Page 7 of A Landscape of Love

Hart stilled, uneasy now, and wondered if perhaps the boy had given away more than he realised. Hart had a fair idea of why she was so unhappy. Lord Alex must have realised at the same moment that he was confiding in a man far beneath him socially. He reddened.

“I ought not to have…”

“I don’t talk about others, my lord. Nothing you’ve said will be repeated, you’ve my word. You’re worried about your sister, that’s right and proper. If I were you, I’d try to occupy her indoors if you can, and keep her from wandering the gardens in all weathers.”

“I have tried. Nothing interests her. Not even me,” he added, looking far more like a frightened child than a boy on the cusp of manhood. “I’d best go,” he added, reaching for his plans, and rolling them back up.

“Keep working on those plans. They’re good,” Hart offered. “I’m thinking of offering glasshouses for sale and I want a variety of plans for people to choose from. If you come up with something half decent, I’ll buy the plans from you.”

He cursed himself for having done what he never usually did and spoken without thinking. Now he’d made a rod for his own back. But the boy had looked so downcast Hart had felt the need to offer something to cheer him up.

“Really?” The young man’s eyes grew wide. “You mean it?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Hart replied gruffly. “But they’d best be good. I’m not paying for something that won’t stand up.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll make sure they’re good. The best glass houses you’ve ever seen.”

Hart snorted. “All right, don’t get carried away. I won’t be wanting the Crystal Palace, nor anything like. These are for people who don’t have the kind of budget your father has.”

“I understand. These plans I’ve drawn wouldn’t do for Father, either. I know that really. He wants something far grander, doesn’t he?”

“Reckon so,” Hart said dryly. “Come back next week and I’ll show you what I’ve been working on, and you can give me some of your ideas. How’s that?”

“Fair,” Alex replied. “Thank you for the tea and biscuits. Perhaps… Perhaps next time you’ll let me make the tea.”

“Happen I will,” Hart replied, amused, and waved the boy off out the door.

After an excellent supper of steak and kidney pudding and some boiled potatoes sent over by the cook at the big house, Hart sat reading the Gardener’s Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette and sipping a glass of whiskey until weariness took a hold and his eyes felt heavy. It had been a long day.

He downed the last of his drink, banked the fire, and took himself off to bed, laying down on the mattress with a sigh. The wind had dropped finally, and the night was calm. Only the distant hooting of an owl disturbed the peace as Hart drifted into sleep.

Hart He always slept like the dead. Early mornings and long days of hard manual labour, plus a mind that was generally at peace with itself, meant sleep was never hard to find. That night he woke in the early hours, staring at the darkness with his senses on alert. A moment later a fox screamed outside his window and Hart cursed it for having disturbed him. Settling himself back down, Hart tried to go back to sleep but it was too late. He was wide awake. Muttering curses and sliding from the bed, he pulled his shirt on and padded to the window, wondering what it was that the fox had been up to. Nothing moved outside now, though a fierce wind rattled the branches of the trees and whistled past the cottage. Another sound broke through, certainly the fox again, but farther off. It sounded distressed this time. Frowning at the darkness beyond the glass, Hart told himself to go back to bed. Foxes were well able to look after themselves, yet he did not like to think of some creature in pain just outside his door.

“Hell and the devil,” he muttered under his breath, tugging his trousers on and fumbling in the dark for the rest of his clothes.

Once outside, Hart walked all the way around the cottage, lamp in hand, and found precisely nothing. “Idiot,” he told himself. Yet he was too wakeful to find sleep again. Perhaps a walk would do the trick. Setting out at a brisk pace he headed towards the lake, deciding he’d go all the way around it and then try to get some sleep. He wondered if Lady Fidelia would make an appearance today and told himself he hoped she would not. Liar. Fleeting images of her tucked up in her bed intruded into his mind, crisp white sheets covering that slender form, a demure white nightgown with ruffles of lace all the way to her chin.

“Pack it in,” he muttered irritably, for he knew better than that.

Shoving the picture firmly to one side, Hart strode on..

The lake appeared, spread out before him, a vast pool of darkness until the clouds shifted and a tiny sliver of moonlight set it sparkling. It was beautiful, peaceful too, and he took a moment to appreciate the scene before him, and then he saw her. Hart’s breath caught, alarm singing through him as his gaze settled upon the slender figure of Lady Fidelia. She stood far too close to the edge, and her white nightgown blew tight against her, highlighting the curves of her body, the fabric fluttering behind her in the freezing wind.

What on earth was the foolish creature up to, out alone at this time of night? That jetty was slippery at the best of times, but with all the rain they’d had of late, it would be lethal.

The first droplets of rain hit his face, icy cold against his skin. Hart picked up his pace, torn between running full pelt and not wanting to startle her.

She turned away from the lake, looking as though she was lost in a dream, certainly she was not looking at where she was going. Then it all happened so slowly, and yet too fast for him to get close enough to stop it. The sound of her scream sliced through him as her foot slipped on the slick wood, and he was running before she hit the water. It was hard to breathe as terror held his chest in a vice, but he pushed on, eating up the distance between him and the jetty. He dived into the black water beneath.

The frigid lake hit him, stealing what remained of his breath and plunging him into a darkness so profound it took him a moment to gather his wits. Fidelia.

Something white moved in the endless black and he swam hard, relieved when he grasped hold of her to discover she was still struggling. Holding her tight against him, he pushed to the surface, gasping with relief as the icy air seared his lungs. Fidelia choked and spluttered, sucking in air, her eyes wild.

“It’s all right,” Hart said. “I’ve got you.”

He held her tight, swimming to shore until he could get his legs under him, and then carried her out, collapsing on the muddy bank. Fidelia turned onto her side and vomited a vile stream of lake water before subsiding into a miserable heap, shivering violently.

Lord, but she’d catch pneumonia if she didn’t warm up quickly. With no other choice, Hart got to his feet and lifted her back into his arms. He carried her back to the cottage as fast as he could. Water poured from his clothes and his boots squelched horribly, but she was breathing and that was all that mattered for the moment.