A Kind And Decent Man

He did not. He repeated mildly, ‘I have to go now, Mrs Hart. I’m not offended, I promise. My leaving has nothing to do with your father…’

David glanced down into her beautiful, solemn face. Well, that’s the whole truth, ran self-mockingly through his mind as he forced his eyes away again. It certainly was nothing to do with her decrepit father. It was everything to do with her. If he stayed longer she might tempt him to do or say something he was sure to regret. The urge to touch her was tormenting him. He longed to discover if her hair was as silken; even now he could recall its fine texture slipping beneath his fingers. He wanted to glide his thumb across her sculpted jaw, the delicate ridge of her cheekbones—repossess skin that looked so incredibly pale and soft.

But he could control it, he sardonically reminded himself, because he was different now. He readily acknowledged burgeoning lust; more worrying was a stirring of emotional commitment. But it was a while since that had mangled him and the notion of ever again allowing such vulnerability was so ludicrous, it almost prompted him to laugh.

So what if her father treated her ill? It was none of his concern. So what if she was now widowed? It was hardly the time or place to capitalise on it. Propositioning a woman on the day she buried her husband was beyond even his amoral sensibilities.

So he was still leaving, right now, and going back to what he knew he wanted: a good tavern, a good friend and a good night of uncomplicated roistering. Because that was what he was good at. And then tomorrow, as he journeyed home to Mayfair and his life of luxury and debauchery, he could leisurely castigate himself for ever being idiotic enough to come here at all. God only knew why he had. Travelling in freezing weather to watch earth shovelled atop some distant relative he barely knew…sheer madness!

David flicked a glance at the elderly man he had once despised and felt nothing. No disgust, no hatred. But he avoided looking back at that man’s daughter, because he knew he couldn’t pretend the same apathy, much as he wanted to.

‘I shall just find one of the servants to fetch your coat,’ Victoria politely informed him, feeling ridiculously hurt that he would not stay longer; that he could not even seem to look at her for longer than a second.

Cool hallway air fanned welcomingly against her flushed cheeks as she sped to find Samuel. Her head hammered with tension and haunting words she’d believed she had successfully buried so long ago but never would stay forgotten.

‘He wanted to buy you…he said he would do it. He wanted to buy my daughter as though she was some common whore. But then that is all he is used to and all you mean to him…’

Her father’s bellowed words of seven years ago throbbed in her head. She had dismissed it all as lies. Everything she had heard whispered abroad about David and his family she had rejected as vile rumour. She was aware that the beau monde loved nothing better than to maliciously dissect reputations, especially those of their peers. Even when Aunt Matilda had tendered cautions about her socialising with roguish David Hardinge or his wayward friends, Victoria would have none of it. She was too much in love, too obsessed with this man who wooed her with a captivating, tender passion yet never once attempted to coerce or take advantage of her. And she knew there had been times when he could have, when fate and obliging friends had allowed them a stolen hour alone, and she would have summoned little resistance had he decided to seduce her.

During their short, six-month courtship, David had shown her more affection, more gentleness and respect than any other man she had known. Even her own father. And she’d told her father that, earnestly, and it had earned her a hefty blow and her immediate banishment from Hammersmith to Hertfordshire. Following her father’s ranting censure, still she would not believe that David Hardinge was a callous rogue who did not love or want her.

Unknown to her father, she had managed to smuggle out two letters to David and had been certain he would soon rescue her. In them she’d made so plain her love for him, and the fact that she was prepared to wait, to elope, to do whatever he wanted, so long as he still loved her and would soon come for her. Yet the weeks had passed with no message, no reply…

Then one afternoon, when her father was away from home, Matilda had managed to sneak to her room to gently break the news that David had left the country and was believed to be travelling abroad. With those few whispered words had come real despair. The first inkling that she had been duped…abandoned had iced her skin and made her stomach churn so violently, so indelibly that she could taste the fear again now. Curled on her bed on that autumn afternoon, she had finally given way to a keening, draining grief that no amount of calming draughts or soothing platitudes from Matilda could ease, and only exhaustion could curtail. The redolence of that earthy, rain-spattered October day teased her nostrils anew; the memory of the incongruous perfection of the rainbow that had later bridged the house dazzled her mind. Swollen-eyed at her window, she had watched the drizzle soften into a harvest evening of such serene beauty that somehow she had found the strength to weep again.

Yet still she would have waited…so desperate was she to believe David honourable and her trust in him justified. But the empty days had crawled by, her father’s rancour had escalated to new, demented heights and a final, painful decision had had to be made.

And now she finally knew the truth of it…The awful fear that she had been wrong to marry so soon, that she should have suffered in that harsh, soulless environment longer, had evaporated. Her decision to accept Daniel’s offer of shelter in an unconventional marriage had been vindicated.

‘I suppose…you’ve come back to buy my daughter…’ her father had just said in his painfully honest way, and David Hardinge had simply smiled and complimented him on his fine memory.

