Page 15 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

Mr Smith-Withers hurriedly told Lucinda that Royden’s ghost was something he had never seen himself, and it was only the product of servants’ vivid imaginations.

But it was too late—the damage was done. She was almost catatonic with fear at what he had said, no matter how much I chafed her hands and spoke sense to rouse her. Mr Smith-Withers stood by unrepentant, saying, ‘How was I to know she would react like that?’

I could have cheerfully strangled him. Whether the story was true or not, Lucinda was highly strung and possessed a vivid imagination herself due to all the reading she did, so I was not looking forward to having to reassure her that Royden’s ghost would not appear in her bedroom tonight. However, Mr Hart—most impressively, I had to admit—took control of the situation and single-handedly soothed her without the need of smelling salts.

He suggested calmly that it was time for luncheon and asked if she would allow him to escort her back. She nodded and took his arm, and he supported her down the stairwell. And as we walked to the main entrance, she leaned on him; and he spoke to her softly, saying something I could not hear. But his words seemed to have a miraculous effect as she stopped quivering, and her colour returned.

Not knowing exactly what he was saying bothered me a little, but I did not like to interfere since the girl had been severely afraid, and he was doing an admirable job of handling the situation.

My own recent encounters with Mr Hart and what I thought of them could wait. Lucinda’s well-being was my primary concern.

‘Are you all right now, Lucy? I am sorry that man’s thoughtless remark frightened you so,’ I said gently when she had composed herself and we were in the dining hall.

‘I am well. Thank you, Aunty Fliss. Mr Hart has promised me that it is only a story and I need not worry. He was very kind, and I feel a bit silly for acting as I did.’

‘I can stay with you tonight if you need me to—’

‘There is no need,’ she said quickly. ‘I mean, thank you for offering. But I would like to prove to Mr Hart that I can be brave and am not a child.’ She gave a hollow laugh.

I pursed my lips and said nothing further.

The simple meal of potato soup and lightly salted cucumber sandwiches, as well as fruit, biscuits, and cups of refreshing tea, helped restore a semblance of normalcy to our party; and no further mention was made of ghosts. But there was still an absence at the table that had not been explained.

‘Mr Hart, will your father be joining us for luncheon?’ I asked.

He was in the middle of eating a cheese sandwich Maurice had made specially for him as, apparently, ‘Master Dorian does not like cucumbers’ (a pity as the garden was full of them).

Pausing to wipe his mouth with a napkin, he said, ‘Unfortunately, he is not up to socialising today, Mrs Fitzroy.’

‘Oh, is he ill?’ Jane enquired, and I was glad she had asked the question. Indeed, this was the first time we had heard that Mr Hart Sr was in some way incapacitated. I had assumed he was reclusive.

‘He does not have a strong constitution’ was Mr Hart’s reply, and he resumed eating his cheese sandwich as if the subject were closed.

But I wanted to keep it open.

‘I am sorry to hear that as we were looking forward to meeting him. When do you think we shall?’

Mr Hart looked at me with an unreadable expression. ‘I cannot say exactly. But he knows you are all here and sends his greetings.’

‘I see. Well, I hope he will feel up to meeting us soon.’

‘Thank you. I hope so too,’ he said and took a large bite of his sandwich to make it clear that the subject was now well and truly closed.

I nodded and continued with my meal, but a knot of unease lodged in my ribcage. What was wrong with Mr Hart Sr that he could not even have luncheon with us?

After we had finished, Mr Hart suggested a quiet afternoon in the parlour with tea served at three o’clock, to which everyone readily agreed. I said that I would join them shortly, but that I wished to write to my husband (really, I wanted to speak to Maurice in the kitchen).

‘ Another letter, Mrs Fitzroy?’ said Mr Hart. ‘Have you not just written to him?’

‘That was a brief note. I wish to write a longer letter describing your atmospheric castle.’

I thought the compliment might make him relinquish me, but he was intent on keeping our group together.

‘You can do that easily in the parlour,’ he said with a frown. ‘There is a writing table, along with ample paper, ink, and quills—for you as well as Miss Austen.’

‘Ah, Miss Austen may like to use the table herself.’

I crossed my fingers and hoped that Jane would take the bait.

She nodded. ‘Thank you, Flissy. It is true. I am itching to write after our tour. ’

‘You see, Mr Hart, I must use the table in my room. But I am a fast writer, and I shall join you in half an hour. You shall hardly know I was away.’

I smiled as innocently as I could, and he inclined his head, but he did not look pleased.

With the notion that Mr Hart might come and fetch me if I was a minute later than half an hour, I knew I had little time in which to act. As soon as everyone had disappeared into the parlour, I did an about-turn and flew silently down the stairs and along the hallway to the kitchen.

Maurice was startled, but not overly surprised to see me, thanks to my forewarning of offering him assistance. He was in the middle of preparing a tray of food.

‘Is that for Mr Hart Sr’s luncheon?’ I enquired.

‘It is indeed.’ Oh, so he does exist , I thought, a pulse of excitement running through me.

‘Might I take that up for you? You must be busy down here.’

