‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mr Hart airily, leading the way back up the stairs. ‘I’m sure they made friends with one another. And it is dry at least and near the kitchen, so they were probably well fed. The cook could stand at the top and toss them down some bread and meat.’
He stood on the top step and mimed bowlinga cricket ball. It was designed to amuse, but no one laughed. He pouted when we were back in the kitchen, saying we were ‘a difficult audience’.
‘If we do not respond to your liking, Mr Hart, it is because you joke about men’s suffering. And it is in rather poor taste to do so,’ I said primly.
‘My apologies, Mrs Fitzroy. I did not mean to offend any delicate sensibilities. But the prisonershavebeen dead for hundreds of years ...’
‘Still,’ I said, determined to press home my point, ‘it would be decent of you to show the dead some respect, even if on behalf of your forebears.’
He bowed politely and with an uppish smile said that he was glad that I had pointed out his error and that he would be far more considerate when showing guests the dungeon in future. I felt like rebuking him some more for mocking me but feared it would only encourage him, so I bit my tongue and let the others go on ahead.
Drawing my letter to Max out of my pocket (carefully folded, addressed, and sealed with one of the wafers I’d brought with me), I approached Maurice, who was cleaning some mud-caked potatoes in the sink.
‘Maurice, would it be possible to have my letter sent as soon as possible please? It is a reply to the one you brought me during breakfast.’
The man smiled at me, and his brown eyes twinkled, which quite transformed his face. I thought my offer to help him last night had gone some way to softening his reserve and also trusting me as he seemed a lot friendlier.
‘Of course, Mrs Fitzroy,’ he said, wiping his dirty hands on his apron and taking the letter from me. ‘A mail coach passes by in the morning and afternoon on the way to the inn, and the driver always stops to collect any letters—not that we usually have any, so it will be a nice change to actually give him one.’
‘Excellent, thank you,’ I said, feeling glad that Max would soon have my comforting reply and be at ease. I looked at the mound of potatoes before him. ‘Did Mr Hart mention that he would hire a cook to help you with meals for the duration of our stay?’
‘Yes, he told me he had done so this morning.’
‘When will they be arriving?’
‘Tomorrow, I believe.’
‘All right. Until then, I hope you do not mind if I offer to assist you as I often do so in my own household when we have guests,’ I said, taking a leaf out of Max’s book. If he could peel vegetables, so could I!
‘Thank you, madam. I appreciate the offer,’ he said.
Feeling quite pleased with my cleverness, I walked away to follow behind the others,who had headed down the stone hallway to access the grounds. My plan was not only to help Maurice, but to find out more about our mysterious host and his reclusive father—but in a subtle way so as not to be detected.
Chapter 14
The tour continued outside as we followed an overgrown path around to the front of the castle. Broken branches blocked our way at points, so we had to keep stopping for the gentlemen to clear them. The sky was a dull grey, and with the jackdaws circling and squawking at us from their roosts above, it did not make for a very pleasant walk.
Worst of all, as I was walking behind the pair, I noticed that Mr Hart was taking the opportunity to be intimate with Lucinda. Of course, he would now prove me wrong and not act the respectful host just when I had written to Max saying he was!
He would point out something trifling to distract me, and when he thought I was not looking, he would hold her hand in his! However, I cottoned on soon enough and cleared my throat loudly to indicate I had seen through his ruse, and he quickly stopped that nonsense. Lucinda did not seem to mind his impropriety and looked over her shoulder at me and shrugged slightly (and almost resentfully, I thought), as if to say, ‘Does it matter? He likes me.’
Aunt had been right when she had warned me inSteventon to stay vigilant. I was going to need eyes in the back of my head where Mr Hart was concerned.
I had been giving him the benefit of the doubt about the exterior of the castle and hoping that the front was in a better state of repair. But when we came to stand upon an unraked gravel drive with weeds poking through, I was dismayed to see the front had as much crumbling and gaping stonework as round the back. Jane and Mr Smith-Withers wandered off to a slimy green pond to see if it contained any fish, leaving me alone with Lucinda and Mr Hart.
‘So what do you think, ladies?’ said Mr Hart, smiling pleasantly. ‘Does Hartmoor meet with your approval?’
I noticed Lucinda kept peeking at the portico as it had another of those gargoyles crouched on top of it. The grinning creature was certainly unnerving. She nodded briefly at Mr Hart but did not say anything nor look too enthused. I had no such qualms, however, and could hold my tongue no longer.
‘Your castle looks quite different to the sketch you drew us in Bath,’ I remarked. ‘Pray, why did you not draw its true likeness?’
A flash of annoyance crossed Mr Hart’s face as he turned to me, but his agreeable features quickly smoothed. ‘I do not know why you think it is so different,’ he said. ‘Everythingin the sketch is as you see it now.’ He gestured at the turrets. ‘What do you think, Lucy? Do you not think it a good likeness?’ he asked, turning his attention to Lucinda.
‘Oh yes, Dory, I believe so,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from the gargoyle and looking up at him. He smirked at her in a self-satisfied kind of way.
I did not know what rattled me more: them calling each other Dory and Lucy or the fact he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
Drawing myself up to my full height, I gave him a stern glare.
