Page 29 of A Landscape of Love

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.