Page 8 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

After ‘bun day’ (as I privately referred to it), Mr Hart was a permanent fixture at 13 Queen Square. He was either calling in to see if we were free for a jaunt, sending invites about future jaunts, or popping in from jaunts of his own to join us for afternoon tea. Sometimes he lingered for so long that the afternoon turned into evening, and he stayed for supper and a game of whist. He and Edward got along famously, and Jane found him ‘very witty’ and ‘amusing’. Elizabeth also enjoyed his company.

I had not pressed Lucinda for her thoughts and feelings, but if the day did not involve a visit or at least an invite from Mr Hart for a jaunt, then she was mightily subdued. And although he was always careful to include everyone in his invitations, we were under no illusion of why he was visiting—he was courting Miss Lucinda Fitzroy. She received his first bow when he entered the room, and she was the first to be offered his hand when boarding his carriage. It was as it should be.

Jane often begged off a walk around to the pump room if it was drizzling or a stroll on the lawn of the Royal Crescent if the weather was windy, stating that she wished to write. So it fell to me, as Lucinda’s official chaperone, to accompany the pair no matter the weather. But it gave me time to closely observe Mr Hart’s behaviour, and on each occasion, it was impeccable. He did not touch her, unless to help her in and out of his carriage or to proffer his arm if the cobblestones were slippery. And I began to trust, as we all did, that his intentions towards my niece were honourable, that he held an affection for her (as she did for him), and that it was deepening each day.

Whatever attention he had directed to me at the ball faded in my mind until I was wondering if it had only been in my imagination. Indeed, he was nothing but polite and friendly to me in company. There was no subtle flirtation of any kind. I was glad and relieved that I had not said anything to Jane, for it may have coloured her opinion of him; and I knew that she, along with Elizabeth and Edward, held him in the highest regard.

Mr Hart was staying in an apartment in Royal Crescent, which he said was ‘but a ten-minute walk from Queen Square and on the carriage route to the pump room, so very convenient all round for visiting’. But we never saw his lodgings, as he seemed to prefer our house to his, and lamented that his place was ‘rather draughty as it took in the wind coming directly off the crescent’ and that he would hate for any of us to catch a chill whilst taking tea.

During this time, Max and I had resolved the timing of our correspondence; and I had fallen into a rhythm of waiting until the delivery of his letter, then writing immediately to reply. The mail delivery between Bath and Derbyshire was reliable enough that I was receiving a letter from him every two to three days. It grounded me to have regular contact with him, especially as Mr Hart was always on the scene and who, with his good looks and sparkling humour, was a wholly distracting presence at the whist table.

Writing to Max meant I had an excuse from playing, and while the others enjoyed themselves, I would sit at the desk in the corner and compose my replies.

It was no chore to do so. I enjoyed it as Max was an excellent letter writer and had a very droll sense of humour. In one letter, he wrote,

In your absence and in my desire to leave off the wine, I find myself gravitating to the kitchen in search of company. The cook has become rather used to me sitting at the bench, helping to prepare vegetables for supper. I can now peel a carrot in under ten seconds .. .

Whether he was actually carrying out this task or trying to make me laugh, I could not tell. But knowing Max, it was a little of both. My reply was thus:

Darling, I am glad that you are making new friends and learning some culinary skills in the process. Does this mean that you will next be taking up a duster and beating the rugs? I hope when I return that you will possess a range of household skills as this will make you even more desirable as my husband ...

Often, I would chuckle away to myself; and in doing so one evening, I attracted notice from Mr Hart. ‘Pray, what is so funny, Mrs Fitzroy?’ he asked, looking up from his cards.

‘Only my husband’s letter, Mr Hart. He has a way with words that amuses me immensely.’

‘Indeed,’ said the man, sounding curious. ‘What exactly has he written, if I may ask?’

But I shook my head and said it was a private joke, and Mr Hart nodded and did not question me further. I got the impression that he thought quite highly of his own wit and was pleased when a joke landed well, resulting in peals of mirth from his audience. So another man who could also make a woman chuckle immediately interested him .

Ah , I thought, Mr Hart likes to be the centre of attention where ladies’ amusement is concerned. I wonder what would happen if he and Max were ever in the same room. For my husband was quite his equal in terms of looks and gentility. Perhaps Max did not have Mr Hart’s ease of confidence when meeting new people, but when you got past his reserve, his natural sense of humour was quite wonderful. Besides, I loved him dearly, and to think of him peeling carrots in the kitchen because he missed me made my heart ache.

