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 andsweet: 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.
‘However...’ Jane tapped the paper with her finger. ‘It is proof of his affection in a way because he has written itfor 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 Iwish 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.
