Page 13 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

The supper had been light, but nutritious, and I silently commended Maurice on his cooking. But thanks to exhaustion and the warmth of the room, Jane and Lucinda were on the verge of nodding off into the dregs of their soup.

‘I believe it might be time to retire,’ I said, rising abruptly before I myself fell asleep on Mr Hart’s shoulder. I began to stack the bowls, but he placed a hand on my arm.

‘Leave them for now, Felicity. Maurice will clear them,’ he said. Before I could protest (at the dishes being left, him touching me, and him using my first name without permission), he added, ‘By the way, you are right to point out my shortcomings as an employer. Maurice does need more help while we are here. I will hire a cook and a maid from the village to assist him. ’

I nodded, too tired to scold him further. ‘Good. I am glad to hear it.’

‘We used to have more staff,’ Mr Hart continued as we all left the parlour, the gentlemen escorting us ladies to the foot of the stairs. ‘But Father has seen fit to let them go. Maurice is the only one he trusts completely.’

‘Where exactly is your father? When will we meet him?’ I asked. Now that Mr Smith-Withers was here, there were an equal number of unmarried men to women, so it would be more appropriate to have another chaperone. I could not be expected to be everywhere at once. But would Mr Hart’s father even be a suitable chaperone if he was responsible for bestowing his son with such a loose nature ?

‘So many questions, Felicity,’ Mr Hart said playfully, and I bristled at him being overly familiar again. But I could not request that he call me Mrs Fitzroy now as I had not corrected him previously. ‘All in good time. You will meet him tomorrow. He gets tired easily and takes supper in his room. And with that, I bid you good night.’

He bowed, cutting off our conversation, and took his leave to say good night to Lucinda and Jane. It was then that I realised that the shroud of mystery he was creating around his father wasn’t for dramatic effect. There was something he wished to keep hidden. But what? A wave of weariness rolled over me, and I decided not to try to unpick the knot that was Mr Hart this late at night—I was only going to give myself a bad headache .

Mr Hart had given us a stub of one of the foyer candles by which to see, but it was still darker than sin, so Lucinda wished us to accompany her to her room. With both of them huddled on either side of me, I held the candle aloft, and we set off down the hallway. A faint creaking noise sounded overhead like someone was walking around.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Jane, and we all stopped to listen, but it did not come again. Lucinda made a whimpering sound in my ear.

‘It is nothing but the wind,’ I told her firmly. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts.’

‘Ghosts!’ she moaned. ‘I had not been thinking of them until now ...’

To get her mind off apparitions, I spoke cheerily of what we might do after breakfast the next day if the weather was fine. ‘We could explore the grounds, see what the castle looks like from the front , and it might have a library.’

‘Oh yes, it does have one,’ said Lucinda, loosening her grip on my arm so the blood could flow freely again. ‘Mr Hart said it contains quite an extensive collection of books. He told me he spent practically every waking moment of his teenage years in there when he was not at Eton.’

‘Ah! Well, then you will sleep like the dead having that to look forward to.’

Lucinda’s grip tightened on my arm again, and I sighed.

I really had to watch what I said around her.

In my room, I had another cursory wash (as I felt sullied after Mr Hart’s proximity under the table), removed my dress, and slipped between the cool sheets wearing my chemise. But that man’s sly words, wondering if I wore a chemise to bed or not, kept mocking me. And I fancied I could still feel the warm touch of his leg against mine. Oh, he was insidious! And his counterpart on the wall was not much better. His eyes seemed to search for me even in the darkness. It was a state of affairs not conducive to sleep even though I was dog-tired.

Frustrated, I threw back the covers, grabbed my shawl, and went next door to Jane’s. I knocked softly and poked my head around the door. She was in her nightdress and shawl hunched over a piece of paper on the nightstand. The candle had burnt low, so her proximity to what she was writing was such that she was nearly singeing her plait, and there were a fair few ink splotches on the page.

Jane lowered her quill and glanced round at me. ‘Can’t you sleep?’ she whispered.

I shook my head.

She sighed. ‘Neither can I. There are a thousand words in my brain clamouring for escape. I cannot wait to have my desk back tomorrow. This set-up is throwing me off my plot.’

I came in and sat on the edge of her bed, curling my feet under me for warmth .

‘Do you not think it strange that Mr Hart’s father has the door locked so promptly at night? Our luggage could surely have been delivered.’

Jane shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But it is a bit of a strange household altogether.’

Thank goodness I was not the only one who thought so!

Encouraged by this admission, I said, ‘Which part of the castle do you think Mr Hart is staying in? He did not mention it.’

‘Perhaps in one of the turrets ... Does it matter where he stays?’

For some reason, it did. I felt the need to know that gentleman’s whereabouts so I could keep tabs on him. But I did not want him to know that I was asking where his room was.

‘As Lucy’s chaperone, it is only proper that I make sure that he is well away from her room.’

Jane frowned and lowered her quill. ‘But he would not even accompany her upstairs. He is more decorous than you give him credit for.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Do you not trust him at all?’