Her black lacy veil tumbled forward onto her brow and Victoria swiftly unpinned the hat, dropped it carelessly onto a hall table and hurried on.

What did any of it matter now? It was all seven years old! she impressed upon herself, furious that a wedge of melancholy was blocking her throat. How could she even dwell on it? She had just buried her dear husband. He had been a fine, generous husband for seven long years. David Hardinge had been a reprobate playing a convincing role for just six months.

Daniel’s selfless goodness had stirred feelings of guilt: he might have made a second marriage to rival the consummate success of his first. But whenever Victoria had mentioned such doubts he would smile, with his pale eyes distant, and tell her that such love came but once and that once was a privilege. But a daughter to care for…God had never been that kind to him…until now.

Victoria sighed, dragging her thoughts to the present. If only Daniel had not made her promise to write to David Hardinge, she would have been as oblivious to his disturbing presence today as she had been last week…last month…last year. But for the worry of Danny’s illness and her papa’s worsening dementia, she had been virtually content with her lot in life here at Hartfield. Now she felt hot and restless…and queasy, as though a nest of vipers writhed in the pit of her stomach.

Nearing the kitchens, she spied Samuel’s broad back huddled close to the short, plump figure of Sally, one of the domestics. She had believed Sally still to be serving refreshments in the drawing room. A sigh of impatience escaped her.

‘Samuel, Lord Courtenay is leaving. His coat, please…’ The young couple immediately shifted away from each other. Sally bustled past with a deferential dip of her brunette head but her face was blotchy from weeping.

Victoria closed her eyes in sheer exasperation. She could not countenance dealing with any histrionics from the servants…not today. She already felt as though she was wound as tightly as a spring. Just one more twist and she would snap; of that she was sure.

Samuel tried to pass her too with a gruff, cooperative, ‘I’ll fetch it straight away, ma’am.’

Victoria placed a restraining hand on his beefy arm. ‘Samuel…this is too much today. Can you and Sally—and I suppose it’s Beryl involved too—can you not at least cease your bickering on a day such as this?’ she stressed in a voice quivering with emotion.

‘Sorry, ma’am…’ Samuel mumbled, his coarsely attractive features ruddying in embarrassment and remorse. Straightening his waistcoat with a businesslike jerk, he sedately walked on.

Victoria stared at the kitchen door then momentarily closed her eyes, composing herself, before swishing about and calmly retracing her steps.

She emptied her mind. Nothing was allowed other than the need to get through this day. She concentrated on whether any mourners would expect bed and board. The weather was now so inclement it would invariably come to that, she decided. That would entail arranging chambers and linen, further meals…She was exhausted and desirous of solitude, not extended company. But it was her duty and she would deal with it, just as she always had since Danny’s illness had shifted such mundane matters onto her slender shoulders. For with his declining health had come declining fortune when he’d no longer devoted attention to his business affairs. And as their income had reduced so had the number of servants they could employ at Hartfield. But she had been happy to take over housekeeping duties when Mrs Whittaker had retired and gone to live with her sister in Brighton. And thus the first economies had been made.

Victoria completely ignored the reflexive jump of her heart as she rounded the corner into the main hallway and immediately spied David Hardinge’s tall, imposing figure. He was chatting to Sir Peter by the double arched entrance doors. She focussed on being relieved that Samuel had speedily set about the task of returning the Viscount his coat. That comforting emotion was immediately whipped from her as she anxiously noticed Beryl’s neat, black-uniformed figure sidling up to Samuel by the hall table. But they both appeared fully occupied attending to guests’ cloaks and gloves and quite oblivious and uncaring of each other.

A grateful sigh escaped. Any further embarrassing domestic situations and she was sure she would scream or weep. Instead she stifled a wry laugh at the very idea; such selfish indulgence was a luxury, and there would be no more of those.

Having cordially shaken hands with his old acquaintance, Sir Peter turned back to the warmth of the drawing room. Victoria received a friendly, slightly inebriated grin as he passed.

‘Thank you once again, Lord Courtenay, for being good enough to attend Daniel’s funeral. I hope the weather improves for your safe journey home.’

David inclined his dark head, acknowledging her civil good wishes, even though they held the same arctic quality as the air outside. His eyes reluctantly shifted from her face to gaze at something distracting behind her. ‘One of your servants seems a little upset,’ he mentioned impartially.

Victoria felt a stinging surge of blood heat her cheeks. So Beryl and Samuel had not contained their differences, not even for the five short minutes that would have been necessary for David Hardinge to have taken his leave. Narrowed blue eyes scanned her pink, tense face as he said, ‘You already know about it…?’

The hint of mild concern in his tone snapped up her glossy black head. She had no use for his pity and would have liked to tell him so. Instead she murmured stiffly, ‘Yes, I do know, thank you,’ while wishing the floor would open up and swallow her…or this taciturn man who assuredly never tolerated tantrums from his domestics.

