Page 12 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

We stumbled along a narrow rutted path after Mr Hart, who was making his way towards a studded wooden door. As we approached, I happened to look up and, to my consternation, spied a large stone gargoyle crouched on a ledge—its mouth stretched wide in a gaping grin. I decided not to point it out to Lucinda, who, by this stage, was scared stiff, if her fingers digging painfully into my forearm were anything to go by.

Mr Hart knocked on the massive door thrice, with the aid of a heavy door knocker bearing the head of a lion. The booming noise it made echoed through to whatever lay beyond, which, by this point in time, was anyone’s guess .

In spite of my trembling knees, I was still impressed that Mr Hart’s family owned a place like this. It was difficult not to be. But it did not override my annoyance that he had misled us. For if he had drawn the dilapidated castle as it truly was, I doubt Elizabeth would have wanted the sketch framed and hung in her front parlour or indeed been so encouraging of us visiting it!

The door began to creak slowly inwards, emitting a shaft of yellow light, which illuminated our waiting party. A silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway and shuffled towards us, moving in an odd lopsided manner. It was only when it came closer did I see it was a man and that he had a hunchback. He raised a hand in what seemed a menacing fashion, causing Lucinda to hide behind me with a stifled scream .

But he was only beckoning us inside.

‘Thank you, Maurice, my good fellow,’ said Mr Hart blithely as we filed past the man and into a stone entranceway with a curved ceiling.

‘I was expecting you hours ago, Master Dorian,’ said Maurice, pushing the door shut after us and locking it with a giant iron key. He held up his lantern and perused us ladies, beady brown eyes peering out from underneath a straight fringe. I was surprised to see that he was only middle-aged and not as ancient as I had thought. He had a pleasant face, although it was rather serious.

‘Yes. Well, we had a few more stops than were necessary,’ said Mr Hart, looking pointedly at me.

Remembering my manners, I said, ‘How do you do? I’m Mrs Felicity Fitzroy. This is my friend Miss Jane Austen and my niece. Miss Lucinda Fitzroy.’ I gestured to each in turn. Jane said ‘Hello’ and Lucinda bobbed from behind my shoulder .

Maurice inclined his head at us.

‘Welcome. Let us go through to the kitchen, where it’s warm.’ He shuffled off down a narrow stone hallway, and we trailed behind him, albeit slowly as he did not walk fast. There were candle sconces that had been lit on the wall, but they only served to throw out spooky shadows. It seemed a dark, cold, and gloomy old place.

But I endeavoured to keep my spirits up—in this case, by looking forward to a change of clothes and a wash. I turned my head and enquired brightly of Mr Hart, who was bringing up the rear, ‘Will our luggage be delivered soon? I’d like to freshen up before dinner.’

‘I’m afraid you will have to make do this evening, Mrs Fitzroy,’ he said. ‘My driver has retired to a nearby inn for the night. But he will bring your luggage first thing tomorrow.’

I could not believe my ears.

‘That is most inconvenient,’ I said tightly.

‘There will be warm water and soap provided if you want to wash, and what you have on is fine for supper. As for afterwards, you sleep in your chemise, do you not? Or perhaps you don’t?’ he added in a lower tone.

I whipped my head to the front again, pretending not to have heard his insolence. But from the soft laughter behind my right ear, he knew I had .

‘Either way’, he continued when I declined to give him an answer about what I wore to bed (which was frankly none of his business), ‘you will have no need of anything in your luggage until the morning.’

Jane will be so angry about this , I thought with glee. It will put him in her bad graces, and he’ll have a hard time wriggling out of them. For she’d left her writing desk in the carriage on the assumption that it would be delivered forthwith.

When we reached the kitchen, it was much more cheerful, thanks to the numerous lanterns set around. Warmth flowed from a huge black leaded stove, which had a cast-iron pot steaming upon it. Unable to help myself, I murmured to Jane, ‘We are not getting our luggage tonight. He says tomorrow morning.’ I gestured to Mr Hart with my chin.

Jane’s eyes darkened, and her lips pressed into a straight firm line. I chuckled to myself, looking forward to the showdown. The manuscripts she kept in her writing desk were her darling children. Woe betide him if something should happen to them. His head would be on the chopping block.

