Page 55 of Her Wily Duke

When Benedict returned to the house hours later, he found her still there, playing. For a moment, when she looked up as he entered the room, their eyes met, and she thought that she saw something there which she would never have expected – softness, almost warmth. But it was a fleeting impression, and he quickly set his face into its usual hard expression.

“I believe that we should go up and change for dinner, Ariana.”

“Yes Benedict.”

She saw no point in arguing, for he was right – the afternoon had slipped away from her – rather like her life seemed to be doing, in the gloom of Darkmire Abbey.

At least her actions in asking that the parlour drapes be cleaned had not yet caused the incursion of a furious Mrs Haversham – which was what she had expected to happen. That, all by itself, made this a good day.

It was a sorrowful state of affairs, she thought with bitter humour, that her days had come to be measured by such things.

Chapter Seven

Days passed, and Benedict found himself more and more despairing. The year closed in, the weather became colder, and the habitual sense of darkness which enwrapped Darkmire Abbey sank into his mood. He felt as if he was watched all the time, as if the ghosts of the past studied his every move, no matter where he was in the house, or on the grounds.

It was making him imagine things – he kept seeing, out of the corner of his eye, shadowy figures slipping into the trees, or around the corner of the stables. He chastised himself for being as superstitious as the villagers, but that sense of being watched remained.

At the same time, his relationship with Ariana became worse, rather than better – she did whatever he asked of her – but she did it with a listless resentment which broke his heart. He did not want to make his wife miserable! He wanted to, somehow, find a way for them to be happy together – he wanted, now that he had spent time considering it, to love and be loved.

Which seemed, he had to admit, a hope very unlikely to be granted.

***

On a misty and rainy Tuesday morning a couple of weeks after the almost violent scene in his and Ariana’s bedroom, Benedict left the house early and went to the Harbottle estate. The Harbottles were a wealthy family – Mr Harbottle being a merchant who had done very well in business, and bought the old estate to increase his apparent importance in the world. The house had been renovated – in a manner a bit excessive and somewhat tasteless, to Benedict’s eye – and it seemed that renovation activities had now been extended to the gardens.

Mrs. Harbottle seemed surprised by the visit — as well she might be, for Benedict supposed that having a Duke appear on your doorstep, seeking an employee, was not a common occurrence. James had, she told him as she led him through the somewhat garishly decorated house and out, via a terrace, into the gardens, been hired to manage that garden renovation, and to restore the gardens to their original elegant design.

Apparently, part of that design was an herb and scent garden, and James’ mother’s knowledge of such things – which she had passed on to him – had been a deciding factor in his employment.

There were flower beds, artfully placed statuary, fountains and small ponds, set around winding paths which led to what appeared to be a folly and a small lake at the bottom of the hillside. It was all partly obscured by the pale fog, and the lightly misting rain dampened everything.

Mrs Harbottle waved a hand towards the gardens vaguely.

“Mr Fitzherbert will be down there somewhere. You’re welcome to seek him out, Your Grace.”

With that, she turned and went back into the warmth of the house.

Benedict regarded the rather grey landscape before him, and wondered if he had done the right thing in coming. But he was here now – best to get on with it. It would be good to see James again, even if he had no advice to help Benedict with his problems.

He had expected to find James digging in the cold ground with gloved hands, but there was no sign of his lank figure hunched over the fronds of the damp ferns or hidden under the near bare bushes which lined a stone wall. At that point, Benedict realised that, truly, he had no idea what a man might need to do, to restore a garden – at Darkmire Abbey, his gardeners went about their business efficiently, and Benedict had never actually examined what they did, beyond assessing whether he was happy with the results.

He wound his way through the paths, until he reached a section near the folly – which was, it seemed, designed to look like a ruined old church – where, all around, there were many tiny garden beds in intricate patterns. As he approached, he noted a statue, close against the folly wall, and another not far beyond it, just under the shelter of the arch of the stone.

He turned, looking around, his heart sinking more every moment. This was a fool’s errand, it seemed.

“Benedict! What brings you here?”

Benedict spun back towards the folly, his heart pounding.

The cowled figure he had taken for another statue stepped forward, pushing back it’s hood a little to reveal a pair of twinkling green eyes. For a moment Benedict didn’t recognise him, for he had allowed his beard to grow a little, and his hair was longer, tied back in a neat queue. Then the lines of the face came clear to him through the mist, and he smiled.

“James!” he exclaimed, running forward to greet his old friend. “What are you doing here? I thought you a statue for a moment!”

“Working hard.”

James affected a much deeper voice than he actually had, and attempted to look completely serious. Benedict laughed.

“I can see that. You were so still that I thought you carved of stone – I can only assume that you were deep in thought?”