Page 14 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

The tour continued outside as we followed an overgrown path around to the front of the castle. Broken branches blocked our way at points, so we had to keep stopping for the gentlemen to clear them. The sky was a dull grey, and with the jackdaws circling and squawking at us from their roosts above, it did not make for a very pleasant walk.

Worst of all, as I was walking behind the pair, I noticed that Mr Hart was taking the opportunity to be intimate with Lucinda. Of course, he would now prove me wrong and not act the respectful host just when I had written to Max saying he was!

He would point out something trifling to distract me, and when he thought I was not looking, he would hold her hand in his! However, I cottoned on soon enough and cleared my throat loudly to indicate I had seen through his ruse, and he quickly stopped that nonsense. Lucinda did not seem to mind his impropriety and looked over her shoulder at me and shrugged slightly (and almost resentfully, I thought), as if to say, ‘Does it matter? He likes me.’

Aunt had been right when she had warned me in Steventon to stay vigilant. I was going to need eyes in the back of my head where Mr Hart was concerned.

I had been giving him the benefit of the doubt about the exterior of the castle and hoping that the front was in a better state of repair. But when we came to stand upon an unraked gravel drive with weeds poking through, I was dismayed to see the front had as much crumbling and gaping stonework as round the back. Jane and Mr Smith-Withers wandered off to a slimy green pond to see if it contained any fish, leaving me alone with Lucinda and Mr Hart.

‘So what do you think, ladies?’ said Mr Hart, smiling pleasantly. ‘Does Hartmoor meet with your approval?’

I noticed Lucinda kept peeking at the portico as it had another of those gargoyles crouched on top of it. The grinning creature was certainly unnerving. She nodded briefly at Mr Hart but did not say anything nor look too enthused. I had no such qualms, however, and could hold my tongue no longer.

‘Your castle looks quite different to the sketch you drew us in Bath,’ I remarked. ‘Pray, why did you not draw its true likeness?’

A flash of annoyance crossed Mr Hart’s face as he turned to me, but his agreeable features quickly smoothed. ‘I do not know why you think it is so different,’ he said. ‘Everything in the sketch is as you see it now.’ He gestured at the turrets. ‘What do you think, Lucy? Do you not think it a good likeness?’ he asked, turning his attention to Lucinda.

‘Oh yes, Dory, I believe so,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from the gargoyle and looking up at him. He smirked at her in a self-satisfied kind of way.

I did not know what rattled me more: them calling each other Dory and Lucy or the fact he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes.

Drawing myself up to my full height, I gave him a stern glare.

‘Mr Hart’, I said firmly, ‘may I remind you it is proper to address my niece as Miss Fitzroy. And forgive me for saying so, but your castle is in a shocking state of disrepair. It needs extensive masonry work—’

‘It has a few missing stones.’

‘It has more than a few. And there is a gargoyle, for goodness’ sake!’ I exclaimed, pointing at the stone creature with a shudder. ‘You did not draw that!’

‘It is difficult to draw,’ retorted Mr Hart stiffly.

I gave a cold little laugh. ‘Surely not for a superior artist such as yourself.’

‘I had only a short amount of time to sketch. If I had had an hour or two, then I believe even I could have met your high standards of realism,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Forgive me, but criticising my abode when I have been kind enough to invite you to stay is not good manners.’

‘And it is not good manners to deceive us about said abode in the first place!’

‘There is no deception, woman—only your determination to be bloody pedantic!’ Mr Hart spat, his jaw tight and eyes dark and narrowed.

Gracious, this was escalating quickly. But it was satisfying to crack his smooth veneer and catch a glimpse of who he really was. My heart was bouncing in my chest as he took a step towards me, his eyes boring into mine. But strangely, at that moment, I was quite unafraid and riled enough to batter him if need be. I curled my hands into fists against my sides in preparation (though I doubted I would be able to do much damage—he was not broad, but he was tall and had strong wiry arm muscles. I had witnessed them when he had rolled up his shirtsleeves on the journey here).

Lucinda, who had been swinging her head backwards and forwards between us like a pendulum, spoke up nervously. ‘Ah, I believe Jane and Mr Smith-Withers are ready to continue the tour ... I will go and tell them we are coming now.’

With a fearful glance at Mr Hart, she scurried off to the others, who were looking over curiously.

Realising he had scared her, Mr Hart stepped back and hooked a finger into his cravat to loosen it, as if to cool down. Indeed, he was breathing heavily and had high colour in his cheeks. He chewed his lower lip and glanced at me, and I could see he was trying to figure out how to best manage the situation. But I did not want to be managed. All my earlier worries about confronting him had disappeared. It felt good to speak up and air my feelings, and I was itching to push him further and ask him a few choice questions about his father to see how he reacted. However, Mr Hart had other ideas.