‘Mr Hart!’ she said sharply.

‘Yes, Miss Austen? How can I be of service?’ he said cheerfully, coming over to us .

‘I understand our luggage is not to be delivered until tomorrow?’ she said icily.

‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘But do not fret. I took the liberty of ensuring your writing desk is held under lock and key with the innkeeper. And he has been given strict instructions to shoot anyone who tries to make off with it.’

Jane’s eyebrows shot up into her curls. ‘Goodness,’ she said, sounding impressed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hart.’

He bowed low. ‘My pleasure, Miss Austen. Consider it a favour from one writer to another. Meanwhile, if you should wish to jot anything down, I have an ample supply of quills and paper to satisfy any creative urges.’ Mr Hart winked at her, and she giggled. I rolled my eyes in disbelief that he had escaped reprimand once again. He seemed to have an answer for everything.

Maurice said supper was to be served in half an hour in the parlour, and we could freshen up in our rooms meanwhile. He handed each of us a new candle in a holder, and we left him in the kitchen to attend to whatever was in the pot on the stove.

Mr Hart had lit his own candle with a taper and now led us through another stone hallway to the main foyer of the castle. This was bone-chillingly cold, but very grand and hung with tapestries—it showed no signs of the disrepair of the exterior. Above us was a wooden ceiling inset with panels, and there were a multitude of candle sconces, which highlighted a wide flight of ornately carved wooden stairs. These led up to a dark landing.

‘Your rooms are on the first floor. Just choose any one you like,’ Mr Hart said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. ‘They are all much of a muchness. But I thought you might like the pink one, Miss Fitzroy, as it matches your pretty colouring.’

Of course, Lucinda simpered at the compliment, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes again .

‘Oh, will you not show us the way, Mr Hart? It looks so dark up there,’ pleaded Lucinda.

‘I would like to, but sadly, I cannot,’ said Mr Hart, shaking his head. ‘It would not be proper, and I fear your chaperone would scold me if I escorted you to your bedroom.’ He shot me an amused glance, and I stared stonily back. ‘But you will be quite safe. There is nothing up there more alarming than a few cobwebs.’

Gazing around at us, he said in a stately voice, ‘I will see you all presently in the parlour. It is the room there to the left of the stairs. We can have a bite to eat, a glass of wine and relax after our long journey.’

Jane breathed a sigh of relief at his words. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said, peering at the woodland scenes on the tapestries and obviously thrilled at the prospect of sleeping in a real-life castle.

Lucinda was still reluctant to leave Mr Hart’s side, but he smiled kindly when lighting her candle and murmured further words of encouragement to put her at ease. He did have a knack for saying the right thing, I had to admit, and was playing the role of host perfectly.

After he’d lit Jane’s candle, she took Lucinda’s arm, and they started up the stairs. Mr Hart came over to me, and I held up my candle to be lit from his, but my hand was shaking a little—whether from nerves, the cold, or being so near to him, I could not say. He didn’t pass comment but covered my hand with his own to hold the candle steady while he lit it. His fingers were warm, and his touch made my stomach dance along with the guttering flame that appeared between us.

‘Everything to your liking, Mrs Fitzroy?’ he asked, his dark eyes boring into mine, soft candlelight flickering over the planes of his handsome face. I nodded, not knowing what to say, and I gently extricated my hand from his. It felt very much like Mr Hart was asking if he was to my liking .

However much I mistrusted him and even though I was happily married, I could not deny his presence affected me. And the castle seemed to magnify it even more. The sooner this visit was over and we were back in Bath, the better !

As Lucinda and Jane had gone up the stairs before me, they had first pick of the rooms. Lucinda chose the one farthest away from mine with rose damask curtains and a four-poster bed. As Mr Hart had intimated, it did suit her colouring, being all pink and cream decor .

Jane had chosen the one next door to me, which had light-blue-painted walls and white furniture. That left me with a comfortable, but sombre room with dark-green velvet curtains, a heavy oak bedstead, and several disconcerting portraits. Were the unsmiling figures in the paintings of Hart lineage? I did not know, but one young gentleman posing with a sword and a hound looked a lot like Mr Hart. In fact, the resemblance was quite striking. He had the same dark-brown eyes, aristocratic cheekbones, and sensual lips. But if he had dark hair, I could not tell as it was hidden under a white powdered wig .

