‘Do you not think it strange that Mr Hart’s father has the door locked so promptly at night? Our luggage could surely have been delivered.’
Jane shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But it is a bit of a strange household altogether.’
Thank goodness I was not the only one who thought so!
Encouraged by this admission, I said, ‘Which part of the castle do you think Mr Hart is staying in? He did not mention it.’
‘Perhaps in one of the turrets ... Does it matter where he stays?’
For some reason, it did. I felt the need to know that gentleman’s whereabouts so I could keep tabs on him. But I did not wanthimto know that I was asking where his room was.
‘As Lucy’s chaperone, it is only proper that I make sure that he is well away from her room.’
Jane frowned and lowered her quill. ‘But he would not even accompany her upstairs. He is more decorous than you give him credit for.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Do you not trust him at all?’
This was the moment when I should share what I knew about Mr Hart’s relationship with Cecilia, but Jane was likely to say we should leave immediately, and I quailed atthe thought of having to tell Lucinda the reason why. Then there were the transport arrangements that would have to be made by Mr Hart, and he would want to know why we were leaving when we had only just arrived. And the thought of that confrontation made me quail even more, not to mention having to bring up the sordid details of the affair with Mr Smith-Withers in attendance. The two of them were likely to deny the whole thing, and I would look like a fool.
No, it was easier to cling to the hope that Mr Hart had changed his ways and was courting Lucinda with the intention to marry. Of course, to believe the fable I was telling myself, I had to ignore his flirtatious behaviour towards me, which I was sure I was not imagining. It was all quite confusing.
‘I trust him to some extent,’ I said slowly. ‘And I suppose everything is above board. But I worry he is overly vivacious.’
Jane giggled. ‘Overly vivacious? Surely, vivacity of any kind is welcome in a young man. Would you have Lucy marry a boring toad like Mr Humbleton?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Well then, you should let nature take its course, and it will work out fine. Yes, the castle is a bit more “crumbly” than we expected, but that is actually perfect as it adds tothe atmosphere I want to depict in my novel. A pristine castle would not do at all.’
Jane placed the page upon which she had been writing on top of the stack of blank paper Mr Hart had given her, and I realised he had won her over because he had proven he was a ‘writer’ and an ‘artist’. She had claimed him as a kindred spirit because of those professions. It would be hard work to convince her he was not a worthy gentleman unless I had solid proof of his duplicity. I needed more evidence than the testimony of a young girl whom he had supposedly corrupted.
I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. ‘I am getting cold. I should let you get some sleep.’
‘All right, Flissy. Good night. I’ll see you at breakfast.’
She waited until I had reached the door and blew out her candle and then dived under the bedcovers.
Feeling conflicted, I tiptoed down the dark hallway back to my room. But when I got there, the painting was still disturbing me—so much so that, in desperation, I threw my shawl over it. Covering up that charismatic gentleman was the only way I would get any sleep!
***
Breakfast was served in the dining hall, situated at the rearof the castle at the end of another dark passageway. In any other house, it would have been a relatively cosy affair, like our dinner the night before in the parlour. But the castle’s dining hall was the size of a small church with a wooden vaulted ceiling and a table that could seat at least thirty running down the middle.
‘This room is absurdly large,’ whispered Jane.
‘I know!’ I whispered back.
Wide-eyed, we helped ourselves from the numerous silver serving dishes on the long sideboard that contained bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms. There were also several racks of toast.Maurice must have been up since dawn frying all this,I thought.Unless the assistant cook has already arrived.
Mr Hart was seated opposite me, next to Lucinda, and the two of them were chattering away much too brightly for so early in the morning. Mr Smith-Withers was also interjecting with pithy observations and comments, making Jane giggle. I myself was still half-asleep after my restless night and concentrated solely on eating my breakfast despite Mr Hart attempting to draw me into their conversation. I felt it best to stare at my bacon and eggs rather than his jaw, which was glowing pink from being freshly shaved, or his eyes, which, when directed my way, caused a sensation of discomfort rather like the gentleman in the painting.
But after I had eaten my fill and drank a cup of strong tea, I felt rather more perky and in control of myself. Maurice came in near the end of the meal to tell us that our luggage (along with Jane’s writing desk) had been delivered, which was pleasing news.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ whispered Jane in my ear, and I felt glad for her. Now she could really get stuck into her story.
Maurice paused by my seat.
