Page 19 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

‘Ah, Mrs Fitzroy, are your companions coming down?’ enquired Mr Hart, checking his watch when I entered the dining room the next morning. He and Mr Smith-Withers had not waited and were halfway through their breakfasts.

My hand shook as I helped myself to some toast, two fried eggs, and some bacon from the sideboard. I had practically no appetite, but I had to give the appearance of normality.

‘I am afraid my niece is under the weather this morning, and Miss Austen is attending to her,’ I replied, sitting down.

‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ asked Mr Smith-Withers.

‘No, no, just a headache. She slept poorly last night.’

Mr Hart said nothing in commiseration, but he was staring at me with an inscrutable expression, and my skin prickled with unease. A faint redness lingered on his left cheek from where I had slapped him. I averted my eyes from his and concentrated on eating.

‘Though it is a pity Lucy is not well enough to go raspberry picking,’ I remarked after a short while, as if it were troubling me.

‘Yes. Well, that can wait,’ said Mr Hart disinterestedly.

I swallowed my mouthful of food and forced myself to say with a smile, ‘But there is no need to postpone it. She said she is quite happy for me to go in her place.’

Mr Hart lowered his fork. ‘You will accompany me?’

I nodded. ‘And Mr Smith-Withers too, of course.’

Mr Hart gave his friend a pointed glance, and Mr Smith-Withers said hastily, ‘I have no wish to pick raspberries, but I will gladly partake of them with cream at supper. I shall be in the library if anyone wants me.’

‘Excellent,’ said Mr Hart, looking pleased. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and settled back in his chair, his eyes upon me.

Excellent indeed, I thought. Everything was going to plan.

***

As soon as she had awoken, I had told Jane of Lucinda’s request to leave the castle. Jane, like me, thought her change of tune rather queer but agreed with me that at least Lucinda would get into the mail coach without making a fuss .

But the more I thought about it, the chance of us making it onto the mail coach without Mr Hart hindering us in some way seemed slim.

‘Jane’, I said urgently, ‘I think we need to be cleverer about this if we want to escape. Mr Hart ... He may try to stop us from leaving.’

‘He cannot,’ said Jane staunchly. ‘We are grown women, for goodness’ sake!’

‘But we know about his plan to inherit the castle,’ I said soberly. ‘He might keep us here to stop us from telling anyone, and he may never let us go. Remember, there is a dungeon with thick walls. He and Mr Mr Smith-Withers could tie us up down there, and no one would hear us screaming. And I did not mention it to Max in my letter so he would not know to look for us down there if he came searching.’

Jane looked horrified. ‘I did not think of that. Oh, Flissy, what should we do?’

‘I am not sure ...’ But as soon as I said that, it became all too clear what had to happen, and my heart sank. I was going to have to sacrifice myself to enable Jane and Lucy to get away ...

***

Mr Hart wanted to go on the raspberry-picking excursion immediately after breakfast, but it was too soon for the mail coach. I managed to delay him for another hour by saying I needed to write a letter to Max. He grumbled at that, but I remained firm, and he acquiesced. No doubt my agreeing to go had softened him up to some extent, and as he probably had some plan up his sleeve to try to compromise me, I knew I was going to have to keep my wits about me. With that in mind, I tucked my letter opener into my dress pocket. Having a weapon of some sort made me feel more confident about being alone with him.

Jane and Lucinda were packed and ready to go with their carpet bags and mine too. While Mr Hart and I were raspberry picking, they would hitch a lift on the mail coach when it arrived promptly at eleven o’clock. Maurice had said this was how Mrs Webber had arrived, so I did not think there would be an issue, and I had given Jane some money to pay the driver handsomely for his trouble.

Lucinda stayed quiet, listening to us talk over our plan, and only nodded occasionally. I was somewhat surprised that she did not question why she and Jane were leaving the castle in secrecy. I thought that she would demand to say goodbye to Mr Hart. But she seemed in very dull spirits indeed, and I assumed she was feeling the effects of homesickness .

The next part of the plan was a little more precarious. I had to make Mr Hart believe that Lucinda was still poorly and that Jane was attending to her, but that she would come down for supper. I would pretend to finish my letter in my room, but really, I would wait in readiness for the afternoon mail coach. Before it arrived, I would slip Maurice the explanatory note I had written for him and say that, as I had a letter, I would take it out to the driver myself. Instead of returning to the castle, I would hop into the coach and request the driver to take me with him to the inn. I would be away before Mr Hart had even noticed I was gone.