‘Come now, Felicity,’ he said placatingly. He tilted his head at me and smiled like his usual smarmy self. ‘We are having a pleasant tour. You do not want to spoil it for everyone, do you? Let us shake hands and be friends.’ He held out his hand to me, but I did not want to touch his bare skin with my own. It was much too dangerous when I was in this fizzing kind of mood. So I refused to take it.

‘It is Mrs Fitzroy ,’ I said sharply. ‘And I don’t want to be friends with you.’ I stalked off towards the others, ignoring the pained expression on his face because I did not believe he felt any hurt whatsoever. It was all part of his ploy to trick us. For what reason, I did not know yet, but I was determined to find out!

‘Whatever was that about, Flissy?’ asked Jane as I reached them. ‘Why were you and Mr Hart quarrelling?’

I glanced back and saw that the gentleman in question was kicking at a stone ledge of an old dried-up fountain with the toe of his boot, causing chips to fly off. With his shoulders up around his ears, he looked like a sulky child that had been given a telling-off.

‘I simply pointed out that the castle he sketched for us was nothing like it is in reality,’ I said, surprised that he was behaving in such a manner when I had moved on from our spat already.

Mr Smith-Withers clicked his tongue in an exasperated fashion. ‘You should not have done so, Mrs Fitzroy. Dory is a sensitive artist and suffers greatly when people find fault with his work,’ he said, giving me a contemptuous look. ‘I will see how he fares. He may wish to rest and take tea indoors.’

I rolled my eyes at his departing back.

‘I might go and see if Mr Hart is all right too,’ said Lucinda anxiously. ‘I very much wish to see the library, so I hope he can continue with the tour.’

I was pleased that she was back to addressing him formally. Her calling him Dory had brought to mind Cecilia Spencer. She must have heard Mr Smith-Withers addressing him so.

‘Yes, all right,’ I told her. ‘We will do a turn about the drive in the meanwhile.’

Lucinda ran off, and I linked arms with Jane.

‘I am sure Mr Hart will recover in due course,’ she whispered to me as we strolled around the drive, and I fought the urge to laugh.

‘If he is that sensitive about his art, then perhaps he should give it up and find a more useful occupation,’ I replied.

‘Like what?’ queried Jane.

‘I don’t know—a butcher, a baker ...’

‘A candlestick maker,’ she finished with a giggle.

I shushed her quickly. For if delicate Mr Hart should hear us laughing about him and become reoffended, he might cancel the tour altogether. Then Lucinda would be upset at not seeing the library. I supposed I should try to be civil to him to keep the peace. Otherwise, the remainder of our stay would be extremely awkward. I also did not want him cutting it short before I learned anything important.

***

Fortunately, Mr Hart did recover enough to continue and gave us a tour of the grounds near the castle. These consisted of a rabbit-infested meadow and an orchard with around two dozen apple trees that needed a good prune. There was also a vegetable garden near the kitchen, which was in a much healthier state with neatly planted rows of carrots, turnips, cucumbers, and cabbages. I suspected Maurice tended that.

‘Now for the pièce de résistance, the library,’ declared Mr Hart.

‘Ooh, goodie,’ said Lucinda, clapping her hands, and he smiled at her.

‘Yes, I have not forgotten, although I did consider leaving it for another day as I did not feel up to it.’ He looked at me with a wounded expression. However, I averted my eyes and stared pointedly at a cabbage. Obviously, I was still not forgiven, and Lord, was he milking it!

The library was accessed through the smaller south turret, and we had to ascend a spiral staircase to reach it. Mr Hart led us up, and we followed him in single file, clutching at a rope railing. ‘Watch your heads at the top,’ he cautioned. ‘The doorway is low and has an overhanging stone. I have banged my head on it several times.’

Pity he does not bang his head on it now , I thought. It might knock some sense into him.

Up until now, I had not been particularly impressed with anything on the tour (including Mr Hart’s attitude!), but this changed when I ducked through the doorway and beheld the splendid library. Curved wooden shelves rose six high and were filled with hundreds of leather-bound volumes. Round porthole-style windows, set at intervals throughout the turret walls, ensured that there was enough light to see by; and if not, there were plenty of candles and lanterns waiting to be lit. Woven rugs had been placed on the flagstones to make it cosy, and there were several comfortable chairs with folded blankets in the middle of the space. I imagined you could curl up here and read to your heart’s content or at least until you got too hungry to concentrate.