The painting was hung in the middle of the room, the effect being that wherever I stood, that gentleman’s eyes landed upon my person. I had resolved to have a short nap before dinner but could not close my eyes under his arrogant stare. Perhaps Jane would swap rooms? The only painting she had in hers was a poodle with a blue ribbon tied around its neck. But as blue was her favourite colour, I did not like my chances.

A jug of lukewarm water, plus a bar of oatmeal soap and flannel, had been placed in a bowl on top of a dresser and were rudimentary toiletries indeed, but better than nothing. Indeed, after a cursory wash and repinning my hair, I felt somewhat restored. The last thing I wanted to do was go back downstairs and make polite conversation with Mr Hart, but my stomach was rumbling. So back down the stairwell I went, gripping the stair banister tightly.

Pushing open a similar studded door to the one we had entered the castle, I stepped into a cosy, well-furnished parlour to find a party of four in residence. An unfamiliar sandy-haired gentleman with whiskers was standing by the crackling fire speaking with Jane while Mr Hart and Lucinda were seated on a leather sofa conversing.

For a moment, I stood in the doorway, too surprised to say anything. Then Jane beckoned me over. ‘Flissy, come and meet Mr Smith-Withers. He’s Mr Hart’s good friend from Eton and the family’s lawyer.’

Mr Smith-Withers! I knew he was Mr Hart’s friend, but I had never met him as I had not been invited to ‘bun day’, and he had never accompanied us on any other outing. Now here he was—and without a mention by our dear Mr Hart, who had had ample opportunity to do so throughout the course of the day!

But I held my suspicions in check, pasted on a pleasant smile, and went to greet him .

‘Mr Smith-Withers, this is my dear friend Felicity Fitzroy, who I told you was staying with us in Bath.’

‘Mrs Fitzroy, we meet at last,’ said Mr Smith-Withers, bowing. ‘I was sorry not to make your acquaintance at Sally Lunn’s.’

‘And I yours,’ I said smoothly. I was not sorry in the slightest, but it was the polite thing to say.

He was perfectly cordial, and his plummy accent suggested education and good breeding. But for some reason, I did not take to him. It may have been his eyes. They were slightly bloodshot and set too close together. Along with his whiskers and thin lips, it gave him a weaselly appearance.

‘Mr Hart did not say you would be joining us,’ I said.

‘Oh, it was a last-minute decision. Dory told me you were all taking a jaunt and invited me along, but I was unsure I could make it. But my plans fell through at the last minute, so here I am. I arrived this afternoon to surprise you all.’ He gave a short bark of laughter.

‘And his father doesn’t mind so many of us being here?’ Jane asked.

That gentleman we had yet to meet, and I was growing unsure that he even existed. By now, my mind was throwing up all sorts of scenarios. Had they done away with him? Were they going to do away with us ?

Mr Smith-Withers looked over at Mr Hart and said in sotto voce, ‘It is a large castle, and Dory and his father keep on opposite sides of it—a turret each if you will.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane, frowning. ‘Of course, I see.’

No more was said on the matter, but from that, I assumed Mr Hart and his father did not have a good relationship. Mr Smith-Withers changed the subject to a book he was reading, and Jane was happy to comply as she had read it too.

I listened to them with half an ear until I saw Maurice enter the room through a servant’s door at the back of the room. He was struggling to hold a soup tureen aloft. Alarmed that he would drop it, I excused myself from Jane and Mr Smith-Withers and went over to help him place it on the table.

‘Thank you, Mrs Fitzroy. It was heavier than I expected.’ He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I shall fetch the bread and cheese.’

‘Please, let me assist you,’ I said, feeling sorry for him.

He blinked at my request but did not stop me as I followed him out the servant’s door.

‘Do you not have a cook or a maid?’ I asked conversationally as we made our way down the narrow passage to the kitchen, which, from its direction, seemed to go around the back of the staircase. He obviously used it frequently as there were half-burnt candles set in sconces and blobs of wax dripped down the wall. The pungent smell of tallow in the close space was overpowering, and the smoke made my eyes sting.