***

Perhaps Max’s letter and my reaction to it had made an impression on Mr Hart. Or perhaps it was completely unrelated. All I knew was the next day, Mr Hart did not appear; and in the afternoon of the following day, Lucinda received a letter saying that he had written a poem for her, that he hoped she liked it, and that if she did, to please show everyone else.

Of course she was delighted.

Here was proof that she was his new muse.

Knowing how Mr Hart liked to talk, I was expecting it to be multiple grandiose verses declaring his undying love for her. But when she gave it to me to read, it was short and sweet: four rhyming verses about a little mouse that was running amok in his house and getting up to all sorts of mischief until he lured it into a mousetrap with a hunk of Cheddar cheese.

‘Isn’t he clever?’ Lucinda exclaimed after I’d handed it back to her.

‘Yes, it is very witty,’ I replied.

She read it again and frowned a little. ‘Am I the mouse? I cannot see how he is trying to convey his affection, especially as the mouse does not seem to come out of it well.’

I had not been able to detect anything of an intimate nature in it, but I didn’t read poetry, so I probably wasn’t the best judge. He might indeed be cleverly implying some affection ...

‘I really couldn’t say. Let Jane have a look.’

Jane set her novel on the side table and took the paper from Lucinda. After perusing it, she said slowly, ‘As poems go, it is not half bad ... The language is descriptive. It rhymes well, and it seeks to amuse. But I do not think it conveys affection in the sense you are hoping for.’

Lucinda’s expectant face fell.

‘ Howeve r .. . ’ Jane tapped the paper with her finger. ‘It is proof of his affection in a way because he has written it for you . Does it amuse you and please you? ’

Lucinda nodded.

Jane smiled. ‘Then his poem has done its job admirably.’

‘I see. Thank you, Aunt Jane,’ said Lucinda politely, but I could tell from her flat tone that she had been hoping for something more demonstrative than a mouse running around Mr Hart’s house. I felt the urge to quip that she should write back, suggesting he get in a mouse catcher if he was having rodent issues. But I held my tongue as I knew it was a sensitive subject, and she would not find it funny.

I prayed Mr Hart’s future poetic musings would be more romantic to give her the reassurance she needed.

That evening proved to have nothing much to commend it. There was no ball to attend and no Mr Hart popping in for supper and staying to play a game of whist. We all sat around in the drawing room, either reading or tending to embroidery (or, in the case of Lucinda, sitting on the window seat and looking wistfully out the window into the dark street).

Elizabeth, glancing at her, said in a low voice to Jane and me, ‘We should not rely so much on Mr Hart to provide our entertainment. It is Ladies’ Day at the baths tomorrow, so we should go. Having a good soak in the hot water will do Lucy the world of good and stop her moping.’

Jane wrinkled her nose and whispered, ‘I am not sure I wish to submerge myself in a stinky bath. But I will go along if everyone else is in agreement.’

‘If it was good enough for the Romans, it’s good enough for us,’ Elizabeth muttered, turning to me. ‘Felicity, what do you think?’

I nodded my agreement. ‘Having witnessed my sister nearly make herself ill waiting for Evan to write or call, I think it would be a good idea to get her out of the house,’ I murmured.

So it was settled. We would go to the baths at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to distract Lucinda from brooding about Mr Hart.

There were no gentlemen allowed, so she could relax amongst female company, and perhaps he would call on her later.

Speaking of gentlemen, a letter from Max had arrived at the same time as Mr Hart’s poem, and I had been keeping it to peruse at bedtime. As Jane also wished to do some reading, we retired early with our candles.

Making a quick job of plaiting my hair, I hopped into bed and eagerly opened his letter. He began with general news about the estate and then told me that his brother Tobias was visiting, which made me smile. Here was Lucinda’s plan in action! There was no further mention of preparing vegetables and rather more talk of fishing and riding, and he seemed happier from the tone of it. So my niece’s idea had been a good one indeed.

However, the next part of his letter made me sit up straighter.