This was the moment when I should share what I knew about Mr Hart’s relationship with Cecilia, but Jane was likely to say we should leave immediately, and I quailed at the thought of having to tell Lucinda the reason why. Then there were the transport arrangements that would have to be made by Mr Hart, and he would want to know why we were leaving when we had only just arrived. And the thought of that confrontation made me quail even more, not to mention having to bring up the sordid details of the affair with Mr Smith-Withers in attendance. The two of them were likely to deny the whole thing, and I would look like a fool.

No, it was easier to cling to the hope that Mr Hart had changed his ways and was courting Lucinda with the intention to marry. Of course, to believe the fable I was telling myself, I had to ignore his flirtatious behaviour towards me, which I was sure I was not imagining. It was all quite confusing.

‘I trust him to some extent,’ I said slowly. ‘And I suppose everything is above board. But I worry he is overly vivacious.’

Jane giggled. ‘Overly vivacious? Surely, vivacity of any kind is welcome in a young man. Would you have Lucy marry a boring toad like Mr Humbleton?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Well then, you should let nature take its course, and it will work out fine. Yes, the castle is a bit more “crumbly” than we expected, but that is actually perfect as it adds to the atmosphere I want to depict in my novel. A pristine castle would not do at all.’

Jane placed the page upon which she had been writing on top of the stack of blank paper Mr Hart had given her, and I realised he had won her over because he had proven he was a ‘writer’ and an ‘artist’. She had claimed him as a kindred spirit because of those professions. It would be hard work to convince her he was not a worthy gentleman unless I had solid proof of his duplicity. I needed more evidence than the testimony of a young girl whom he had supposedly corrupted.

I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. ‘I am getting cold. I should let you get some sleep.’

‘All right, Flissy. Good night. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

She waited until I had reached the door and blew out her candle and then dived under the bedcovers.

Feeling conflicted, I tiptoed down the dark hallway back to my room. But when I got there, the painting was still disturbing me—so much so that, in desperation, I threw my shawl over it. Covering up that charismatic gentleman was the only way I would get any sleep!

***

Breakfast was served in the dining hall, situated at the rear of the castle at the end of another dark passageway. In any other house, it would have been a relatively cosy affair, like our dinner the night before in the parlour. But the castle’s dining hall was the size of a small church with a wooden vaulted ceiling and a table that could seat at least thirty running down the middle.

‘This room is absurdly large,’ whispered Jane.

‘I know!’ I whispered back.

Wide-eyed, we helped ourselves from the numerous silver serving dishes on the long sideboard that contained bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms. There were also several racks of toast. Maurice must have been up since dawn frying all this , I thought. Unless the assistant cook has already arrived.

Mr Hart was seated opposite me, next to Lucinda, and the two of them were chattering away much too brightly for so early in the morning. Mr Smith-Withers was also interjecting with pithy observations and comments, making Jane giggle. I myself was still half-asleep after my restless night and concentrated solely on eating my breakfast despite Mr Hart attempting to draw me into their conversation. I felt it best to stare at my bacon and eggs rather than his jaw, which was glowing pink from being freshly shaved, or his eyes, which, when directed my way, caused a sensation of discomfort rather like the gentleman in the painting .

But after I had eaten my fill and drank a cup of strong tea, I felt rather more perky and in control of myself. Maurice came in near the end of the meal to tell us that our luggage (along with Jane’s writing desk) had been delivered, which was pleasing news.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ whispered Jane in my ear, and I felt glad for her. Now she could really get stuck into her story.

Maurice paused by my seat.

‘A letter for you, Mrs Fitzroy. My apologies. It arrived yesterday, but I forgot about it until this morning.’

He placed it next to my plate, and when I saw Max’s handwriting, I felt my spirits lift even further. This was turning out to be a most excellent day.

‘Receiving mail already!’ remarked Mr Hart, buttering his umpteenth piece of toast. ‘And who might be writing to you?’

‘It is from my husband, Mr Hart.’

‘Ah, he must be an astute man to discover your whereabouts so quickly.’

‘He is astute, but I wrote to him before we left telling him we had been invited to visit Hartmoor Castle. So it is not as much of a surprise to me as it may be to you.’

I did not speak with the intent to wound, but maybe he felt slighted as Mr Hart inclined his head without comment. Then after a brief pause, he changed the subject entirely. ‘Miss Fitzroy has requested a tour of the castle and the grounds this morning. How does that suit everyone?’

The rest of us murmured our assent.

‘Will the tour include the library too?’ Lucinda asked anxiously.

‘Yes, of course. The library is on the list of highlights, along with the dungeon ...’

‘Dungeon!’ said Jane, sounding awestruck. ‘How thrilling!’

I left them to it, saying I would ready myself for the tour now that my luggage was here. But really, I wanted to read Max’s letter privately in my room.

Dearest Fliss,

Forgive me for writing before you have sent your promised letter, but I wanted to send a note forthwith. In truth, I am surprised and a tad worried to hear of your castle excursion because it involves this Hart fellow again. It seems odd that he was initially described as a ‘scoundrel’, but an invite to visit his residence suggests he has lately risen in everyone’s esteem. Has Lucinda rejected her other suitors and now singularly focused upon him ?

