Chapter 8

Dear Lady Fidelia,

It has become the best part of my day to come downstairs and find another letter from you. I am praying you feel the same way about my too frequent correspondence, but it is so lovely to find a friend in whom I am in such complete accord.

You are quite right, of course, Keats is far superior to Byron, whom I always found rather arrogant and little too pleased with himself. Though I suppose he had every right to be, as his work is clever indeed.

You have outdone me with Austen, however; I have only read Pride and Prejudice twice to date. Your enthusiasm has given me the desire to revisit it, though, and so I shall.

You will not believe this, but you are not my only correspondent at present, for I am in regular communication with a cat. No, don't give me up as a lost cause and throw this letter into the fire, I beg you. Indeed, the letters are signed from The Hon'ble Cat Mau, and are directed to the same. Truly! Yes, but of course, I know the actual author of this piece of ridiculousness. Did you ever meet Mr Leo Hunt? He is an amiable lunatic and seems to find great amusement in driving me to distraction. It is his latest torment for me, but I confess I find it dreadfully amusing and I am enjoying writing my replies far too much. I really ought not, for encouraging Mr Hunt in his peculiarities is not advisable, but it is such a dreary time of year, and the letters make me smile. I ought to point out that I have known Mr Hunt since I was in leading strings, and he is practically a brother to me so there is nothing the least bit irregular in our absurd correspondence.

How goes the garden? Have you visited again to see the progress? I confess I had hoped for information regarding our mutual friend. How is Mr De Beauvoir fairing? Do send me news.

With kind regards and amities,

―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 Lady Fidelia Ponsonby.

1st March 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Fidelia laughed at Violetta's confession that she was writing to a cat. Absurd indeed, Fidelia thought with amusement, and a good deal of effort for a fellow to go to simply to tease. She wondered idly if Mr Hunt was in love with Violetta, and if Violetta had the least idea. Fidelia hoped her suspicions were correct and that her friend would not live her days as an old maid. One of them should get a happy ever after, and as it did not appear it would be her, Violetta should have her time in the sun.

They had written almost daily over the past weeks, and Fidelia had quickly come to know her new friend and to appreciate her lively wit and sense of humour. It was a relief to have something to take her mind from her child… and from Mr De Beauvoir, at least for a short while, for neither of them was ever far from her thoughts. The flowers he had sent her from his hothouses were a godsend, and she had worked late into the night, painting them with as much care and skill as she could manage, wanting to make him proud of her, to repay him for yet another kindness to her.

Sighing, she returned her attention to the letter and frowned at Violetta's demands for information about the man himself and the gardens. Fidelia had taken care to stay away from him, not a straightforward task when Alex was constantly haranguing her to walk down to the gardens and see him, or even invite him to dinner again. As if she would dare after the last disaster. Her brother was oblivious to the difficulties, however, and he spent a good deal of time following the poor man around and often took tea with him. Fidelia had tried to tell him to not to be a bother, but Alex said nonchalantly that Hartley was his friend and enjoyed having him about.

Hartley.

Well, she supposed Alex ought not be resented if the man had given him leave to use his first name. Yet a stab of envy struck at her heart, and she scolded herself for it. Alex deserved the attention and friendship of a man who could stand as an example of what a gentleman really was, never mind his background. She ought to be grateful to Mr De Beauvoir.

She was grateful.

Fidelia turned, looking out of the window at a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. It was a lovely morning and quite mild for March. Her heart ached at the realisation another month had passed. Time was moving on while she was stuck here in stasis, waiting for the opportunity she needed to break free.

She wondered if her son was enjoying the sunshine today. She had called him Ambrose, for he'd been so chubby and healthy and beautiful. Had her father at least told whoever had taken him that was his name, the only thing she'd been able to give him before he'd been snatched from her arms? Was he in the care of someone he believed to be his mother? Did she hug him and kiss him and tell him he was the most precious and beloved boy in the entire world? Fidelia blinked hard and told herself not to get maudlin. She would not allow herself to fall into despair again. Patience, Mr De Beauvoir had told her. He had said she was stronger than she realised and told her not to lose heart. So, she would not.

Despite her best intentions, that last evening in his cottage returned to her mind, the soft touch he had laid upon her cheek as he had told her there was no future for them. Fidelia shook her head. It was ridiculous of her to place such emotion on a few words, a few seconds of her life that he had probably already forgotten. Yet the memory lingered, the desire to be in his company again so tantalising it was an ache beneath her skin. She had allowed herself to fall in love with her dear friend, which was as foolish as it had been inevitable. Although their acquaintance had been of short duration, Fidelia felt she knew him better than she knew anyone else in the world, for he was not a mysterious man with secrets and hidden sides. He was simply who he was, just as solid and true as he appeared to be. His presence calmed all her fears and made everything seem possible, and that was why she missed him so profoundly.

