Page 8 of A Landscape of Love

Hart had never been more relieved to see the cottage. He kicked open the door, carried Fidelia in, and set her down in front of the fire. With as much speed as he could manage, he stirred the fire to life and added a few scoopfuls of coal before hurrying to the bed and stripping off the blankets. He knelt beside Fidelia, who was staring at the flames as if hypnotised, shivering so hard her teeth chattered.

As there was nothing else for it and she hardly seemed in her right mind, Hart reached for the buttons on her sodden nightgown, undoing them with frozen fingers. She seemed to not know what it was he was doing and murmured no word of protest until he tugged at the nightgown which she was sitting on.

“Lift up,” he commanded.

She stared at him then, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Lift up,” he repeated. “You’ve got to get this wet nightgown off before you catch your death of cold.”

Slowly, she did as he told her, rising to her knees, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. With as much speed as he could manage, Hart tugged the sodden cotton up and over her head, casting it to one side as he reached for a blanket and tucked it around her.

“Up you come,” he told her, pulling her to her feet. He tugged the chair as close to the fire as he could and then sat her down in it before seeing to himself. His jacket was dripping a steady stream of water onto the flagstones and fell to the floor with a heavy slap. He tugged the shirt over his head next, adding it to the pile, before reaching for the blanket. There was no power on earth moving him from in front of the fire, but he didn’t want to traumatise the poor creature any more than she had been this night. So he got rid of his boots, leaving them steaming against the fender, and then wrapped the blanket about his middle while he removed his trousers.

Securing the blanket as tightly as possible, Hart went to fetch the washing-up bowl and rang out the sodden clothes as best he could before hanging them on the clothes rack to drip dry. Then he went to find the whiskey, poured himself a good measure, and downed it. A pleasant burn warmed him from the inside out, so he helped himself to another before carrying the bottle back to the fire. Hart swung the kettle over the flames and set about making tea. By the time he pressed a mug into Lady Fidelia’s hands, heavily laced with sugar and whiskey, the fire was burning merrily, and her shivering had subsided a little.

She took the mug from him without a word, but pulled a face when she took a sip.

“Drink it,” he told her firmly.

Kneeling in front of her, Hart picked up one slender foot and wrapped it in a soft cloth, before he began rubbing it briskly, getting her blood moving again. He repeated the action with her other foot, trying hard not to notice how slender and pretty her ankles were, the soft curve of her calf. His heart beat erratically as he wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been there. Would this beautiful creature have drowned all alone? Would her father have even cared? His chest constricted and, despite telling himself not to get involved, he could not help but pity her. None of your affair, insisted a voice in his head. The woman was a bloody nuisance and now she had landed him in a very difficult position. He could hardly send her back to the house in a dripping nightgown, not in the state she was in, but what the devil was he to do with her? The idea of marching up to the house and telling the duke he’d just rescued his daughter and to take better bloody care of his family had a certain appeal until Hart looked at her. Her hair was drying in an untidy mass of soft curls about her face, the firelight gilding her skin and sparkling in those remarkable eyes. She looked like a Renaissance Madonna, eyes filled with sorrow, that ethereal wistfulness that always lingered on their beautiful faces evident here. How could he send her back to her father, knowing the brute would likely punish her?

“How long before anyone misses you?”

She blinked, a tear rolling down her cheek as she turned to look at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Another tear followed, and another, until they fell in a silent stream, dripping from her face. For a moment he thought her tears were the most tragic thing he’d ever seen, but then a low keening sound tore from her throat, and she cried in earnest.

Hart reacted instinctively, knowing only that she was a creature in pain, in need of comfort, and trying his best to give it to her. He lifted her up into his arms and sat down again, holding her to him as she sobbed her heart out. She clung to him, the touch of her tears cold against his bare chest as she cried and cried as if the world were ending. It seemed he held her forever, his own heart aching for her, for whatever had caused this poor young woman such pain. It gave him the earnest desire to protect her from it, to do violence to whatever or whoever had caused it. But then there wasn’t always someone to blame. Life could give you a kicking too, if it took a wrong turn, or if you had the misfortune to be born into poverty. It was why he never took his own luck for granted or dared to stop pushing himself to make the most of every opportunity. After what seemed like hours, he ventured to speak the question hovering on his tongue.

