Jane Feather

by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

  Imogen agreed somewhat absently, wondering if Charles would come to Stanhope Terrace that evening. She’d sent him a note giving him the day of their arrival back in town, a note as curt as his own informing her of his departure, but she had received no response. Reason told her that there had not been much time for him to respond, but unreason pointed out that a man truly and eagerly in love would find a way to communicate his delight at the prospect of her return.

  The cab drew up outside the house on Stanhope Terrace. Gaslight shone from all the windows, throwing a welcoming glow as they alighted at the front door. The street lamps were already lit, their sulfurous yellow casting pools of light onto the damp pavement. A light drizzle fell. It was a typical winter evening in London.

  Sharpton was waiting at the door. “Welcome, Miss Imogen . . . Miss Esther. Everything is prepared.” He stood aside as they stepped into the hall, and issued a few curt orders to waiting footmen about the luggage. “If you’d care to step into the back parlor, I’ll send up a tea tray at once.”

  “Thank you. That would be welcome.” The sisters went upstairs to the first floor and into the small parlor at the rear of the house, which had always been their own private sanctuary.

  “Oh, it’s good to be home,” Esther said, taking off her gloves and unbuttoning her coat. “Even if it is a miserable evening.”

  “I’d rather be in town on a miserable evening than in Hampshire,” Imogen said, unpinning her hat. “The country in the snow or at the height of summer is lovely, but when it’s damp and mizzly like this, it’s much cozier here.”

  “Tea, ma’am.” A parlormaid set down a tray. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Not for the moment, Alice. Thank you.” Imogen nodded her thanks with a smile and sat down to pour the tea. “Oh, do you know what time Mrs. Dalton would like to serve dinner tonight?”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Sharpton, ma’am.”

  Sharpton appeared almost immediately. “Lord Beaufort and Mr. Harry Graham will be dining tonight, Miss Imogen. Mrs. Dalton thought to serve dinner at eight o’clock, if that would be convenient.”

  “Yes, quite convenient, thank you, Sharpton.” Imogen waited until the butler had left before saying, “How very considerate of Duncan to welcome us back to town on our arrival.”

  Esther laughed. “What you mean is that it’s actually very inconsiderate of him. The last thing I want is to make conversation tonight.”

  “Well, it is only our brother, and I find Harry very agreeable. I doubt we’ll find the evening stretches our intellectual powers too much.” Imogen drank her tea thirstily. “For some reason, the train always leaves me parched.” She set down her cup and rose to her feet. “I think I’ll go upstairs and have a bath, if there’s enough hot water.”

  “Leave it for me when you’re finished. There won’t be enough water for two before dinner.”

  “You have the first one and I’ll take your water,” Imogen said firmly. “I have some letters to write anyway, so I can wait.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Positive. Let me know when you’re finished, and I’ll take over the bathroom.”

  Imogen found Daisy in her bedchamber unpacking the trunk. “What will you wear this evening, Miss Imogen?” The maid lifted a gown of pale blue muslin from the trunk and removed the layers of tissue paper from between its folds. “This is pretty, and not too creased. A quick once-over with the iron is all it needs.”

  “Then I’ll wear that.” Imogen was not much interested in her choice of gown for an evening at home with only her brother and his friend to entertain. “I’m sharing my sister’s bathwater. Martha will tell me when Miss Esther has finished, so I’ll just get out of these clothes and slip on a dressing robe.” She unbuttoned the jacket of her blue worsted suit.

  Daisy abandoned her unpacking and hurried to assist her, shaking out a silk-lined woolen dressing gown. Imogen unbuttoned her navy silk shirt and skirt and slipped her arms into the sleeves of the robe. She could hear the sounds of water being poured into the deep bathtub in the connecting bathroom she shared with her sister. It would take a lot of jugs to fill it adequately, and the copper in the kitchen would be emptied with just one bathfull, hence the need for sharing hot water. She was about to sit at the small desk in the window embrasure to compose a note to Charles, when an upstairs maid tapped on the door.

  Daisy went to answer it. “A letter for you, Miss Imogen.” She shut the door again and brought the letter to Imogen, who recognized the writing immediately. It was from Charles.

  She slit it open with the paperknife and unfolded it. It was on a sheet of plain legal paper with the heading of his chambers at the top, and, like all Charles’s missives, it was short and to the point. Welcome to London. Hope the train wasn’t too uncomfortable. I won’t visit tonight as I’m sure you must be tired, but I will call tomorrow morning on my way to chambers. Around nine o’clock. Sleep well and dream even better. C.