The sound of a door slamming, and an impatient bellow of annoyance, had her leaping to her feet, Mr De Beauvoir and the letter momentarily forgotten as her heart thudded wildly.

The duke was home.

"For the love of God, if I must tell you again to mind those bloody plants—" Hart said furiously, sending three of the youngest gardeners scurrying about their business, heads down. "And stand those saplings up. Harris! Harris where the devil…?"

"Yes, sir?" Harris appeared at his elbow so quickly Hart started in surprise.

Scowling, he gestured to the collection of plants and young trees that had arrived that morning from his nurseries. "Get those saplings planted and staked before they snap."

"Yes, sir, at once. Er… Mr De Beauvoir?"

"Yes, what?"

Harris hesitated, somewhat daunted by the tone of his voice, apparently. "I just wondered if… um… if anything was amiss?"

"Amiss?" Hart scowled harder. He did not have time for inane questions. "What do you mean?"

Harris swiped his cap from his head and rubbed the back of his neck, his expression one of anxiety. "I don't rightly know, to be truthful. I only know you've been riding the men hard the past couple of days and it ain't like you."

Hart frowned. "It's the first decent bit of weather we've had. I want to make up for the delays we've had. It's not like I've asked them to do anything I haven't done."

"Oh, it ain't the work, sir," Harris said, looking increasingly ill at ease. "You're fair to work for, sir, it's just… well, you've been a bit—"

"Oh, spit it out, Harris for the love of God," Hart demanded.

"Short-tempered, sir," Harris replied promptly. "A bear with a sore head, you might say."

Hart looked at him in surprise and then considered Harris' words. "Ah," he said, frowning down at his muddy boots.

"No one's said naught to complain," Harris added quickly. "Not in so many words, at least. It's just, despite the bloody awful weather, the fellows have enjoyed working for you and we was… well, to tell the truth, we was a bit worried there was something amiss. Perhaps you weren't pleased about the job or maybe you had something troubling you?"

"Ah," Hart said again, feeling increasingly mortified. "No, no. Nothing amiss," he added hurriedly, appalled that the men had been worried about him.

Harris stared at him, as if he might get a better answer if he looked hard enough.

Hart cleared his throat. "Had a bit of a cold. Headache. Nothing to speak of. Better now, just… just a bit out of sorts."

Harris' face cleared. "Thought as much," he said with relief. "Said it were that or a touch of the colly wobbles. Nothing like a bellyache to put a man out of temper. Good to know, sir. I hope you feel better soon. Why don't you take yourself off for a nice cuppa? We'll carry on as if you were still here, don't you fret."

"Thanks," Hart replied, mentally cursing himself. Lord above, what was up with him? He knew better than to take his bad temper out on his men. And now they were tiptoeing about him in case he bit their heads off. Hell and the devil.

For once, Hart took someone else's advice and removed himself to give the men a break from his vile mood and himself a cup of tea. He stalked back to the cottage, slamming the door behind him and muttering profanities as he stirred the embers of the fire back to life and swung the kettle into place. He stared moodily at the flames as they rose, wondering what had put him so out of sorts. It wasn't like him to get in such a stew. If he was angry, he shouted at the culprit or got on with mending the problem. If he was worried about something, he did what he could to fix the trouble and if he couldn't, he put it out of his mind—mostly. But this… this sense of frustration, of annoyance, of… he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was he was feeling. He shook his head, reaching for the kettle as the water boiled, wondering what the devil was wrong with him, and why were his guts in such a blasted tangle.

Unbidden, Lady Fidelia's face drifted into his mind. That wasn't unusual. Thoughts of her returned to him often during the day and he had become adept at swatting them away like aggravating gnats, pushing them down into some dark corner in the back of his mind, where they wouldn't trouble him. Just like the gnats, they only returned moments later with greater enthusiasm, bothering him constantly, worrying at the edges of his mind. The dreams were worse. Far too vivid, they woke him in the early hours of the morning, his body taut with desire, yearning for something he had no business wanting. By morning he was half-mad with the desire to seek Fidelia out, just to be in her company again.

"Christ," he said, almost scalding himself as he poured boiling water into the teapot. "Bollocks!" he added for good measure, nearly dropping the kettle into the hearth as the truth occurred to him.