‘Oh, it is wonderful!’ cried Lucinda, running over to a shelf and immediately starting to browse the titles.

‘I think you have lost Lucy for the rest of the stay,’ Jane commented to Mr Hart.

He chuckled, looking pleased. ‘And do you like it too, Miss Austen?’ he asked her.

‘I do, very much so,’ she said, looking around with a small smile. ‘As libraries go, this is one of the most unusual I have ever been in. But I have a test to ascertain its true excellence—does it contain any romance novels?’

Mr Hart bowed. ‘Of course, there is a whole section dedicated to the latest ones. Please follow me.’

Now we have lost Jane too , I thought, amused.

They went off, and I was left with Mr Smith-Withers, who had plucked an encyclopaedia-sized book from a bottom shelf and was seated in an armchair. It seemed to contain nothing but maps, but if that interested him, who was I to judge?

Idly, I wandered along the nearest shelf, peering at the titles. It was a whole row of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets bound in rich red leather with gilt-tooled spines. I was interested in the Bard’s works per se, but not enough to sit down and read any at present. Yet it appeared we were to be here until luncheon the way everyone was settling in. Perhaps I should go and peruse the romance novel section too? I was just about to when I spied, on the next shelf over, The Monk: Volume One; and nestled next to it were volumes two and three. Oh, Jane would be thrilled. She could read the next instalment here and need not wait for it to become available in Bath. I looked around to call her over, but she was animatedly discussing something with Mr Hart. No matter, I would tell her later.

My fingers brushed the spines of the books next to The Monk and landed on another familiar title: Fanny Hill . I jerked my hand back, as if it were burned, and looked around. But no one had noticed anything. Harriet had returned her banned copy of Fanny Hill to cousin Erica as soon as she got engaged to Evan, but I could still recall us giggling over some of the more lurid scenes. It was definitely educational, but not the kind of book young ladies should be reading. I would not, therefore, be recommending it to Lucinda. Seraphina would kill me if I did. But how funny to discover a copy here!

There were a number of books in plain black leather covers sitting next to it. Curiously, I pulled one out and turned to the title page: Teaching Molly by Anonymous.

It seemed to fall naturally open at a certain page, so I skim-read a couple of paragraphs. As I did, my eyes widened. A gentleman was visiting a housemaid called Molly in her chamber and was not being shy about his intentions.

He requested politely that Molly remove her chemise, but she refused, calling him a beast for asking. Yet to his frustration, she began teasing him by untying it and showing him a bare silky shoulder, then a glimpse of her white voluptuous bosom. This whipped him into a impolite and uncontrollable passion. He started chasing her round the room, whereupon there was much giggling (from her) and grunting (from him). She made a bid for escape out the door and almost achieved it, but he caught hold of her chemise at the last minute and unceremoniously ripped it from her. Molly, naked and laughing, was thrown onto the bed, where he proceeded to unleash his fervent desire and teach her an enjoyable lesson ...

Blushing furiously, I slapped the book shut and shoved it back into its rightful place on the shelf. Good Lord, now I knew why the book’s cover was so discreet. I seemed to have stumbled upon the library’s smut section. No wonder Mr Hart had spent practically every waking moment of his teenage years in here when he was not at Eton!

‘Find anything you like, Mrs Fitzroy?’ a low voice said from behind me, and I spun around guiltily to find Mr Hart leaning casually against the bookshelf. He took one look at my pink cheeks and chuckled. I groaned inwardly. Trust him to come across me riffling through erotica. How utterly embarrassing! But maybe I could brazen my way through it.

‘No, not on this particular shelf, Mr Hart,’ I said, shaking my head at him reproachfully. ‘You would do well to keep these books under lock and key in case any innocent young ladies happen upon them by accident.’ I looked pointedly at Lucinda, who was curled up in an armchair, her nose in a book.

‘So you do not put yourself in the category of “innocent young lady” then?’ he drawled. I glanced back at him, and he was staring at me so intently that I gulped.

‘Well, no, of course not. I am married and well versed in what occurs in the bedroom,’ I said decorously. I meant to give the impression that I was a mature woman and had no need of such silly books, but I realised that saying I was well versed in the bedroom was not a good thing to tell a rake.

‘Indeed,’ he replied huskily.

Oh no, this was dangerous. I needed to get off the subject of ‘the bedroom’ immediately. ‘Er, so shall we be having luncheon soon?’

‘Yes, in a little while. Hmm, I wonder what was it about this book in particular that you were so absorbed in,’ he said thoughtfully.

