Page 10 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

The steam from the bath had obscured my private meeting with Cecilia, so the others had not detected who I was talking to and did not question me about it. This was both a blessing and a curse: I was left alone (whilst in the pool and on the solo chair ride home) to ponder the information, but I also had no one in which to confide my suspicions .

Everyone was in thrall to Mr Hart, so I could not simply blurt out what I had learned during luncheon. It would definitely cause Lucinda pain and put Cecilia’s reputation at risk. And I had stupidly said that I would not tell anyone, so it would put my good word at risk too .

Mr Hart had also done a good job of giving himself an alibi in the form of Mr Smith-Withers, so Cecilia’s story could be construed as a way of trapping him to marry her. It wasn’t uncommon for young girls to try such a thing if they had a rich eligible husband in their sights. Mr Hart could come out the whole thing smelling of roses and still ruin Lucinda.

No, there was only one thing for it: I had to be cleverer than that nefarious gentleman. If I gave him enough rope, he would hang himself eventually. But first, I had to find the rope.

The opportunity to do so came sooner than expected, for when we arrived back, a letter from him stating his intention to call this afternoon was waiting for Lucinda. Along with another poem. She raced upstairs, clutching the epistle to her bosom, no doubt to add it to the growing stash. For he had written a couple of other poems for her of late: one about the flowers he could see from his window in Royal Crescent and another about how walking in inclement weather had made his boots wet. Both had been exclaimed over and complimented as being ‘clever’ and ‘witty’ and ‘original’ by everyone when he had asked for our opinion. I myself had said nothing, which had caused him to throw several curious glances my way. But thankfully, he had not pressed me to give my opinion. I should probably comment on this current poem so he would not suspect I had any qualms about him.

‘How lovely!’ commented Elizabeth, removing a hairpin from her bathing cap. ‘That will give Lucy something to look forward to this afternoon. I shall give her my rose water scent so she can spritz her skin before he arrives. Mr Hart will not want his bride-to-be smelling of rotten eggs!’

It was on the tip of my tongue to remark that perhaps she should not and that it would be a true test of Mr Hart’s intentions if he still wished to court Lucinda even if she stank. But it was not the time nor place, so I said nothing.

‘You have been very quiet since the baths. Is everything all right?’ asked Jane when we had changed back into our day dresses, availed ourselves of Elizabeth’s rose water scent, and were waiting in the drawing room for luncheon.

Oh, my eagle-eyed friend, if you only knew!

‘I am simply a little tired from our outing. The water was hot, and I feel somewhat drained.’

‘Yes, me too,’ Jane agreed. ‘I can see why Edward always has to have a nap afterwards. But at least we have Mr Hart calling this afternoon. He will liven things up!’

I nodded and smiled. ‘Ah, yes, that is true.’

‘Shall I read you a bit from The Monk ? It is so atrocious it is funny.’

‘Very well, and I will attempt to start my letter to Max.’ If I can determine what to tell him without outright lying ... Oh Lord.

Jane picked up her book and flipped to a page. ‘So in this bit, Ambrosio, the monk, is struggling with his lust for innocent Antonia and is justifying his actions.’ She cleared her throat and read in a dramatic tone,

‘Weak wretch! Was it for this that I renounced the world? Is this the result of eighteen years of mortification? Am I now to yield to a passion which I have despised for so many years?’ He paused, and then added in a lower voice, ‘But I am now to become a slave to a passion which is so natural, so excusable!’

Jane cackled. ‘Isn’t it rich? In the previous chapters, he was prattling on about how he was so pious.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What a hypocrite.’

I raised a brow, noting that she had turned the corners of several other pages of the book. How many times had she read it?

‘You will be glad to get volume three, I suppose?’

‘Ooh yes, I have put my name on the waiting list.’

‘I wonder if Mr Hart has read The Monk ,’ I said dryly. ‘It sounds like the sort of thing that would appeal to him.’

‘I did ask. But he said he has not read it because the themes of the novel are morally corrupt, and he reads only books and poetry that uplift the soul.’

I raised both brows at this. ‘Was Lucinda there at the time?’

Jane nodded. ‘I believe so.’

My lips tightened. ‘How appropriate.’

‘He does seem a very good sort of person,’ Jane mused. ‘I don’t think I have even heard him cuss, which is strange for a man. Even Edward cusses, especially when his toe is hurting. Does Max?’

‘Oh, definitely. He has quite the temper, though it is usually directed at George rather than me. It is almost as if that horse knows exactly how to rile him up.’

Jane chuckled, and I myself felt cheered by thinking of Max and George. Perhaps I only needed to write a short upbeat letter, one that stated that Lucinda was in good hands and that Seraphina shouldn’t worry. I would explain that Dorian Hart was a friend of the family (well, he was now ), that there were several more suitable contenders, and that he would likely be old news by the time Lucinda next wrote to her. Indeed, if I had my way, he would be. I dipped my pen in the ink and began ...

Several hours later, I was sitting in exactly the same spot, looking at my sealed letter addressed to Max, and wondering if I should open it and add a postscript: Ignore everything I wrote above. Things are NOT in good hands. Please help!