He missed her.

Bloody nonsense, he told himself roundly. It wasn't like he'd seen her every day before that night, or as if knew her well, or…

Yet he'd got used to looking out for her, to her popping up when he didn't expect it and making a blasted nuisance of herself. He wanted to know how the seeds were doing, if she had followed the instructions he'd left her in the potting shed, if she was managing or if her spirits were low. He wanted to know if there were any more paintings, if she had liked the flowers he had sent her. A thank you note had arrived, scrupulously polite, but giving him none of the excited chatter he might have expected about which she had liked best, of what she would paint first, and he had seen none of the results of her work. He wondered too, if she had noticed, the last night she had come to the cottage, that the tiger lily she had painted for him was propped on his bedside table.

Hart groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "Pillock," he muttered, tugging at his hair. What the devil was he supposed to do now?

Well, he knew the answer to that well enough.

Go back to work, keep your head down, and stay far, far away from Lady Fidelia.

Fidelia's parlour door flew open, and Alex came in, closing it behind him.

"You heard?" he said.

Fidelia nodded, knowing he'd already had a run in with their father, his jaw was set, his complexion stark white and he looked utterly miserable. Yes, his grace was home.

"Narcissa is with him."

"What?" Fidelia exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "Oh, and he never said a word about her coming. I haven't had her room prepared or done anything for her, the poor girl. How is she? Why hasn't she come to see me? It's been such an age since I last saw her. Has she changed much… Oh, I must go and—"

"You can't see her," Alex said flatly. "She's in disgrace and shut in her room."

Fidelia stared at him. "You're not serious?"

"You think I'd joke about it?" Alex said in disgust.

Fidelia swallowed, hardly daring to ask. Please, please, pleaseGod, don't let Narcissa be in the same troubleas me. "What did she do?"

Alex shook his head. "He gave me no clue, only dire threats of what would happen should I try to speak with her."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Our own sister!" Fidelia said, stalking up and down. "He has no right to treat us this way."

"Tell him that, why don't you?" Alex said sourly.

Fidelia considered this. It occurred to her that something had changed over the past months. She was no longer afraid of her father. Oh, she was afraid of his power over her, of the things he could do if she disobeyed him, but that was something else. Previously, her lack of terror had been simply indifference, for she had been sunk so deep in melancholy that she cared not a whit what he said or did. Now, she simply did not care for him at all, for his opinion of her, for whether he felt pride or shame or anything at all. Any feelings she might once have harboured, perhaps out of duty rather than affection, were dead and gone. She had a child now, and the idea of treating that child as their father treated them filled her with contempt for the man. He was no man, in fact. For all his grand title, he was simply a bully.

Fidelia sat down again, considering. Narcissa was her sister, and she loved her, and if she could help her, she would, but she was an adult, albeit a young one. Ambrose was a child, and he came first. Now was her chance to get her hands on those diaries, and she wasn't about to waste it.

"Where is his grace?" she demanded, feeling strangely calm.

"In his study, where else?" Alex replied, his expression gloomy.

Fidelia nodded and went to him, kissing his cheek. "Ring for tea, love. Cook made scones this morning and you know a cream tea always perks you up."

Alex returned a crooked smile. "All right, sis. You'll have some too?"

Fidelia hesitated. "Yes, but if I'm not back in time, you eat them for me. I know you can manage it," she added, winking at him and hurrying away before he could ask where she was going.

Fidelia went first to her room and tidied her hair, straightening her gown and ensuring she was as neat as a pin. Whilst she did not care for her father's opinion, she would give him no reason to look at her with contempt. Satisfied she was ready to face him, Fidelia went down the stairs and knocked at the study door.

"Come."

Fidelia opened the door upon hearing the curt command and walked in.

"Good afternoon, your grace. We were not expecting you so early as we'd no word from you, and you made no mention that Narcissa would be with you."

"My plans are my own affair," Beresford replied, not looking up from his desk. He was a large man, still in good condition thanks to his love of horses and hunting and his disgust of anything that smacked of self-indulgence. He neither ate nor drank to excess and despised those who did.

"But I have done nothing to prepare for her arrival, and Alex said I might not visit her either, is that necessary? It seems rather pointless. We are her family, after all."

"And a family she appears to hold in as much contempt as you do," her father replied.

He looked up then and Fidelia met his hard gaze. Once a look like that would have made her quail with fear, but no longer. The duke's eyes narrowed, and he sat back in his chair, considering her.

"You're looking well, Fidelia."