‘I do not like leaving you here with him,’ said Jane worriedly when Lucinda had gone back to her room to wait for Jane’s signal.

‘It is the only way,’ I replied. ‘You know how he likes to control things. It is too much of a risk to think he would let all of us waltz out of here freely. We have to be smarter.’

She did not look convinced, and I took her hands in mine. ‘Do not worry, Jane. We will be eating supper together at the inn tonight and congratulating ourselves at having escaped the clutches of those two men unscathed.’

‘And if they come looking for us?’

‘I will tell the innkeeper we are being pursued by a couple of rogues and pay him well if he has some burly friends who can protect us in case they decide to call. ’

‘All right. But if you do not appear at the inn on the afternoon coach, then I am sending those same burly men to the castle to search for you.’

I swallowed nervously, praying that if she did so, I would be in a fit state to rescue. ‘I should go. I cannot keep him waiting any longer. Otherwise, he’ll get suspicious, and the mail coach is due shortly.’

‘Goodbye. Good luck!’ We exchanged cheek kisses, and I left her with a strange mix of nervous excitement bubbling inside of me. For I was eager for our plan to work and to defeat Mr Hart and his friend. In my mind, it had become more than a trio of ladies escaping ‘a couple of rogues’—it was now a fight of good versus evil.

I exited the castle with Mr Hart, and we made our way down the path to the orchard. He was clutching a wicker basket and was wearing old breeches and a black linen shirt—his berry-picking outfit, I presumed, so he did not stain his good clothing. Maurice had given me one of his aprons to wear over my dress when we stopped off at the kitchen to collect the basket.

The raspberries were down the back of the orchard, a long hedge full of globules of ripe red fruit. Mr Hart was unusually quiet, but when we had been picking the berries for a few minutes with the basket on the ground between us, he said, ‘I am surprised that you agreed to be alone with me after last night, Felicity.’

I shrugged nonchalantly as I detached a raspberry from its stalk and placed it carefully in the basket. I was picking as slowly as possible to give Jane and Lucinda enough time to get away.

‘Despite what you might think, I am not affected by you,’ I said.

‘Is that so?’

I glanced over to find Mr Hart watching my shaking hand with amusement. It was worry that was making my fingers shake and squish the raspberries, not being close to him! Taking a deep breath, I wiped crushed berries and juice onto my apron.

‘That one was overripe,’ I explained. I had to calm down. He was sharp and observant and liable to suspect something if I did not control myself.

‘Mmm, those ones are the best,’ said Mr Hart, picking off a couple of fat, juicy raspberries and popping one in his mouth. ‘Here.’ He offered me the other on his outstretched palm like a peace offering.

‘Ah, if we eat them, there will be less to put in the basket,’ I said, reluctant to take anything from him.

‘There are plenty here. Go on, try one—not that you need sweetening up.’ His mouth tilted in a smile.

I sighed. ‘Very well.’

I was about to take the large raspberry from his palm, but before I could, he was holding it gently against my lips. The fruit was plump and warmed by the sun, and as I bit into it, some juice dribbled down my chin.

‘Whoops,’ Mr Hart murmured and wiped it away softly with his thumb, which he then licked slowly, watching me.

My belly tightened, and I turned away, annoyed at myself for reacting to him. He smirked to himself, which made me even more annoyed.

Faintly in the distance, I heard wheels crunching on unraked gravel at the front of the castle, and I knew the mail coach had arrived. I had to bear Mr Hart’s ridiculous flirtations for a bit longer for the sake of the others. But I did not have to stand so close to him to do so. I moved a few paces away and continued picking, ignoring his presence. But this only seemed to encourage him all the more, and by the by, he was standing next to me again.

‘I have to say, I am most impressed by you withstanding my advances, Felicity. Most women would have had their wicked way with me by now.’

‘I am not most women,’ I said coldly. ‘And I am married.’

‘That is true for the former, but the latter is not usually an obstacle,’ he replied in a confident tone as he continued to rapidly pluck raspberries. ‘Well, admittedly, it can be somewhat of a challenge to persuade married women to cheat on their husbands, and the endless flirtation can be tiresome. But it is so rewarding when they finally give in to me.’

I shuddered, wondering how many women he had seduced and discarded ... how many marriages he had ruined.

‘You, for instance, had me intrigued from the start. From the night we first met at the ball ...’

