Page 21 of A Landscape of Love

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.

Chapter 6

To Lady Fidelia,

I pray you will forgive me for writing to you out of the blue and hope perhaps you remember me. We met some years ago and enjoyed a comfortable chat at one of the Countess of St Clair’s balls. I believe we were both hiding behind a potted palm, hoping we would not need to dance again.

I go little into society, so it has taken me far too long to realise that I have not seen you for a considerable time and to gather the courage to write to you. I understand that you have been unwell these past years and am vexed with myself for not asking after you sooner. I hope you are in better health now and that this dreary month has not worn upon your spirits as it has on mine. I have often thought I should like to pursue what I hoped was the beginnings of a friendship and so now I am taking this opportunity and the excuse of an acquaintance in common.

I believe you have a Mr De Beauvoir designing gardens at Hardacre. His mother and my adopted mama are dear friends, and I know the gentleman and his sister well. I am certain you will be delighted with the design he makes for you, for he is exceptionally talented. Have you ever been to De Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping? It is a marvellous place for a visit and showcases his skills wonderfully.

I hope you will accept the small token I have sent you as a gesture of friendship, and I look forward to continuing our correspondence if you care to do so.

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.

11th February 1850, Hardacre Hall Estate, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

Fidelia stared down at the letter, uncertain of what to feel about it. On the one hand, she was delighted to hear from Miss Spencer. They had indeed enjoyed a very pleasant evening in each other’s company, but then Fidelia had become entangled in her disastrous love affair, and everything had gone horribly wrong. In normal circumstances she would have leapt at the chance to make a friend who had seemed to be in such sympathy with everything that Fidelia felt, both about life and the demands of society. Yet the words I know the gentleman and his sister well sat uncomfortably in Fidelia’s chest.

Not that she was jealous. No. That would be ridiculous, naturally. Mr De Beauvoir was her friend, nothing more, and he was at liberty to have as many friends as he wished. Yet Miss Spencer’s beautiful face swam into focus, her poise and serenity too. She was elegant and immensely talented. She played the pianoforte exceptionally well, and sang too, and… Fidelia looked down at the exquisitely embroidered handkerchief Miss Spencer had sent her and compared it to her own sorry effort on the tambour in her lap. Fidelia had never had much of a hand with a needle. She wondered if the lady could paint, though, and then scolded herself soundly. She and Miss Spencer were likely of the same age, and she must know that Fidelia was still unmarried. Old maids, both of them, she thought bitterly.

Fidelia wondered why Miss Spencer had never married. Surely, she’d had offers enough. Was there some scandal there, of the kind Fidelia had suffered? It was futile to speculate. Perhaps, if Fidelia pursued the friendship, the lady would confide in her. It would be lovely to have a female friend, someone to share confidences with, though no doubt Miss Spencer would run a mile if she ever discovered Fidelia’s secret. Well, she would discover it, and sooner rather than later, if Fidelia got her way and found her son.

Chewing her lip, Fidelia wondered if it would be best not to reply. She had no friends to lose at present, save Mr De Beauvoir, and he already knew her shame. To make a friend of Miss Spencer, only to lose her again and perhaps suffer recriminations too, that would hurt. And what if Miss Spencer and Mr De Beauvoir were more than friends, what if they had an understanding? What if Miss Spencer was writing to Fidelia to gain news of her beloved?

No. Mr De Beauvoir had made it very plain that he had no intention of ever marrying. Fidelia sighed, finding that no comfort at all.

Well, she would reply to the letter. Once she had figured out what to say, at least. She would only mention Mr De Beauvoir in passing, though. Still, it had been kind of Miss Spencer to write, and Fidelia could not slight the woman so cruelly by ignoring that. If Miss Spencer wished to cut all ties once the scandal broke, then so be it. Fidelia was prepared for the worst.

Setting the embroidery aside, for she had quite lost her enthusiasm for it, Fidelia went to her desk and regarded the tiger lily she had painted. If she said so herself, it was rather good. She wondered what Mr De Beauvoir would think of it and daydreamed a little about seeing his stern face softened into a smile, those dark blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. His voice, so deep and usually so gruff, would be gentle with words of praise as he exclaimed over her talent and—

“Lia, ought you be dressing for dinner by now?”

Fidelia gave a little shriek, having been far, far away. She turned to see her brother looking at her with an expression of bemusement. “Lord, sis, you’re mighty jumpy these days.”

“No, I’m not,” Fidelia retorted hotly, wishing her face wasn’t burning.

Alex shook his head and sighed. “Well, get ready in any case. You know how long you take, and I don’t want you to keep Mr De Beauvoir waiting for an age.”