‘If you do not mind, that would be helpful. Thank you.’ He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, looking harassed. ‘The assistant cook is due to arrive shortly, and I need to be here to show them what to do.’

‘It is no trouble! If you would kindly give me directions to his apartment,’ I said, lifting the wooden tray up and down experimentally to see how heavy it was. It held a plate with a cheese sandwich, an unpeeled boiled egg, an apple, and some biscuits. So it was not overly laden. I noted that Mr Hart Sr also did not like cucumbers.

‘Yes, of course. If you go down the hallway that leads to the back entrance, there is an oak doorway about halfway along. Through it is a stairwell that leads up to the main turret. It is a bit dim, but there are arrow slits in the walls that provide some light. Mr Hart’s room is the first door on the left. He does not like to be disturbed ... So leave the tray outside the door, knock twice, and he will collect it when he is ready.’

I gulped. It all sounded strange and spooky indeed, especially after Mr Smith-Withers telling us about Royden Hart’s ghost flitting about the place. Maurice obviously had nerves of steel to live here, and I wondered if I should offer to stay in the kitchen and greet the cook while he took the tray. But this could be the only chance I had to solve the mystery of Mr Hart’s father (and of course, I was going to have to disobey instructions and go into his room to do so).

With a resolute breath, I hefted the tray and went off down the hallway to find the oak door.

The castle was not built for traversing a tray of food up a stairwell. Lord knew how Maurice did this. I was having a lot of trouble both keeping my balance and stopping the food from sliding off, especially the apple and the egg—they kept rolling around on the tray alarmingly. A blast of wind whistled through an arrow slit and wrapped around my neck like icy fingers. I almost flung the lunch into the air and made a run for it.

Emerging out of the stairwell at last, I peered tentatively down a gloomy stone-walled hallway with ancient threadbare carpet. Do not think of Royden Hart! I told myself firmly. But if ever there was a time for his ghost to appear, this was it! Fear was causing my limbs to seize up, but time was also ticking by, so I gave myself a set of stern instructions to force my feet to move.

It is the first door on the left. You will knock and open the door and greet his father. Do not be afraid.

This seemed to work, and upon following these dutifully, I found myself in a sparsely furnished room. A man with unkempt grey hair and a patchy beard was sitting by the window, reading a book. His grizzled appearance made him look old, but in truth, he could not have been more than fifty. He was dressed in simple trousers, a grubby white shirt, and a leather jerkin.

‘Good day,’ I said to him, nervously clutching the tray.

‘Good day,’ he replied gruffly, then looked closer at me with suspicious eyes. ‘Who in heaven’s name are you? Where is Maurice?’

‘I am one of your guests, Mr Hart. My name is Mrs Felicity Fitzroy, and I am assisting Maurice by bringing your luncheon,’ I said, indicating the tray with my chin.

‘One of my guests?’ he repeated, sounding amazed.

‘Yes, my niece and my friend are here with your son and his friend Mr Smith-Withers.’

‘Humph, the lawyer,’ said Mr Hart and beckoned me to bring the tray to his table, which I did. He immediately took a bite out of the sandwich and began peeling the boiled egg. ‘Yes, I knew he was here. I did not know Harry was too—he neglected to mention that,’ he mumbled through his mouthful.

‘Harry? Oh no, we are here with your youngest son, Dorian,’ I corrected.

‘Dorian?’ he echoed. ‘No, no, he is my eldest.’

I took a step backwards, wondering why he was saying that. How strange.

‘Has he not come to see you?’ I ventured. ‘We arrived yesterday in the early evening.’

He stared at his plate and shook his head once sharply.

‘How very bad of him,’ I said, quite forgetting myself.

Mr Hart’s expression turned stony, and he lifted his eyes to gaze at me, then looked at the half-peeled egg in his hand. ‘Yes, very bad,’ he said slowly and tightened his hand until I heard the shell crack. ‘Bad egg,’ he mumbled, and much to my dismay, he kept repeating it over and over. ‘ Bad egg, bad egg, bad egg ...’

‘Mr Hart, please stop. I am sorry,’ I said, feeling awful that I had triggered some kind of nervous complaint in him.

‘Very bad egg !’ he shouted and then, without warning, threw the egg violently at the stone wall in front of him, where it exploded into a mess of white, yellow, and pieces of shell. I stood there, gaping.

Shocked and frightened by his behaviour, I ran out of the room, along the corridor and down the stairwell—my feet having no trouble moving quickly now!

Arriving back in the kitchen, confused and shaken, I did not know what had just happened. Was it Mr Hart that his father was referring to as ‘bad’? Or was it indeed the boiled egg? Whichever it was, there was no doubt that he was suffering from some kind of mental condition.

I had no time to ask Maurice about it as I needed to go to the parlour forthwith and act calmly as if I had been writing a letter to Max. I did so and pulled it off admirably as no one suspected a thing.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly with reading and light conversation. But the encounter with Mr Hart Sr stayed uppermost in my mind, and I mulled over it constantly, wondering if I should attempt to talk to Maurice again to discover more .