‘Oh?’ I said, listening with half an ear for the sound of crunching gravel to resume.

‘During our dance, you said you were thinking of me as your husband. And I know it was only in jest, but I started thinking, “What if I was? What if she could persuade me to live a better life?”’ He huffed a short laugh. ‘But I fear there is no hope for me … unless you can give me some ...’

I had not really been attending to anything Mr Hart was saying as I was too busy listening out for the reassuring crunch of gravel. There! The sound of wheels moving off down the drive finally came to my ears, and I let out a pent-up sigh of relief. Jane and Lucinda had escaped!

‘Felicity ...’

Something about the wistful, but urgent tone in Mr Hart’s voice made me glance at him .

‘Yes, Mr Hart?’ I asked. ‘Have you finished picking?’

‘You have not been listening to me,’ he said querulously.

‘Ah, my apologies. What were you saying?’

‘I have been trying to convey that I have strong feelings for you ...’

My fingers stilled on the raspberry I was about to pick. A bird warbled in the copse of trees somewhere off to the left, and I could feel the heat of the sun broiling the top of my head through my bonnet.

Incredulously, I turned to face him . ‘Pardon? ’

Mr Hart spoke quickly, not meeting my eyes. ‘It is a strange thing for me to admit, I know, as everything you think of me I am and probably worse. But last night, you handed me a mirror, and I was forced to face the truth. I do not like what I see, Felicity. I am ashamed of how I acted, and I want to try to be a better man for you.’

He took my limp hand from the raspberry bush and kissed my fingers, then pressed it against his smooth cheek.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked with a half smile, gazing at me.

‘I am thinking you are ludicrous and c-corrupt,’ I stuttered.

‘I am. For now. But I want to change my ways. Did you not hear what I said?’

Carefully, I extracted my hand from his, not wanting to startle him. He was clearly insane. ‘Mr Hart, if I am not mistaken, you were telling me about how rewarding it is to seduce married women. In your next breath, you profess to have strong feelings for me ...’ I shook my head. ‘Forgive me if I am a little confused.’

He smiled at my expression of bewilderment. ‘Does not night turn into day? Can not a rake be changed by love?’

I shook my head. ‘No, you have no clue about what it means to love someone.’

‘You think I am not capable of love?’

‘Passion maybe, but not love.’

Mr Hart’s face fell, and his expression turned mournful. ‘Then who have I been dreaming of at night, and who have I been aching for?’

He stroked my cheek. ‘What is love but the joining of two souls? Our souls, Felicity.’

‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Please do not say that. I don’t believe you.’

Thoughts whirled through my brain. This cannot be happening. He is trying to trick me. He does not love me. Oh dear, this was not a good plan to use myself as a decoy!

I attempted to bring some semblance of reason to his assertions, which were starting to sound too serious for my liking.

‘Sir, I am flattered by your attention, but the fact remains that I love my husband and am married to him. If we are speaking of souls, then mine is joined to his, and I do not want to be parted from him.’

‘I can give you something different—something deeper ... something more thrilling. You know I can ...’ He took my hand again and stroked my fingers.

I gave a scornful laugh despite my body lighting up at his touch. What he was saying was completely absurd! ‘What you are suggesting would be certain ruin for me, to be connected to a man such as yourself. Have you thought about that?’

He shrugged. ‘It is true I am low on funds. But if it is money and your reputation you are worried about, then Smithy is an excellent lawyer. I am sure he could arrange a generous settlement with your husband to keep things quiet.’

I wrenched my hand away from his. ‘So this is the truth of it. You want me for my money? What you can get out of a liaison with me?’

‘No, it is not about the money. But we will need something to live on and for repairs.’ He gestured at the castle. ‘Think of it. Once I inherit, you would be the mistress of Hartmoor. We could restore it together.’

‘But that is a deception at the expense of your father and your brother. ’

‘Harry’s inheritance is a mere technicality because he is two years older than me. He does not care about Hartmoor like I do. After Mother died, he had no wish to have anything to do with it. As far as he is concerned, it can rot. I do not want that to happen—it is my home.’

He sounded so sincere that I was inclined to believe him. His reaction when I had criticised his sketch of Hartmoor—his vision of how he wanted his home to look—had been passionate. Perhaps he had felt that I was saying he was flawed when he had wanted me to like him.

I was so confused that I did not know what to believe about Mr Hart. Was he good? Was he bad? All I knew was that I had to make it to the inn—because if I didn’t, my life could take a very different turn.