‘No, Mrs Fitzroy. There is only me, though I did poach a maid from the inn to help me with the setting up of your rooms.’

Gracious , I thought. Maurice is a one-man band. I suppose there is no point having a full retinue of servants with only Mr Hart’s father to look after. But still, it seemed like a lot of work for one person to run a castle all on their own, especially as he could not move around that easily. I felt a bit guilty that our party had turned up and created extra duties for him. It was another black mark against Mr Hart in my mind. Looking after our servants, namely making sure they were well provided for and not overworked, was important to Max and me.

When we returned to the parlour with a board of bread, cheese, and a few other condiments for the meal, I found everyone seated at the rectangular oak dining table. Jane was playing mother and ladling meat broth into bowls from the soup tureen.

The only spare seat on the bench was on the end next to Mr Hart, so I reluctantly took it. He did not move over for me as an agreeable gentleman would have but stayed put. I had to squeeze in beside him, which meant our bodies were touching from the shoulders all the way down to the knees. It was most improper!

Being forced to sit this close to him, I could clearly feel his hard thigh muscle and smell the spicy cologne he had applied while freshening up. It was distracting enough that I had difficulty concentrating on spooning broth into my mouth. And by the way that uncivil man kept flexing his leg against mine under the table, I could tell he was rejoicing in causing me to squirm. I elbowed him sharply in the ribs to make him stop, and he let out a huff of quiet laughter.

As I was engaged in a private battle with Mr Hart under the table, I was not taking much notice of the polite supper conversation, and it was only after a comment from Mr Smith-Withers that it came to my attention that I had been blatantly ignoring Lucinda.

‘Mrs Fitzroy, your niece has been attempting to speak to you for the last five minutes, and you have been in a world of your own,’ he said, giving me a stern look, as if I were a naughty child.

I collected my senses immediately and nodded to him .

‘Thank you, Mr Smith-Withers. I must be more tired than I realised. My apologies, Lucy. What were you saying?’

‘I was only curious to know where you went, Aunty Fliss. I saw you disappearing with the butler. ’

By this time, Maurice had retreated to the kitchen, so he was not privy to our conversation. So I did not mind replying to her.

‘Yes, I thought he might need some help since he is the only servant here,’ I said, directing my remark somewhat pointedly to Mr Hart to make him feel bad about it.

‘That is a lot of work for one person indeed,’ said Lucinda. ‘Mr Hart, we must rally round and lighten his load. I was a little frightened of him at first, but he seems like a kind soul. I would hate to think he is tired out because of us.’

Good for you, Lucy , I thought, pleased with her.

‘Well, Miss Fitzroy’, said Mr Hart in a mock peeved tone, ‘if you wish to don an apron and spend your time with Maurice in the kitchen rather than with me, then you must do so.’

‘Oh, I did not mean ...’ began Lucinda, her face falling.

‘It is all right. I am just teasing you. I know our butler has a certain je ne sais quoi.’ Mr Hart dipped a piece of bread in his soup. ‘It is his deformity. All the ladies want to mollycoddle him, but in truth, he is perfectly capable.’

During this discourse, I was wholly aware that Mr Hart’s other hand had strayed beneath the table and now rested lightly on his thigh. I willed him to keep it to himself, but his fingers moved to pat my leg every now and again while he was talking. But was he doing it idly? Or deliberately? Whichever it was, it was causing a strange sensation in my spine. Drawing in a breath, I attempted to shift away from him, but there was nowhere to go but the floor.

‘All the ladies?’ I queried, determined to make him do some squirming himself. ‘Pray, exactly how many ladies has Maurice had the pleasure of meeting?’

Mr Smith-Withers sniggered, and the patting fingers beneath the table stilled, then withdrew. Mr Hart seemed disinclined to answer my question—making a big show of asking if anyone wanted more broth, ladling two spoonfuls into his own bowl, and cutting further slices of cheese that were not really needed.

‘Ah. Well, I can always ask Maurice, I suppose. He seems like a conversant-enough fellow,’ I threatened softly but loud enough for Mr Hart to hear .

A moment later, his thigh began juddering against mine under the table, as if he were mightily disturbed by my comment; and I smothered the urge to laugh.

Yes , I thought, you dastardly rake. Indeed, you should be worried!