  Nine o’clock was an ungodly hour for visiting, Imogen reflected, half smiling nevertheless. Charles was always an early riser and at work in his chambers before most of dilettante London had drunk their first cup of coffee. She drew a sheet of paper to her, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and wrote a reply. The journey was tedious as always. I’ll expect you for breakfast at eight thirty tomorrow. Kedgeree as usual? Gen.

  An unromantic sign-off, but since Charles was not given to romantic flourishes in his letters, she wasn’t going to indulge either.

  “I’m out of the bath, Gen.” Esther popped her head around the bathroom door. Her face was pink from the hot water, wisps of hair clinging damply to her forehead, the rest piled high on her head. She clutched a towel around her. “It’s all yours.”

  “Thank you.” Imogen folded and sealed the letter and wrote the address. “Daisy, could you ask Mr. Sharpton to have this sent to Mr. Riverdale’s lodgings, please?” Presumably Charles still inhabited the same lodgings, despite his sudden inheritance. If he’d moved, he would surely have told her.

  She went into the steamy bathroom, the air scented with rosewater and verbena, Esther’s favorite fragrances, and she used them liberally in her bathwater. Imogen tossed off her dressing gown and slipped into the bath, sliding beneath the water.

  Esther came in, now wrapped in a dressing gown. She began to unpin her hair at the mirror over the washstand. “How’s the water?”

  “Perfect.” Imogen reached dreamily for the soap. “Charles sent a note. He’ll be here for breakfast in the morning. Is that all right with you, Essie?”

  “Of course—why wouldn’t it be?” Esther glanced over her shoulder at her sister and a gleam shone in her eyes. “Is he coming through the front door for breakfast . . . or will he be coming downstairs?”

  “The former,” Imogen said firmly, lifting a leg from the water to soap it. “What gave you the other idea?”

  Esther merely smiled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” She drifted back towards her own bedroom. “Is Charles still living on South Audley Street?”

  Imogen dropped her leg back into the water and sat up straighter, water slurping around her. “As far as I know. I assume he canceled the lease on the Park Street house when the engagement was broken.”

  “It would have been very short notice,” Esther commented through her open bedroom door.

  “Yes, it would.” Imogen slipped deeper into the water. Had Charles incurred a financial penalty for canceling the lease so abruptly? She had thought about it, but she hadn’t asked him. It was a lovely house, and furnished elegantly enough for them to live in it without major redecorations. They had taken it for a year, with the intention of finding their own permanent residence in London, which they would furnish to their own tastes. It was a prospect she had looked forward to with excitement, resolved that Charles would have to bite his tongue when it came to how she chose to spend her own money on their house. If necessary, she had the perfect argument up her sleeve. A prominent and ambitious barrister
needed elegant surroundings in which to entertain his peers. And when it came to setting a perfect dinner table, Imogen considered herself unrivaled.

  Odd how she had been perfectly prepared to do everything possible to advance her husband’s career, to entertain his colleagues, to cultivate anyone of any importance to his career, just like any other dutiful wife. And yet she had still assumed she would pursue her own goals, following convictions that many of her husband’s colleagues and their all-important wives would find quite antithetical. She hadn’t asked herself whether she would be able to hold her tongue when their opinions came up in social gatherings and her own, if expressed, would draw opprobrium and perhaps reflect badly on Charles.

  And for some reason, they had never discussed that. How had she never put the question to herself before? How had they ever got as far as announcing their betrothal, when they hadn’t begun to explore what made a successful marriage? Lust. That was how. The devil’s tool and heaven’s magic.

  And lust alone could not answer those questions that would have to be asked and answered if they really did have any future.

  She stepped out of the bathwater and wrapped herself in a thick Turkish towel, going through to her own bedroom. It was empty, and she assumed Daisy was pressing the blue muslin. She went to the window, drawing back the heavy velvet curtain to look down onto the damp street. A brougham passed below the window, and several hansom cabs, but there were no pedestrians. It was far too miserable an evening.

  Maybe they could discuss the questions in the spirit of honesty to which they had both agreed, and they would give each other honest answers. Maybe honesty would steer them through the thorny thicket of their past mistakes. And maybe it would simply make their differences so clear and absolute that they would know there was no possibility of a shared future.