Pride aided her swift composure. ‘It has been a very sad time for us all. My husband was well liked and respected by the servants…by all who knew him.’ It was a quite truthful prevarication. The rustling of Beryl’s stiff skirts as she scurried away was all that broke the ensuing silence.

‘I believe I’ve been remiss in not yet offering condolences on your loss, Mrs Hart,’ David eventually said. ‘Was he a good husband?’

Grey and blue eyes linked then strained. ‘I’m sure there was never better,’ Victoria quietly stated, and something about the way he found that cool sincerity amusing twisted her stomach.

He extended a hand in farewell and she allowed him one of hers for the briefest moment. His smile quirked sardonically as she exactly matched his reaction to her touch earlier. Then all that was left with her in the hallway was an icy draught and a dusting of snowflakes melting on the marble flags.

The sun was lost early today, Victoria realised glumly as she glanced out through the casement window in Hartfield’s small library at the clouding sky. She finished totting up the column of figures in the household accounts before pushing the ledger away from her and laying the quill back on the blotter. It mattered little how many times she did the sums; the balances never looked any healthier. But she had made economies before; it was simply a case of cutting back a little further.

Daniel had always praised her housekeeping skills, in the early days of her undertaking the task, marvelling at the way she could make do and mend, bargain with tradesmen and generally pinch a penny until it squeaked. As he’d grown weaker, she’d known he no longer had strength enough to worry or enquire as to how she did.

She had no idea where her talents for parsimony came from: until her marriage she’d had no experience of household budgeting or hiring servants or paying wages. But she had been reared on thrift. Her father had never been a generous man where she was concerned—either in his time, his affection or his coin.

She withdrew her mother’s locket from the pocket of her serviceable serge gown and laid it on the blotter. A finger traced the carved gold surface before she opened it with gentle reverence and looked at the miniature portraits of her parents. The likenesses had been painted shortly after their marriage, some twenty-eight years ago. Her father was strong and handsome, his hair as black as her own, despite the fact that he was then in his forties, and his eyes bright and alert. Her mother looked serene: her luxuriant auburn tresses swept back from the delicate bone-structure of her ivory-skinned, heart-shaped face. She had been more than twenty years younger than her husband.

Whenever Victoria feasted her hungry eyes upon the beautiful mother she had never known, she understood how awful it must have been for the man who’d doted on her to have lost her. She understood why her father resented her; why she had grown up shunned as an unwanted burden rather than a cherished child. For her mother had relinquished life in order that Victoria could have hers and she knew her father had found that impossible to forgive. The sad irony was that her late husband had lost both his new-born daughter and his first wife in childbed and had cherished Victoria as his child-wife.

In her early years, her dear aunt Matty had done her best to substitute herself as the mother Victoria had never known. She had also upbraided her brother many times for his coldness and neglect of his only child. Victoria had overheard their cross words on occasion, and knowing she was causing her father that family pain too had served only to turn the screws of the awful guilt that racked her. And she marvelled at her aunt Matty’s temerity. For she had been, during their days in Hammersmith, an impecunious widow reliant on her brother’s charity, and to scold him as she did, and on another’s account…

Matilda Sweeting’s life had never been easy. She had married a penniless scoundrel who purported to be a naval officer, given birth to a son and been widowed all in the space of two years. Despite her wastrel husband having frittered away all his own money and then hers too, Matilda had managed to retain her pride and her sanity. And then when her only son, Justin, had disappeared in his sixteenth year, she had again drawn on that unbreachable resilience to overcome the disaster. He had been press-ganged, or so they believed, for there was no other credible solution to his disappearance some eleven years ago in the vicinity of the London dockland. Matilda spoke rarely of him now, but when she did it was as though he was alive and well but just too busy and successful to visit yet awhile.

Victoria focussed again on her parents’ youthful, attractive faces. There had been a lot of heartache for the Lorrimers in the past twenty-five years. A troubled sigh escaped as she dwelt on her father’s dementia. Heartache wasn’t yet over.

A bar of warmth gilded her clasped hands on the desk as the sun escaped cloud. She turned her dark head to the window. The bitter winter was extending into late March but had not prevented spring bulbs spearing the frozen ground. The sight of yellow and mauve crocuses interspersed with snowdrops bobbing their drooping heads prompted a wistful smile. The sky was clouding again already, slowly obliterating the lucid sunlight, but she resolved to go. Each afternoon in the hour between finishing her bookkeeping duties and organising preparation of the evening meal, she would walk the short distance to the chapel and tend her husband’s grave.

‘I thought I might find you here.’

Victoria started, gasped and twisted about so quickly that she almost pitched forward onto her knees. She shielded her eyes as she peered up at the man standing a few paces away on the shingle path. He stepped jerkily forward, belatedly steadying her with a meaty hand.