Page 3 of A Landscape of Love

“You promise?” she repeated with a catch in her voice, a soft breath of laughter following the words. He thought perhaps there were tears in her eyes.

Before Hart could make any reply, she turned and walked away again. Hart watched her go. There was something so sorrowful about her she made his heart ache, made him want to go to her and ensure she was safe, to discover what made her so unhappy. Fool, he told himself crossly. She was trouble in every sense of the word, and if he had a mite of sense, he’d keep clear of her. He wished she would stay away from the garden, from him. It disturbed him to see her wandering at all hours of the day, in all weathers and looking like a tragic heroine. Surely her family ought to do something? Perhaps he should speak to her father? Remembering how cold and hard the duke was, Hart dismissed this notion at once. More likely it would stir up trouble all around if he poked his nose in. No doubt she was an excessively romantic soul and enjoying reading tragic love stories and acting like the doomed females that seemed to inhabit such tales. He remembered his sister complaining about just such a female when she had been out, always swooning and bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Besides, it was not his affair, he reminded himself sternly, and went back to work.

It was late in the day, with the light fading rapidly, when he saw her next. It had been threatening rain all afternoon and now the lowering sky had fulfilled its promise. Hart had set the men to tidying up and putting away their tools when some instinct had made him glance up at the horizon.

She was standing on the stone jetty that thrust out several yards into the lake, staring down at the dark water. Her cloak billowed behind her, her bonnet hanging loose about her neck. Much of her hair had escaped its pins and the effect of her silhouetted against the troubled sky behind her was eerie and disturbing.

“Damn the woman,” Hart muttered irritably, not wanting to worry over someone he had no business being anxious about. Yet the rain was coming down harder and she’d catch her death if she didn’t go in now. The way she stood staring down into the water bothered him too, once more raising the hairs on the back of his neck, as though she thought the murky depths held the answer to some unspoken question.

Annoyed as much as he was concerned, Hart strode towards her. The rain was freezing, and he wanted to go back to the cottage and have his tea, not play silly beggars chasing some aristocratic chit about the lake in the dark. Yet someone ought to look out for her.

“Lady Fidelia!” he called, the wind whipping the sound of his voice away as he hurried towards her. She didn’t look up. Cursing under his breath, he broke into a run. “Lady Fidelia!”

That time she heard him, her head snapping around as she saw him and Hart ground to a halt as she took to her heels and fled. Damnation. For all he knew, she’d run straight to her father and tell him Hart had been chasing her. Well, that would serve him right. Mind your own bloody business, he told himself furiously, and that certainly excluded Lady Fidelia. Watching until she was out of sight, he turned and made his way back to his lodgings.

The cottage was small, and Hart did not doubt that Beresford had considered it a slight when he’d offered it to him. The miserable old devil would have been disappointed to discover that Hart thought it extremely cosy. An hour later and he had changed into dry clothes and was feeling remarkably content with his day’s work and the snug little cottage. Far better than the gloomy mausoleum the duke and his family inhabited.

“A damn sight easier to heat, for one thing,” he muttered to himself with a snort, stretching out his legs to rest his feet on the fender.

His toes had almost thawed out and his belly had quit complaining that he’d skipped lunch now he’d stuffed himself full of eggs and bacon and fried bread. His mother, who seemed to think he was barely out of short trousers, insisted on sending food parcels, much to his embarrassment, but it meant he was never short on cakes or biscuits either. So now he sat with a large mug of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits balanced on his stomach, feeling quite satisfied. Except that the wind was howling past the front door, and he kept remembering the picture of Lady Fidelia standing on the jetty.

He had gone so far as to ask Harris if he knew anything about the family, careful to sidestep around asking about Fidelia directly. Harris had told him a dozen stories about the duke and his heir, which painted a picture of a pitiless father and a vile wastrel of a son. Hardly a surprise, and no doubt such a callous parent had done damage enough to the tender sensibilities of a gentle daughter. The idea worked on his protective instincts, which had always been keen, too aware of the dangers of the world to take them for granted. Much as he hated to admit it, he worried for her, worried that no one was taking notice of how sunk in melancholy she was. She needed friends if her family had no time for her, people to give her mind a new focus and show her there was still happiness to be found in the world.

