Page 5 of A Landscape of Love

“Capital,” the young man said, beaming now. “I’ll be there. At five. At the cottage.”

Hart nodded and went back to his work, amused at having been sought out, until he considered the duke would certainly not have given the boy’s plans the time of day. More likely he’d have cast them into the fire with some scathing comment, judging by that little scene in the breakfast parlour. Did anyone take an interest in the lad, or in Fidelia’s obvious melancholy? Hart considered his own parents, the upbringing he’d received from the age of six when they’d rescued him from the horrific conditions in the workhouse that he tried very hard not to remember. They’d lavished him with all the love and attention any child could possibly want, and taken an interest in everything he’d done, from the first dreadful scrawls of drawing and writing to his more recent success. They had been there every step of the way, cheering him on. He’d always known how fortunate he’d been and had worked every hour of every day to prove himself worthy of that good fortune.

Set against the landscape of this family’s obvious misery, his luck seemed mighty indeed.

The day passed quickly, and Hart congratulated the team of men. They were hard workers, much to his relief. Though he’d brought some men from his own place of work, most worked for the duke and had been an unknown quantity. To find them diligent and capable made his life far easier than it might otherwise have been. The pathways were taking shape now, with the trenches dug for the pipework that would serve the fountains and some of the hard standings already in place. It was a good start. Hart raised his eyes to the horizon, looking around for the slight figure he’d come to expect. Still no sign of Lady Fidelia. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why she had not been out walking. He told himself it was a good thing she wasn’t there. Far better that she was tucked up somewhere warm indoors than traipsing about in all weathers.

Hoping she had found a cosy corner and a good book to keep her occupied, he glanced at his pocket watch, which showed eight minutes to five. He’d best hurry and get to the cottage, for Lord Alex looked fragile enough to believe he’d been forgotten if Hart was even a minute late.

It was five past by the time he got there, but Lord Alex was waiting under the shelter of the porch, for it had begun to drizzle.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hart said, pushing open the door to the cottage and gesturing for the lad to go in, while he stooped to remove his gaiters and unlace his muddy boots.

“Not at all. I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time,” the boy said, looking about the cottage with interest as Hart placed his boots and the gaiters on the newspaper laid out ready for them, and set about lighting the lamps. He wondered if the boy had ever been inside any of the properties on his estate, or even talked with the tenants.

“You said you had some plans to show me. For the glasshouse?” Hart prompted, crouching to light the fire.

“Yes. I do.”

Hart coaxed the fire to life and then swung the kettle over it. Getting to his feet, he gestured to the round dining table. “Put them there, I’m going to wash up.”

By the time he’d washed the day’s dirt off, the kettle was boiling, and Hart set about making tea. Lord Alex watched with obvious fascination.

“You must warm the pot first,” he told the lad, swirling the hot water around the teapot before chucking it into the washing-up bowl. “Then you add the tea and pour on the boiling water. The water must be boiling, and a cold teapot takes the temperature down.”

Hart set the teapot to one side and went to fetch the biscuit tin.

“I see,” the boy said, looking as though he wondered why on earth Hart was telling him this.

Hart set the tin on the table and sat down, gesturing for Alex to join him.

“Every man ought to be able to fend for himself if the need arises,” he said firmly. “You ever made tea for yourself?”

The lad shook his head and Hart grunted, unsurprised. “Making a cup of tea is a basic skill. Can you light a fire?”

Alex blushed. “I’ve seen it done,” he said stiffly.

“Try it,” Hart said, hiding a smile. “You never know when you might need a fire lit and there’s no footman around to do it for you.”

“Are you laughing at me?” the lad demanded, colour rising.

Hart ignored the comment for a moment, giving the tea a stir before replacing the lid.

“No, my lord. Just giving a bit of advice that will serve you well, but you need not take it.”

The young man glared at him for a moment, shoulders rigid, and then he sat down rather heavily. He gave Hart a direct but less aggressive look. “You think I’m spoiled.”

“No, not necessarily.” Hart glanced at him, knowing he ought not speak his mind to the young lordling, but it was ever his besetting sin to tell the unvarnished truth. “But we’re all shaped by our upbringing, and I think you’ve likely not had the chance to get your hands dirty and learn some basic skills like other boys do. Do you go to school?”

Alex shook his head, his expression morose. “No. Tutors at home.”

Lord, no wonder the lad was so pale and fragile. No chance to escape his bloody father and make some friends. “A shame that.”

“I wanted to go, but Father…”

He shrugged, such a helpless gesture that Hart could only pity him.

“These plans, then. You drew them yourself?”