‘Gracious!’ I said, feeling sorry for the man. ‘What is a quick kiss if two people are in love? Mrs Spencer must be a very religious mama.’
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Smith-Withers said both parents are evangelical Anglicans and are bringing their daughters up to conform to the doctrine. I did not know exactly what that entails. But Mr Smith-Withers said it meant that they are deeply pious, so probably even holding handswould have had the same reaction.’
‘It sounds like he would have had no hope in making a match with her then,’ I remarked, thinking of how Mr Hart had taken liberties with my own hand. It had been a bit shocking even for me, and I was only slightly religious.
‘No, her parents would never have agreed to it,’ said Elizabeth, shaking her head sadly. ‘It all makes so much more sense now. Poor Mr Hart has been hard done by. The way that woman was gripping my arm and talking so to me.’ She shuddered. ‘I should have known it was nothing but religious fervour. I am sorry, Lucy, that your dear Mr Hart has been through such heartache in the pursuit of true love.’
I raised my eyebrows. Now it wasdearMr Hart! Having not been privy to their conversation and even though the bun he had purchased for me was very tasty, I was able to maintain some semblance of objectivity on the matter. But how could I remain steadfast in thinking he was a rake when everyone else was now convinced he was not? Surely, it was safe for me to change my opinion of him too?
‘And as the trouble happened last Season, he is now well over it, after having written many angsty love poems,’ continued Jane eagerly.
‘Oh, so heisa poet?’
‘Apparently.’
I knew howmuch she liked romantic poetry, so this was another feather in his cap.
‘Perhaps you can ask if he is willing to share them to see if they are of merit? He may be a budding John Donne.’
‘I did ask, but he said they were awful and actually no longer exist as he flung them into the fire on New Year’s Eve.’
‘How cathartic,’ I said deadpan, and Jane gave a huff of laughter.
Lucinda pursed her lips. ‘We should not make fun of his pain.’
‘Yes. Sorry, dearest. I should not have been flippant. So I suppose he is casting about for a new muse now that his heart has quite healed?’
Lucinda fidgeted with the charms on her bracelet. ‘Perhaps. He did say he was feeling quite inspired after our meeting at the ball and had gone home and jotted down some lines.’
My lips twitched at the thought of this, but I could not make jokes—it would be tantamount to teasing a sweet child. And I could not blame her for being enthusiastic about a potential suitor. I remembered all too well how my encounters with Max had fired me up. But luckily for me, that had led to love and marriage—would it do so in the case of Mr Hart?Only time would tell.
As we were finishing our conversation, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Bromley poked her head in. ‘Oh, you are all back. Good. And having buns, I see.’ She glanced at the box on my lap.
‘I’m off to the post. Are there any more to go?’ She held up the letter that Jane had written to Cassie this morning and the one I had written to Max. The story of last night was all in there. I had told Max in brief (but light-hearted) detail about how we had survived our meeting with an ‘appalling scoundrel’ and that we would take care to avoid him in future.
Should I rip it up? Because we had not avoided him—he had turned up again and was apparently not a scoundrel after all.
But I did not say anything, for I did not want to arouse curiosity about what I had written. Perhaps Mr Hart’s bun outing was a subject best left for my next letter.
Chapter 8
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 Crescentif 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 wouldhate 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 ...
