Page 16 of A Landscape of Love

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.