Chapter 17

“Oh, Agnes!” Hattie said, falling back on her bed and covering her face with her hands. “However am I going to marry Mr. Warren if the man refuses to call on me?”

It had been a week since the ball, and still, Mr. Warren had not come. Even worse, it had been nearly a week since Hattie’s last meeting with Bentley, and despite checking the lightning tree every morning, he had not once left a note telling her it was safe to come to Wolfeton House. Hattie was nearly mad with the monotony of her days. Bentley had left apologetic notes, however. They began as short, clipped little messages, such as “Not today. -B” or “Sorry, today’s no good. -B” written in a surprisingly elegant hand.

Over the days, however, and likely due to Hattie’s lengthy replies with little snippets about Romeo—she imagined the duke would appreciate updates on the cat, and indeed he had seemed to enjoy them very much—their correspondence had grown into much lengthier letters. It appeared that Bentley had some wit hidden away in his quiet mind. But regardless of his entertaining notes, he had remained unavailable for another lesson all week.

Hattie had allowed her hopes to build and grow as they moved closer to Sunday, believing she might at least see Mr. Warren at church services—she knew better than to expect the duke—but they were all dashed and disappointed when the man didn’t show.

A small thought niggled in the back of her mind that she could very well inform Lucy of the whole of it, for if any outside forces could contrive to get Mr. Warren and Hattie together, it was her sister-in-law with all her scheming. But Hattie refrained. If it was meant to be, the relationship would develop on its own.

“Perhaps you must call on him,” Agnes suggested.

“I cannot,” Hattie said, puffing her cheeks and releasing the breath. “I’ve made my interest and my location very plain to Mr. Warren. If he has any intention of furthering a relationship, it is his duty to call on me.”

Agnes pulled a rich blue gown from the clothespress and draped it over her arm before raising her pale eyebrows at Hattie. “What of the duke?”

“What of him?”

Agnes tucked a blonde lock behind her ear. “What if it’s him that’s the fox? He’s sly, isn’t he? Hiding out the way he is and going unseen for so long.”

Hattie’s stomach constricted as the words floated into her consciousness and out again, failing to find a sticking place within her mind. “Impossible,” she said decisively. She would not allow her thoughts to travel that path. It was dangerous and useless, merely Agnes searching for something where there was nothing to find. “I should like to think that if my true love was living on the property beside mine for so many years, fate would have contrived to allow me to meet him before now.”

“Maybe,” Agnes said, shrugging. “But look at Mrs. Fremont. She’s known Mr. Fremont all her life and only married him a few months ago.”

“That is completely different,” Hattie argued, though she could not exactly pinpoint how it differed. Best if Agnes wasn’t given the chance to inquire. “Now I am meant to go to Halstead to meet with Giulia and Amelia for a literary society meeting, and I think I’ll ride.”

Agnes nodded, turning back to return the gown and fetch Hattie’s habit instead. But despite Agnes’s willingness to drop the topic of conversation and go through the motions of dressing Hattie for the day in pleasant silence, Hattie was unable to remove from her thoughts the seed Agnes had planted. Bentley was very sly, and his ability to remain hidden away, hardly seen for years, was very much like a fox indeed. She reminded herself that many men of her acquaintance had attributes similar to that of a fox, but she had not imagined them all to be her husbands.

But she had been led directly to Mr. Warren by the animal itself. That was much more telling than anything Agnes might say. She found herself growing increasingly eager for another painting lesson, if not for the skill she would garner than for the chance to ask Bentley what was stopping his cousin from calling on her.

Perhaps it was best if she helped move things along. When Agnes completed her toilette, pinning back her hair and affixing her hat atop the plain style, she dismissed the maid and sat at her writing table. Would it be utterly pathetic to plead with the man? Hattie dipped her pen in ink, and her hand hovered over the paper, an ink droplet spilling onto the page and bleeding as it widened.

“Your Grace,” she began, quietly speaking the words as she wrote them on paper. “I shan’t bother you with a story about Romeo. Indeed, he has been naughty and scratched up the bottom of my favorite drapes. I have, however, become quite eager to continue our lessons. If your house is not a viable option, would you consider meeting at the old barn on the far eastern perimeter of my property? It is an old building, equipped with enough supplies to be of some use. If that suits, I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow at ten o’clock. Though I do hope you can contrive to rid yourself of your houseguest for an hour or two.” Signing an H with a flourish, Hattie sanded and dried the note before folding it tightly. She licked a wafer and slid it under the flap, pressing it firmly with the wafer seal.

Satisfaction fell over Hattie as she slipped the note into her bodice and left the room. One way or another, she would meet with the duke, and she would gather information. If this didn’t work, then perhaps she would just have to see what Lucy could contrive.

* * *

Bentley took note of the corner of stark white paper peeking from the blackened interior of the broken tree, and his heart sped. The sun had barely crested the horizon and light was scarce, the wet foggy air thick around him as he made his way toward the note awaiting him. He was prepared to deliver a letter indicating that today would not be good to meet, complete with an assurance that his haughty chicken had not yet been eaten for dinner, but he tucked it into his pocket and retrieved the folded missive.

Sweeping his gaze over the loopy scrawl, he chuckled, his shoulders shaking softly as his breath clouded before him. He could perfectly imagine Hattie’s lively voice as though she was speaking the words to him. Well, thus far Warren had shown no sign of any intention to leave the house. He had taken to lounging about and making up for the lengthy time they’d spent apart.

For once, Bentley wished his cousin would not be quite so familial—ironic, as Warren was the only family member Bentley wished in his life.

But he wanted to continue the lessons with Hattie. Indeed, he was eager to add to her painting. He’d done so once already in a fit of impatience, spending time on the colors in the hair and perfecting the rounded, joyful, smiling cheeks beneath her eyes. He could have captured her in a more reserved way, but that did not fit the woman at all. It felt much more natural to paint her smiling.

Well, he could not take the portrait with him, but they could continue the lessons in another way, and then he would not feel guilty working on the painting in his own time. Slapping the folded note against his other hand, he was decided. The barn would have to do.

Bentley made his way back to his house with sure, even steps, formulating his response in his mind as he walked. The cool morning fog gradually dissipated around him, revealing more of the woodland floor as the sun rose. Anticipation built within him. He was going to see Hattie today.

The house was quiet as Bentley penned a note confirming that the barn was agreeable—though what he wished to say was that it was better than not meeting at all, if only just—and left to deliver it to the lightning tree. He hadn’t anticipated anything this much in quite a long time, and the fact that it was about the woman and not her painting was not lost on him. His mind wandered as he slipped between trees, the morning light spilling over their cold bark and giving the woods a warm glow.

Tucking the letter into the tree, he wiped his hands together and set off for his house. He could not imagine Hattie felt the same sort of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him. No, she’d been perfectly clear that her interest lay in Warren. The ungrateful, undeserving man that he was. He’d been returned from the ball for a week with no word of meeting any woman, let alone showing any indication that he intended to so much as take Hattie flowers.

Bentley passed the next few hours before his easel, paying proper attention to the lines and planes of Hattie’s face. She was a beautiful creature, made more so by the fact that she did not believe herself to be so lovely. She could not see, it seemed, that the beauty of her heart outshone any natural, societal definition of the word. Her smile radiated joy, lighting her face in a way that only true goodness could. Bentley found himself craving time spent in her company. He counted down the minutes until he could leave for the barn in a way that was wholly unlike him and caused his heart to jump erratically in his chest.

Seated at the breakfast table with a cup of steaming tea and a plate of last night’s mutton and rolls, he startled when Warren appeared in the doorway.