voice gentle. Fidelia. Not my lady, not Lady Fidelia.

She turned then, gazing up at him, but though his expression was filled with tenderness, there was resolution in his eyes.

"I told you plain, I shall never marry. I'm married to my work. I'm up at dawn and work all hours, and every day. I've never wished for a wife and children, for that kind of life, but… but you are the first woman who ever made me question that, even for a moment." He reached out and touched an icy finger to her cheek, stroking it softly. "Any man with an ounce of sense would be proud to court you, to be the one to give you and your son the home you deserve. You deserve to be happy, you deserve everything wonderful in life, but I cannot give you the life you want. You are far beyond my touch, love, and you'd regret lowering yourself if I was fool enough to let you do it."

Fidelia swallowed hard, her eyes burning. He's only being kind, she told herself, letting her down gently. Yet she wished he had just told her he didn't want her. The possibility that those words were true, that there were feelings on his side too, only made his rejection harder to bear. But bear it, she would. She'd already made a fool of herself over a bad man who had used her and set her aside, she would not cause trouble for a good man who had rejected her for the right reasons. So she nodded, gathering every ounce of resolution and forcing the words out, relieved that she could speak at all.

"I understand, and I thank you for your kindness to me. I-I shall never forget it."

He nodded and turned to the window. "I think that's the carriage. You'd best go into the bedroom and lay down. Don't forget your ankle is twisted. I'll wait outside the front door so there's no impropriety." He said this last with a wry smile and then hesitated before reaching for her hand. His cold fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed. "You're stronger than you realise, Fidelia. Don't lose heart now."

And then he walked away.