“Keep your great nose out of it,” he told himself sternly, before finishing his tea and biscuits and taking himself off to bed.

The next morning, Hart had hardly set foot on site when a message arrived from the duke, demanding he come to the house. A sense of gloom settled over him when he remembered the way Lady Fidelia had run from him, and he wondered if he’d ruined everything before he’d even begun. Telling himself not to borrow trouble, he made his way to the house and was directed to the breakfast parlour by yet another condescending footman.

The duke was tucking in to a rare slice of sirloin, blood pooling over the plate, a mug of ale at his elbow, when the footman announced Hart’s arrival. Despite knowing better, Hart’s gaze immediately sought the beautiful women who he had worried over so much of late. Lady Fidelia was present, in body if not in spirit, for she was gazing out of the window and appeared not to have touched the single piece of toast growing cold on her plate. A boy, just on the cusp of adulthood, sat opposite her, his likeness so dramatic that he had to be her younger brother. The children must take after their mother, for the duke’s features were large and harsh, far removed from the fine-boned fairness of these two. The lad darted Hart a look as he came in, glanced at his father, and ducked his head once more, concentrating on a plate of sausages with quiet intensity.

“Ah, De Beauvoir. Good,” the duke said, not pausing his breakfast or offering Hart a seat. “I want a glasshouse.”

Hart, becoming used to the duke’s abrupt demands, merely nodded. “For what purpose, your grace?”

“What purpose?” Beresford repeated, as though this was a daft question. “For putting plants in, obviously.”

“I think what Mr De Beauvoir is asking is what kind of plants, your grace,” his son said gravely. “Do you mean to add to the kitchen garden, and produce exotic fruits, or hot-house flowers? An orchid house, perhaps, or a palm house or—”

“Shut your damn mouth. I’ll ask if I want your opinion,” Beresford growled, glaring furiously at his son.

The young man turned scarlet and returned doggedly to his breakfast. Hart gritted his teeth. He’d guessed the duke bullied everyone in his household, but it was one thing to know it, another to see it in action.

“I want something fancy. Paxton built that great conservatory at Chatsworth, now there’s the Crystal Palace, a monstrous great thing they’re putting up. Well, I want something here.”

Hart rubbed the back of his neck. Whilst the duke’s whims were those of a spoiled child wanting what his friends had, he could not deny it was a fabulous opportunity for him. He’d never thought to have the chance to design something of the sort for a client.

At his place of work, de Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping, Hart had built a long glass conservatory with an enormous fountain at the end, enclosed by a high domed glass ceiling. This was a place not only to buy the latest and most fashionable plants recently imported, to buy statuary or engage a designer to create something lovely, but somewhere to pass a pleasant hour among the glorious flower displays. He’d built several glasshouses too, including a beautiful orchid house, but he suspected nothing on the scale of what the duke had in mind. Now the glass tax had been repealed, however, such buildings were becoming more sought after. He had even considered designing a range of standardised glass houses for those wishing to mimic the efforts of the upper classes, but on a far smaller budget.

“Would you be looking to display orchids, then, or create a palm house?” Hart asked, giving the duke’s son a surreptitious wink as the boy dared a glance at him. His young lordship hid a smile and ducked his head once more.

The duke waved a hand, intent on his sirloin. “I leave that to you. I want something magnificent. That’s all.”

“Very good, your grace. I will come up with some plans for you.”

The duke nodded, reaching for his mug of ale, and catching sight of his daughter.

“Fidelia! For the love of God, stop staring out of the bloody window. Mr De Beauvoir will think you’re a blessed half-wit,” the duke barked, and with such a burst of anger, even Hart started in surprise.

Fidelia didn’t so much as blink.