After supper, a game of cards was suggested. But Lucinda said she was tired and wished to go to bed, and that immediately set Jane and me off with yawning. We bid good night to the gentlemen, who were staying up to have a glass of port.

But at the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated, looking towards the kitchen.

‘Are you not coming up, Aunty Fliss?’ asked Lucinda.

‘In a moment ... I might fetch a cup of milk to help me sleep. My head is a bit frazzled. But do you need me to come with you to your room first?’

She put her shoulders back and lifted her chin. ‘No, I will be perfectly fine.’

‘All right, brave girl. Pleasant dreams, and see you in the morning.’

She blew me a kiss and ran up the stairs after Jane, who called out, ‘Good night, Flissy!’ from the landing.

Excellent , I thought. Now I can talk to Maurice.

But when I reached the kitchen, it was cold and empty, and Maurice was not there. Sighing, I poured myself a cup of milk anyway from the earthenware jug in the larder and stood by the window, sipping it while looking out at the vegetable garden. The moon was rising, lighting up the cucumbers growing there, which made me think of cheese sandwiches, Mr Hart, his father, and exploding boiled eggs. Hopefully, I would be able to sleep with all that whirling around in my head!

Placing my empty cup in the sink, I turned and saw the outline of a wooden door—it was the one that led to the parlour, the one I had gone through with Maurice on the first night. One thought joined to another in rapid succession and led me to an obvious conclusion: Mr Hart and Mr Smith-Withers were conversing in the parlour ... And if I listened in, I might discover some truths!

The candles in there were still burning, but barely, and it was nerve-racking to walk down the ill-lit passage alone. But I steeled myself to do so, keeping one hand on the rough stone for guidance and feeling the way in front with one outstretched foot after another.

Eventually, I reached the parlour door, which had a strip of glowing light underneath, and heard the low rumble of male voices. I placed my ear against the wood, but it was solid and too thick to hear properly.

With a thudding heart, I inched the door open a crack, and their muffled conversation came through loud and clear.

‘And she is uncommonly pretty,’ said Mr Smith-Withers. ‘Plus her dowry makes it an advantageous match. Well done, you. All those mornings you dragged me around the pump room were worth it. ’

Mr Hart chuckled, and I heard the sound of glasses clinking.

‘Now if Father would only sign his updated will ... It is taking forever.’ He let out a frustrated sigh. ‘How was he this morning?’

‘His confusion is growing, especially with my encouragement. This morning, he firmly believed that you are the eldest and Harry the younger. But then he slipped back into lucidity and yelled at me to leave.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I will keep working on him,’ said Mr Smith-Withers.

‘Good, good, and I too with Lucy. She is enamoured enough by now, I think, to accept a proposal soon.’

‘You should watch out for the aunt. She could be a hindrance to it.’

‘Leave her to me,’ Mr Hart said.

‘Oho, what are you going to do with her?’

‘I’m not sure. But she is not unaffected by me, I think. Perhaps I can charm her into submission.’

Mr Smith-Withers chortled. ‘It is not working so far.’

He said something in a low voice to his friend and laughed. My cheeks burned, imagining he had said something indecorous about me. Oh, I was right in calling that man a weasel!

‘No, not that,’ replied Mr Hart. ‘Even if I have been thinking it. I have to keep my eye on the prize. I will propose to Lucy soon and consummate our engagement. She is practically begging for it anyway, and I do not want to wait for the wedding.’

Mr Smith-Withers guffawed drunkenly at that. ‘Indeed!’

‘Then with the will signed, I will be heir, and Harry shall have his loose change. When Father eventually carks it, the castle shall be mine. And with Lucinda’s generous dowry, I shall have a stipend to fund my lifestyle plus capital to restore it to its former glory. And you shall have your cut, of course, Smithy, and visit whenever and with whomever you like.’

There was another clinking of glasses.

‘And what will you do with your wife in the meanwhile?’

‘She can live here, while you and I partake in the pleasures of the Season in Bath and London. I’ll tell Maurice to relinquish his nursemaid duties of father to her and she can empty the old man’s pisspot.’

The two of them laughed uproariously, fuelled by port.

I could not believe my ears. So this was Mr Hart’s devious plan: to marry Lucinda for her money and cast her aside without a care so he could continue his reprobate ways when she doted upon him—even loved him. It was clear that he did not love her one jot and was involved in a terrible deception—of his own father no less! A fury rose in me so great that I nearly burst through the door and clawed his eyes out.

However, before I could move a muscle, something ran over my foot and started scrabbling at the crack in the door. A small brown field mouse shut up in the passageway had seen its chance for escape and life and decided now was the ideal time to make a run for it. Luckily, I did not mind mice and did not think to scream, but that did not matter because it started squeaking—very loudly—and roused attention anyway.

‘What the devil is that noise?’ asked Mr Smith-Withers from within.

‘It sounds like a mouse ,’ replied Mr Hart, sounding equally perplexed. ‘It seems to be coming from the ...’

I shrank back from the door and fled as quietly as I could down the passageway, with the mouse hot on my heels.