"I feel well," she acknowledged.

"What changed?" he demanded, avid curiosity behind the words, for Beresford wanted to know and control everything and everyone and he could not do that if he did not understand their motivation. "You were little more than a wraith when I left you."

Fidelia held his gaze. "I'm tired of fighting an immovable object and making myself wretched over it. I will never forgive you for what you did, but I will not throw my life away because of your actions."

It was the right answer. If she had told him she had accepted his decision, that she knew he had done right by her in taking her child away, he would have known she was lying. But to admit he had won… that he could believe.

His lip curled, a look of disdain in his cold blue eyes. "I've no need for your forgiveness. I acted to protect our family honour, something you forgot when you lifted your skirts for the first man to look in your direction. However, no one else knows you are nothing but a slut at heart. I believe I am in a position to arrange a respectable marriage for you despite the rumours of your ill health and your mental state, but you're getting old, Fidelia, and there is no time to lose."

No. No time to lose, Fidelia agreed, her heart pounding at the news his grace had not given up on the idea of marrying her off. His vile words slid over her, no longer having the power to hurt her, for she had heard them and far worse and now she knew her own worth. Almost losing her life had given her the perspective to reflect upon her own behaviour and that of her father. He was the one who ought to feel shame, not her. Mr De Beauvoir had helped to give her back that certainty. Fidelia was not the wicked and sinful creature the duke painted her as and he could no longer diminish her in her own mind.

"What are you proposing?" she asked, moving to the window and looking out. From here she could see figures in the distance. Mr De Beauvoir's gardeners, hard at work. Was he there too? Though she strained her eyes, she could not make him out.

"That's none of your affair, but you'll need new gowns. You'd best order what you need. I want you looking your best, do you hear? You're Beresford's daughter, I'll not have you shame me again. By God, I'll make you pay if you do."

"Yes, your grace. I shall see to it," she replied serenely, uncaring of what he had in mind, for she had no intention of doing what he wished. Hoping to change the subject, she asked, "Have you seen the work going on in the gardens?"

The duke grunted and got to his feet, moving to the window. "No. Though it looks like they're making a bloody mess."

"The weather has been terrible, the men have worked under awful conditions, but I believe they are making good progress. Perhaps you should visit Mr De Beauvoir and inspect the work while the weather is so nice?" she added, sending a silent plea for forgiveness to Mr De Beauvoir for putting the idea in the duke's head.

"Hmmm. I might, at that," Beresford replied, glancing at the sky. "Yes, why not?"

Fidelia grasped her chance, fighting to appear entirely calm as her heart raced. "Might I stay and write a few letters? I can leave them for you to frank for me then. If you wish for me to be properly attired in time for whatever it is you have in mind, I ought to send for the latest fabric samples and designs."

Her father scowled. He didn't like anyone in his study when he wasn't around. "Oh, if you must, I suppose," he said grudgingly. "I'll only be gone a half hour or so. I just want to see what that cocksure devil is up to down there."

Fidelia nodded and sat down at his desk, wondering how on earth she would get into the locked drawers when inspiration hit. "Oh, your grace," she said, as Beresford strode to the door. "Where might I find the sealing wax and—"

"In the drawers, girl! Where do you think?" he said irritably, looking at her as if she were a halfwit.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, tugging at a drawer she knew full well was locked. She looked up at him in apparent surprise. "But it's locked."

Muttering under his breath, her father withdrew a small set of keys from his pocket and threw them on the desk. "There. Be sure to lock them again once you're done, if you can manage that," he added in disgust.

"Oh, I will be sure to do so," Fidelia said, hiding the satisfied smirk that was bursting to form on her lips as she watched her father leave the room. She waited for the door to close behind him before letting out a little exclamation of joy. Fidelia clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, hardly able to believe she had managed it so easily. With trembling hands, she picked up the keys and promptly dropped them again she was so nervous.

"Hurry, hurry," she told herself, terrified her father might change his mind and come back at any moment. Finally, she wrenched the drawer open and let out a breath of relief as she saw the rows and rows of small, leather-bound diaries. As fast as she could, she selected the one she wanted and thumbed through until she got to the weeks in question. Too terrified to read them there and then, she simply tore the pages out, replaced the diary and locked the desk. Stuffing the pages carefully into her bodice, Fidelia hastily wrote the letters she had told her father she would leave for him for verisimilitude and ran from the room feeling elated. Whether or not the diaries held the information she hoped for, she had struck the first blow in the battle for her independence and her son's place beside her, and she was not about to look back.