Suffice to say, things did not go quite as I wanted them to in the afternoon. I was determined to find a crack, a flaw—something that would without a doubt reveal Mr Hart’s true colours. It was supposed to be an extremely satisfying moment, one in which I would announce to everyone, ‘Aha! Now you see him for the rogue he is! ’

But events occurred that were completely out of my control, and the outcome was most upsetting. I hardly knew what to think or what to do next!

Mr Hart arrived promptly at three o’clock, and we were served afternoon tea in the drawing room. Having managed to finish my letter to Max beforehand, I was relieved to have it off my plate. Now I could concentrate on the business at hand—namely exposing Mr Hart.

Of course, when he entered the room and paid me the usual courtesies (enquiring after my health, saying I looked well, etc.), I was momentarily flustered. But that was par for the course with him. He sought to charm and flatter, and he did it with everyone, not just me. He was a handsome gentleman with faultless manners, to be sure, but I was certain his attentiveness was a ploy and he meant none of it.

Upon hearing that we had been to the baths that morning, he was most interested in what we thought of the experience. Settling himself on the sofa, he took the cup of tea Elizabeth handed him while Lucinda, seated alongside, told him all about it in great detail.

At one point, he leaned towards her and sniffed. ‘Ah, I can still detect the aroma of the Romans.’

Lucinda looked put out. ‘I spritzed with rose water ...’

‘A rose by any other name,’ he quipped. ‘I am sure you did, my dear. But with such a concentration of sulphur, calcium, and magnesium in the water, it would be difficult to erase it completely. It does not matter to me. I like it, and you look so well after bathing.’

Lucinda smiled and looked pleased. Point one to Mr Hart, I thought.

‘Did you yourself take the waters at the pump room this morning, Mr Hart?’ I asked.

His gaze shifted to me on the opposite sofa, and I squirmed as his deep brown eyes roved over my face in a most impertinent manner. ‘Why, thank you for enquiring, Mrs Fitzroy. I did indeed, just after nine o’clock,’ he said at last.

‘I hope you did not find Milsom Street too busy with street sweepers at that time?’ I said. Hah, now I had him. If he alluded to Milsom Street being busy, then I could ask how come I had seen him on Monmouth Street, which was nowhere near there. I was looking forward to watching him squirm.

But he smiled and said without missing a beat, ‘I did not notice any street sweepers, I’m afraid, Mrs Fitzroy. I was in my own little world, busy composing my latest poem for Miss Fitzroy.’

Blast, I thought, he is as slippery as an eel.

He nodded to me, and the talk turned to his poem, which was titled ‘ The Whispering Boughs of Solitude’ and was about a lonesome tree. The poem was written with the utmost propriety, of course. Only I, knowing that Mr Hart had baser instincts, saw the double meaning in phrases such as ‘rooted need’.

I smirked to myself but said nothing.

‘What about you, Mrs Fitzroy, do you like my poem?’ he asked suddenly, and I dropped the smirk.

‘It is good, but not very realistic,’ I said, helping myself to another slice of almond cake. ‘Trees are not sentient beings. They do not have feelings, so I doubt they can feel lonely. But I liked the general tone of it and the descriptions of nature.’

‘Have you written any poems yourself, Mrs Fitzroy?’ asked Mr Hart frostily. ‘Perhaps we can hear one.’

I swallowed my mouthful of cake abruptly. ‘Ah, no, I have not.’

‘Well then’, he said curtly, ‘you may not be the best judge of my poem’s merit.’ He looked away, but not before I glimpsed a flash of pain in his eyes, which were most expressive, admittedly.

Oh, I have hurt his feelings , I thought, surprised. How strange, that he should care what I think when it is Lucinda’s opinion that should matter the most, and she has told him repeatedly how much she adores it.

Jane saw as well that my reply had wounded Mr Hart and hurriedly changed the subject.

‘Well, I thought it was a lovely poem, and I have read a fair few! Are there many lonely trees where you stay, Mr Hart?’

‘Around Hartmoor Castle you mean, Miss Austen?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I have a clear picture in my mind of the landscape from what you have previously described. But how many turrets did you say your castle had?’

Hah, she was pressing him for information about his castle for her book as I had thought she might. It seemed we both wanted something from Mr Hart: me, truth; her, inspiration.

‘Perhaps it would be easier if I drew it for you?’ he said, warming to the subject.

‘Ooh yes, please do!’ exclaimed Jane, and Lucinda clapped her hands excitedly.

Mr Hart smiled at their enthusiasm. ‘If I could acquire some paper and borrow a pencil, then I will happily draw you a quick sketch.’

‘There is some paper in the desk drawer. Flissy has just been using it to write a letter,’ Jane said helpfully.

‘And I have a pencil,’ said Elizabeth, producing one with a flourish from her dress pocket. She seemed to carry all manner of articles in there.

When he had all the implements he needed, Mr Hart retired to the desk in the corner, and we waited for about fifteen minutes or so while he sketched his castle. In truth, I was not expecting much from this drawing, but the look of amazement on Elizabeth’s face when he handed it to her caused me to reconsider.