“Did the child die?”

She stopped crying abruptly, turning her head and staring at him, eyes wide. Tears spangled her eyelashes, her nose red and her cheeks wet as she shook her head.

“Taken,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “My father took him. Such a long time ago now, but… but I cannot forget, and the pain never goes away.”

Hart nodded, fervently wishing he could get away with murdering a duke. A pity that, Beresford was the kind of fellow who certainly deserved a beating, the miserable son of a bitch. Still, Fidelia was all that mattered now. She needed a reason to go on. He wished his mother were here, she’d know what to say. But Fidelia only had him. He was no good at the softer emotions, but perhaps he could rally her in another way. “He’s alive, then. So, what the devil have you been thinking, walking about in all weathers? Do you want to catch pneumonia and deprive the child of his mother?”

She jolted as though he’d slapped her. “Sometimes I just have to escape that dreadful house,” she said, a thread of anger in her voice that he was pleased to hear. Anger was far better than melancholy. “And him most of all,” she added with a startling degree of venom.

“I can believe that,” he said, not without sympathy. “But why in the middle of the night, for heaven’s sake? What if I’d not been there?”

He watched as she closed her eyes, shutting out a glimmer of such profound pain that Hart wished he’d not spoken so harshly. She deserved tenderness and sweet words, but he could not give her that, not without stirring emotions neither of them ought to trifle with.

There was a little resentment stirring inside him, too, lingering in the heart of a child born in the workhouse. Here she was, with money and status, when so many were fighting for survival, for their next meal. That she had so much and was still sunk in misery seemed ungrateful at best. Instinctively, he knew that was grossly unfair, that it was not as simple as that, and he was in no position to judge her pain, yet the comparison still rankled somewhat. Though he wondered if perhaps it was because the beautiful woman he held in his arms might have been gone from the world forever if not for a strange quirk of fate that made him so unreasonably angry.

“It hurts,” she said simply. “Today—or yesterday now, I suppose—was his fifth birthday. Five years old and I do not know what he looks like, if he is happy, if he understands I love him with all my heart and… and it hurts so much, and I’m so tired. I am a prisoner here, and I have no means of getting him back. Sometimes if I don’t get out from those walls, I feel like I will lose what little remains of my wits.”

He nodded. That was not so hard to understand, he supposed, yet her child lived. “What if he was to come looking for you in years to come? What if there was the slightest chance you could find him? Would you not live for that?”

A flicker of powerful emotion lit her eyes, and she stared at him. “You think I would not do anything, risk anything, to find my son?” she demanded, such fury behind the question Hart knew he was playing with fire. Yet he did not know how to help her, what words she needed to hear. He only knew that he’d once been a child, desperate for a mother. In the circumstances, he suspected he was not the best person to comfort her, for he’d known the other side of this story, but it seemed he was all the poor woman had.

“Good,” he said firmly. “That’s a start, then. That gives you a purpose. If you’ve got a purpose, you’ve got a reason to get through the day.”

She glared at him and then let out a frustrated huff of laughter. He had no doubt she was mentally berating him as an idiot and did not blame her. He was out of his depth, and he knew it.

“Are you deciding what to throw at me first?” he asked cautiously.

She smiled at that, at least, her lips tilting up at the corners just a little as he had hoped they might. It was the kind of smile to make a fellow think stupid thoughts, to imagine a life where he could see that smile whenever he wanted. Hart reminded himself that she was Beresford’s daughter. If the old man thought Hart had so much as glanced at her, he’d be off the duke’s property before he could say knife and could give up all his ambitions for the future. This was not a woman he wished to get involved with. That was asking for trouble. He just needed to ensure himself she was well, and then stay away from her.

“Your life must be very simple, very black and white, for you to speak with such certainty,” she said.