Tobias has been asking me if I know anything about some fellow called Dorian Hart. Apparently, Lucinda sent a letter to her mother announcing they were courting, and Seraphina thinks it is quite fast and wants to know more about him—namely is he kind, well mannered, and of good breeding? (And she also wishes to know what his teeth are like.) Tobias said she is a tad concerned that Lucinda is infatuated with him (this might be too strong a word, but it is what Tobias relayed from his wife rather than me!).

I did not know what to tell him as I did not have any information, and you have not mentioned anything about him, my darling. I assume he is not the ‘appalling scoundrel’ that you told me about in a previous letter? I know you have better judgement than to allow Lucy to form an acquaintance with someone like that ...

Oh Lord! What on earth had Lucinda been saying to make Seraphina think she was infatuated? A few strolls in the pump room and a poem about a mouse did not mean that Mr Hart was going to propose! Now I would have to write to Max and tell him that Dorian Hart was indeed the scoundrel I had mentioned, but we had got the wrong end of the stick, and he wasn’t one at all. How awkward. I let out a sigh of frustration.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Jane.

‘Actually, no. I told Max about our first meeting with Mr Hart and how we’d had a run-in with an “appalling scoundrel”, but that we had escaped his clutches. How was I to know that you would all go off and have buns with him and discover he was perfectly sound? Apparently, Lucinda has sent an enthusiastic letter to her mother commending him. Now Tobias is visiting and pressing Max for more information on Seraphina’s behalf. Of course, thanks to me, my husband now thinks the worst of Mr Hart. I will have to write back and tell him that he is in fact the gentleman that Lucinda is besotted with!’

Jane tsked sympathetically. ‘Oh dear, that is a bother. But you should not blame yourself—you were only relaying the information you had at the time ...’

‘Yes. And I have not had time to get him up to speed about Cecilia, her strict religious mother, and Mr Hart’s being thwarted in love, et cetera.’

‘Then I suppose you will be writing a long letter tomorrow afternoon after our visit to the baths?’

‘I suppose so,’ I grumbled.

‘You have to, Flissy, for Lucinda’s sake. Otherwise, her mother will get in a flap. Just tell Max we got it wrong and convey succinctly what we now know—that Mr Hart is a reputable young gentlemen, residing in Royal Crescent, who has been schooled at Eton and whose family estate is Hartmoor Castle. Tell him that you are keeping a firm eye on their courtship, and there is nothing amiss. Max will write to Lucinda’s mama to dispel her fears forthwith, and she will then be at ease about her daughter. All going well, she may soon have a new son-in-law to add to her family tree.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we not being too hasty in that regard ourselves? I mean, I know he wrote her a poem, but you saw it yourself—it was not in the least romantic ...’

‘At least he tried to please her. It was sweet of him to do so.’

Jane shifted into a more comfortable position against the headboard, and my eye fell upon the title of the book she was reading: The Monk: Volume II.

‘I thought you had finished that volume?’

‘I have. I am reading it again as volume three isn’t available until next week.’

‘What’s it about? You never actually said.’

‘Well, speaking of scoundrels, it’s about this monk who starts out devout but falls into temptation, which leads into a downward spiral of lust, murder, and a pact with the devil.’

‘So it’s a comedy then?’ I said dryly.

Jane giggled. ‘It’s melodramatic enough to be one. It’s actually touted as a romance.’ She showed me the title page, which indeed said ‘A Romance’, along with a lyrical verse of what was inside:

Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power,

Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour

‘Though by the way it is going, I have a feeling the story will not involve love nor a happy ending,’ she said with a grimace. ‘And I do like my stories to end in a satisfactory manner for the couples involved.’

I glanced across at her desk by the window. It was shut up tightly, with no paper lying around to indicate her writing efforts—even though she had been scurrying up here every afternoon to pen something mysterious.

‘Is it inspiring you to write your own Gothic novel?’ I asked.

She smirked. ‘All I can say is that what I have begun writing is more of a Gothic spoof.’

‘Oooh,’ I said, for I loved novels that poked fun at popular literature, and Jane’s humour always tickled me. If it was anything like her previous novel (about yours truly), it was sure to be an excellent read.

‘Do not get too excited,’ she said, blowing out her candle. ‘I have some characters in mind, but no firm plot or setting. And I need to include a spooky castle or some such.’

Mr Hart lives in a castle , I thought sleepily, folding up Max’s letter and blowing out my own candle. I wonder if she will subtly ask him to talk about it for the sake of her book. I would definitely like to hear more about this Hartmoor Castle myself.