‘Why, Mr Hart, you are not only a poet but an excellent artist!’ she declared. ‘This drawing is something that I would not hesitate to frame and hang on a wall!’

‘By all means, do so if you wish to,’ he said with a little bow, and Elizabeth looked pleased as punch.

I sighed inwardly. Mr Hart had obviously added another feather to his cap by proving to be a competent sketcher. I still had not seen the drawing as I was on the opposite sofa, and Jane and Lucinda were now crowding around Elizabeth. But I was itching to look at it (without revealing to Mr Hart that I was interested, of course). He was standing behind the sofa and overseeing their reactions with a chuffed look on his face.

‘Ooh, lovely,’ said Lucinda, wide-eyed.

‘Aah, wonderful,’ murmured Jane, and I could almost see the cogs turning in her brain as she thought of how it could be used in her story.

Craning my neck to see was no longer working, and my impatience could not be contained. ‘Can I see it too?’ I asked when the oohing and aahing had died down.

‘Of course, Flissy,’ said Jane and handed it over.

My eyebrows raised slightly upon seeing the sketch, for it was very professional. The castle Mr Hart had drawn was quite large as castles go, with a round crenellated turret at one end and a collection of smaller turrets at the other. They were joined in the middle by another crenellated structure, like a manor house, which had a portico over the entranceway. His pencil strokes were light, but confident, and he’d even done some shading to bring the grey stone to life.

‘What do you think, Mrs Fitzroy? Is it realistic enough?’ enquired Mr Hart with a touch of irony to his tone. I lifted my gaze from the sketch to discover him watching me. As he was still standing behind the sofa, I was the only one who had his full view. My cheeks coloured as he arched an eyebrow, waiting for my verdict.

I could not find fault with his sketch, and knowing I would seem petty if I did so, I had to give credit where it was due. ‘You are indeed an excellent artist as Elizabeth has said, Mr Hart. Your castle looks to be most striking.’

He nodded and said, ‘Thank you, I am glad you think so.’ But his attention lingered on me, as if he wished to further the conversation, but I most certainly did not. I lowered my eyes and silently handed the drawing back to Jane. She, after peering at it again, handed it carefully to her sister-in-law.

‘I shall visit the picture framers tomorrow,’ said Elizabeth, turning her head to smile up at Mr Hart. ‘I know the perfect spot to hang it too—in our front parlour at home, by the window.’

Jane heaved a sigh. ‘A sketch, albeit a good one, is all very well. But I do wish I could see it with my own eyes,’ she muttered. ‘Otherwise, how can one capture the atmosphere of the place?’

She was talking mostly to herself, but Mr Hart had ears like a bat. ‘Well, that is easily fixed,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am due to visit my father in a few days. You are all most welcome to join me. I will be there for around a week.’

There was a stunned silence. Then Lucinda squealed with delight, and Jane’s mouth dropped open.

Oh, no no no! I thought in alarm. Lucinda and he under the same turrets? It cannot happen! Not after what Cecilia Spencer has told me! Any number of attempts could be made by this man to ruin Lucinda in a week!

Mr Hart’s invitation caused a flurry of excited chatter, and it was difficult for me to get a word in edgeways. Lucinda was determined to go, as was Jane, but Elizabeth said she could not because of Edward. I jumped on this, appealing to Jane .

‘Elizabeth is right, Jane. We cannot up and leave Edward,’ I said.

‘But a week is not long,’ she countered.

‘And he is very welcome to come too,’ cut in Mr Hart, but Elizabeth shook her head.

‘My husband is on a strict treatment plan for his gout and must follow it faithfully. I’m afraid skipping a week will undo all his good work.’

‘And there is much we need to do in Bath,’ I added. ‘We have not even been to the theatre yet …’

‘Pooh, the theatre!’ scoffed Jane. ‘Who cares about the theatre when we’ve been invited to a castle ? We can go to the theatre when we get back. There is nothing exciting on anyway, only The Taming of the Shrew , and I saw that the last time I was in Bath.’

I could see I was not going to get any help from Jane—she was hell-bent on seeing the dratted castle for her book. I tried another tactic.

‘Lucinda, I don’t think your mother would approve of—’ I started, but Mr Hart cut in again.

‘My father will be there, Mrs Fitzroy, and yourself and Miss Austen. Three chaperones is surely plenty for Miss Fitzroy!’ He chuckled softly, but I was not amused.

Lucinda was practically bouncing up and down on the sofa, and I eyed her helplessly .

‘Please please please , Aunty Fliss!’

Everyone was looking at me as I seemed to hold the deciding vote.

‘All right, very well. If Mr Hart’s father will be there.’

Lucinda squealed again and leapt up to hug me, crying, ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you! ’

I glowered at Mr Hart over her shoulder, and he gave me a cherubic smile.

‘An excellent decision, Mrs Fitzroy. I am sure you will find Hartmoor to be a most interesting diversion.’ He winked at me, and my heart sank. I should have tried harder to extricate my niece from his company, but now she was in even more danger because of this trip to his damned castle. I was the worst chaperone ever!