I know I may be worrying out of turn, and I do not mean to suggest that you do not have good insight into men’s characters—only that if you have any concerns about this gentleman yourself and need advice on how to proceed, please let me know, and I will do my best to help from here. And if you require it, I will come down in the carriage and defend Lucinda’s honour (I am quite serious). Besides, Tobias left yesterday, so I now find myself at a loose end without his company.

Write soonest,

Love your Max xx

PS: George wants to know when you are coming home as he misses you terribly. He has quite gone off his oats.

I took a deep breath to stem my tears. As much as I wanted to see my dear Max, him travelling hundreds of miles to defend his niece’s honour was a bit ludicrous. For really, there was nothing to report when it came to Lucinda. The actual issue was Mr Hart being overly attentive and possibly showing a lack of propriety when it came to me! But how could I ask Max for advice about that? He would lose his mind, leap into his carriage, and come storming into the castle with a face like thunder, demanding a duel. I could imagine the amused look on Mr Hart’s face if he did that!

I ran to Jane’s room, swiped a piece of her paper and a quill, and hurriedly penned a reply.

Dear Max,

It was lovely to receive your letter at breakfast this morning. I have come upstairs immediately to write back! Darling, I appreciate your concern, but I hope I can set your mind at ease by saying you need not worry about anything. We arrived last night, and Mr Hart is being the most cordial and respectful host. In fact, he is going to give us a tour of the castle and grounds this morning. Apparently there is a library so Lucy is most eager to see that, as you can imagine.

I need to get ready for the tour now, but I will write more soon once I have something remotely interesting to share. Are you interested in medieval architecture at all, or does it bore you to tears?

Love your Fliss x x

PS: I miss George terribly too and hope he recovers his appetite soon—perhaps you could give him a few carrots now that you are so good at peeling them?

***

The first stop on the Hartmoor tour was the dungeon, accessed by a narrow flight of stone stairs from the kitchen. It was a small stale-smelling dark room strewn with straw.

‘We use it as a storage cellar now,’ said Mr Hart.

Indeed, when he held his candle up to show us the space, there were several sacks of potatoes piled up in one corner and a wooden rack of dusty wine in another. But he also pointed out some iron rings set into the far wall and said that was where the prisoners had been tied up.

‘How awful!’ said Lucinda. ‘Imagine being a prisoner trapped down here in the dark for weeks or maybe months.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mr Hart airily, leading the way back up the stairs. ‘I’m sure they made friends with one another. And it is dry at least and near the kitchen, so they were probably well fed. The cook could stand at the top and toss them down some bread and meat.’

He stood on the top step and mimed bowling a cricket ball. It was designed to amuse, but no one laughed. He pouted when we were back in the kitchen, saying we were ‘a difficult audience’.

‘If we do not respond to your liking, Mr Hart, it is because you joke about men’s suffering. And it is in rather poor taste to do so,’ I said primly.

‘My apologies, Mrs Fitzroy. I did not mean to offend any delicate sensibilities. But the prisoners have been dead for hundreds of years ...’

‘Still,’ I said, determined to press home my point, ‘it would be decent of you to show the dead some respect, even if on behalf of your forebears.’

He bowed politely and with an uppish smile said that he was glad that I had pointed out his error and that he would be far more considerate when showing guests the dungeon in future. I felt like rebuking him some more for mocking me but feared it would only encourage him, so I bit my tongue and let the others go on ahead.

Drawing my letter to Max out of my pocket (carefully folded, addressed, and sealed with one of the wafers I’d brought with me), I approached Maurice, who was cleaning some mud-caked potatoes in the sink.

‘Maurice, would it be possible to have my letter sent as soon as possible please? It is a reply to the one you brought me during breakfast. ’

The man smiled at me, and his brown eyes twinkled, which quite transformed his face. I thought my offer to help him last night had gone some way to softening his reserve and also trusting me as he seemed a lot friendlier.

‘Of course, Mrs Fitzroy,’ he said, wiping his dirty hands on his apron and taking the letter from me. ‘A mail coach passes by in the morning and afternoon on the way to the inn, and the driver always stops to collect any letters—not that we usually have any, so it will be a nice change to actually give him one.’

‘Excellent, thank you,’ I said, feeling glad that Max would soon have my comforting reply and be at ease. I looked at the mound of potatoes before him. ‘Did Mr Hart mention that he would hire a cook to help you with meals for the duration of our stay?’

‘Yes, he told me he had done so this morning.’

‘When will they be arriving?’

‘Tomorrow, I believe.’

‘All right. Until then, I hope you do not mind if I offer to assist you as I often do so in my own household when we have guests,’ I said, taking a leaf out of Max’s book. If he could peel vegetables, so could I!

‘Thank you, madam. I appreciate the offer,’ he said.

Feeling quite pleased with my cleverness, I walked away to follow behind the others, who had headed down the stone hallway to access the grounds. My plan was not only to help Maurice, but to find out more about our mysterious host and his reclusive father—but in a subtle way so as not to be detected .