To my horror, he reached across and plucked out Teaching Molly and unabashedly flipped to the page I had been reading! It was either to get back at me for my earlier admonishment or to make me feel even more excruciatingly uncomfortable than I already did. Whichever it was, it worked. My ears burned in shame as he scrutinised the passage with a smirk on his face, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

‘Well well well,’ he said, closing the book. He placed it back on the shelf, accidentally on purpose brushing my shoulder as he did so. ‘How interesting that out of all the books in the library, you should gravitate to this one.’

‘I did not “gravitate” to it!’ I hissed. ‘I was simply browsing and happened upon it. ’

‘Thousands would believe you. I do not,’ he said. ‘But have no fear, Mrs Fitzroy. Your secret penchant for erotic literature is safe with me.’ He tapped his nose.

My mouth dropped open, incensed at this.

‘But ... but ...’ I stammered.

‘Uh-uh, the lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ he said, wagging a finger. His laughing eyes lingered on mine and then lowered, most audaciously, to my décolletage! I was shocked into silence as he scoured my cleavage, then slowly raised his gaze back up to mine with a knowing smile. I stared at him helplessly, feeling like he had trapped me into a corner. Oh, he looked like an angel, but he was the devil incarnate and the worst man I had ever encountered!

‘Mr Hart?’ Lucinda’s dulcet tones broke the spell he was weaving over me, and both of us whipped our heads round simultaneously to look at her.

‘Who is Harrington Hart?’

Mr Hart blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘Harrington. He has written his name all over this book. Look there, on the front page.’ She pointed to it. ‘And also here, in the margin.’ She jabbed a finger. ‘But here, he shortens it to Harry.’ Lucinda sniffed. ‘Whoever Harry is, he does not seem to appreciate that other readers do not want to see his graffiti.’

Mr Hart walked over to Lucinda and took the book from her outstretched hand. He looked at the pages with the offending signature but did not say anything.

‘Who is Harry, Mr Hart?’ I prompted, glad that he had been distracted from torturing me by the bookcase.

‘My elder brother,’ Mr Hart said flatly after a pause.

Lucinda and I looked at each other. ‘Your brother! But I thought you were an only child?’ I said, confused.

‘No, I never said so.’

‘Well, you never mentioned you had a brother.’

Mr Hart handed the book back to Lucinda and perched on the edge of an armchair. Jane was trying hard to look as if she were fixated on her book, but I did not blame her if she was listening in. He had a brother!

‘We had a falling-out. We try not to be at the castle at the same time.’

Oh no , I thought. Not two Mr Harts in existence. ‘Is he ... like you?’

‘Not much in personality, though we do look rather similar. My father mixes us up quite frequently.’

‘It’s the Hart bloodline,’ piped up Mr Smith-Withers from his map reading. ‘You all look the same.’

‘The painting in my room ... He is definitely one of your relations,’ I said, rubbing my arms. My shawl was still obscuring the painting as I had not been able to bring myself to take it down, so I was half-chilled.

Mr Hart glanced at me. ‘Yes, that’s Royden Hart, my uncle. He was a bit of a dab hand with the sword.’

Mr Smith-Withers guffawed. ‘And with the ladies! He got into a spot of trouble with a friend’s wife and came to an untimely end. He was only thirty!’

‘He was murdered?’ exclaimed Lucinda, sounding shocked, and even Jane looked up from her book at that.

‘Yes, he was run through with his own sword,’ confirmed Mr Hart. He pressed his lips together tightly and did not seem pleased that Mr Smith-Withers was doling out family history without his consent. But now I knew about Royden Hart’s demise, those eyes made more sense. No wonder he looks so annoyed—he was cut down in his rakish prime.

‘He’s still giving us trouble too,’ continued Mr Hart. ‘One of our previous maids refused to clean your room, Mrs Fitzroy. She said it felt like Royden was looking at her from the painting and that it gave her the creeps. You are much too sensible to believe such a notion surely?’

I shuddered. ‘Actually, I happen to agree with her. I can’t say I like that painting much myself.’

‘There is no need to worry. You will be quite safe in that room,’ he said quietly. And I felt slightly comforted by him saying it, as much as one could be comforted by a rogue .

‘Yes, you will be quite safe in there!’ crowed Mr Smith-Withers. ‘His ghost tends to frequent the orchard, the dining hall, and ... the pink bedroom.’

‘Oh no, please noooo,’ whimpered Lucinda. Her eyelids fluttered, and to my horror, she looked ready to faint.