‘Mr Hart’, I said firmly, ‘may I remind you it is proper to address my niece as Miss Fitzroy. And forgive me for saying so, but your castle is in a shocking state of disrepair. It needs extensive masonry work—’
‘It has a few missing stones.’
‘It has more than a few. And there is a gargoyle, for goodness’ sake!’ I exclaimed, pointing at the stone creature with a shudder. ‘You did not draw that!’
‘It is difficult to draw,’ retorted Mr Hart stiffly.
I gave a cold little laugh. ‘Surely not for a superior artist such as yourself.’
‘I had only a short amount of time to sketch. If I had had an hour or two, then I believe even I could have met your high standards of realism,’ he said, his voicedripping with sarcasm. ‘Forgive me, but criticising my abode when I have been kind enough to invite you to stay is not good manners.’
‘And it is notgood mannersto deceive us about said abode in the first place!’
‘There is no deception, woman—only your determination to be bloody pedantic!’ Mr Hart spat, his jaw tight and eyes dark and narrowed.
Gracious, this was escalating quickly. But it was satisfying to crack his smooth veneer and catch a glimpse of who he really was. My heart was bouncing in my chest as he took a step towards me, his eyes boring into mine. But strangely, at that moment, I was quite unafraid and riled enough to batter him if need be. I curled my hands into fists against my sides in preparation (though I doubted I would be able to do much damage—he was not broad, but he was tall and had strong wiry arm muscles. I had witnessed them when he had rolled up his shirtsleeves on the journey here).
Lucinda, who had been swinging her head backwards and forwards between us like a pendulum, spoke up nervously. ‘Ah, I believe Jane and Mr Smith-Withers are ready to continue the tour ... I will go and tell them we are coming now.’
With a fearful glance at Mr Hart, she scurried off to the others, who were looking over curiously.
Realising he had scared her, Mr Hart stepped back andhooked a finger into his cravat to loosen it, as if to cool down. Indeed, he was breathing heavily and had high colour in his cheeks. He chewed his lower lip and glanced at me, and I could see he was trying to figure out how to best manage the situation. But I did not want to be managed. All my earlier worries about confronting him had disappeared. It felt good to speak up and air my feelings, and I was itching to push him further and ask him a few choice questions about his father to see how he reacted. However, Mr Hart had other ideas.
‘Come now, Felicity,’ he said placatingly. He tilted his head at me and smiled like his usual smarmy self. ‘We are having a pleasant tour. You do not want to spoil it for everyone, do you? Let us shake hands and be friends.’ He held out his hand to me, but I did not want to touch his bare skin with my own. It was much too dangerous when I was in this fizzing kind of mood. So I refused to take it.
‘It isMrs Fitzroy,’ I said sharply. ‘And I don’t want to be friends with you.’ I stalked off towards the others, ignoring the pained expression on his face because I did not believe he felt any hurt whatsoever. It was all part of his ploy to trick us. For what reason, I did not know yet, but I was determined to find out!
‘Whatever was that about, Flissy?’ asked Jane as I reached them. ‘Why were you and Mr Hart quarrelling?’
I glancedback and saw that the gentleman in question was kicking at a stone ledge of an old dried-up fountain with the toe of his boot, causing chips to fly off. With his shoulders up around his ears, he looked like a sulky child that had been given a telling-off.
‘I simply pointed out that the castle he sketched for us was nothing like it is in reality,’ I said, surprised that he was behaving in such a manner when I had moved on from our spat already.
Mr Smith-Withers clicked his tongue in an exasperated fashion. ‘You should not have done so, Mrs Fitzroy. Dory is a sensitiveartistand suffers greatly when people find fault with his work,’ he said, giving me a contemptuous look. ‘I will see how he fares. He may wish to rest and take tea indoors.’
I rolled my eyes at his departing back.
‘I might go and see if Mr Hart is all right too,’ said Lucinda anxiously. ‘I very much wish to see the library, so I hope he can continue with the tour.’
I was pleased that she was back to addressing him formally. Her calling him Dory had brought to mind Cecilia Spencer. She must have heard Mr Smith-Withers addressing him so.
‘Yes, all right,’ I told her. ‘We will do a turn about the drive in the meanwhile.’
Lucinda ranoff, and I linked arms with Jane.
‘I am sure Mr Hart will recover in due course,’ she whispered to me as we strolled around the drive, and I fought the urge to laugh.
‘If he isthatsensitive about his art, then perhaps he should give it up and find a more useful occupation,’ I replied.
‘Like what?’ queried Jane.
‘I don’t know—a butcher, a baker ...’
‘A candlestick maker,’ she finished with a giggle.
I shushed her quickly. For ifdelicateMr Hart should hear us laughing about him and become reoffended, he might cancel the tour altogether. Then Lucinda would be upset at not seeing the library. I supposed I should try to be civil to him to keep the peace. Otherwise, the remainder of our stay would be extremely awkward. I also did not want him cutting it short before I learned anything important.
***