  Daisy came back, talking even as she entered the room. “Oh, Miss Imogen, Alfie took the letter to South Audley Street, but Mr. Riverdale isn’t there no more. The landlord told him to take it to Park Street, so he did and left it with Mr. Riverdale’s footman. Was that all right, ma’am?”

  “Perfectly,” Imogen responded. So Charles had kept the lease and moved into the house they were to live in together . . . as man and wife. It was the obvious thing to do, of course. But it felt a little strange to think of him living a bachelor’s existence in what was to have been their first marital home. It was the place they were supposed to make their own from the very beginning. A joint enterprise. And Charles had already put his own imprint upon it.

  Imogen sat down at the dresser so that Daisy could unpin her hair, brush it, and replait it, ready for the evening. It was a trivial issue, she told herself. Besides, Charles had probably done nothing with it. He’d done nothing to make Beringer Manor his own, after all.

  Chapter 14

  Duncan and Harry were already in the drawing room when Imogen and Esther went downstairs soon after seven thirty. “Ladies, as enchanting as ever.” Harry was first on his feet to greet them. “May I offer you sherry?”

  “How was the journey?” Duncan peeled himself off the sofa and greeted his sisters with pecks on the cheek. “Were you delayed?”

  “No, amazingly, the train was on time,” Esther told him, taking the glass proffered by Harry and sitting in an armchair opposite her brother. “What have you been up to since you left Beaufort Hall last week?”

  “Oh, this and that,” Duncan said vaguely. “We’re planning to go to Paris to see this miracle tower. Le Tour d’Eiffel, which went up last year. It’ll be the entrance to the World’s Fair in April, and Harry and I really want to see it before the exhibition opens. We thought we’d go next week.”

  “Now that would make a most interesting journey,” Esther said. “I’ve a good mind to join you. What d’you think, Gen?”

  Imogen saw the horror on her brother’s face even as Harry hastily said, “Yes, of course—please do. We’d be delighted to escort you both.”

  “Perhaps a little later in the year,” she said, with a signaling eyebrow in her sister’s direction. “We have to get our feet under the table in London before we go gallivanting off to Paris.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course that would be wise. Gossip’s still rampant out there.” Duncan took a deep draught of his whiskey. “We’ll send you a postcard.”

  “Miss Imogen, a delivery for you.” Sharpton appeared in his usual soundless fashion. He held a tiny bouquet wrapped in tissue paper. “Should I get the parlormaid to put these in water for you? Or would you like Daisy to put them in your bedroom?”

  “I don’t know,” Imogen said, a little confused. “May I have it?”

  “There’s a letter with it, ma’am.” Sharpton presented both with a small bow of his head.

  It was a tiny bunch of snowdrops, rainwater clinging to the delicate flowers, the leaves a fresh and vivid green. “Oh, how pretty. How perfect,” Imogen exclaimed, knowing immediately who had sent them. Only Charles could have thought this unassuming bunch of early spring flowers would please her more than a houseful of hothouse roses. She was used to the fact that he was not given to overly romantic gestures, but when he made one, it was always absolutely right. She drew in the snowdrops’ faint fragrance with a soft smile. The note that came with them was sealed, and she broke the wafer eagerly. The note was simple.

  On second thought, I’ll stay for breakfast. Make sure the side door is open when you go up to bed. Oh, and yes to the kedgeree. C.

  Hastily, Imogen scrunched the note and leaned forward to throw it into the fire. “Would you ask Daisy to put these in my room, please, Sharpton.” She held out the little bouquet. “Away from the fire, please, otherwise they’ll wilt.”

  “Certainly, Miss Imogen.”

  “Charles?” Esther mouthed with a raised eyebrow and a complicit little smile.

  Her sister nodded, then remarked casually, “I heard through the grapevine that Charles had moved into the Park Street house.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s been there for several months,” Duncan said, helping himself to more whiskey.

  “I wonder why you didn’t think to mention it?” his sister murmured.

  “I didn’t think it would be of any interest in the circumstances,” Duncan said. “You’d given him up—why should it matter to you where he decided to live?”

  “One is always interested in matters concerning people with whom one has been closely acquainted,” Harry said with a diplomatic smile, “however unpleasant the circumstances. It’s human nature, dear boy.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Well, I hope you’re going to be polite to the man now that you’re both in London, Imogen. You were rude enough to him in the country.”

  “I won’t embarrass you, Duncan,” she said mildly, getting to her feet as Sharpton announced dinner. She could summon no indignation, none of her usual annoyance with her young brother when he started laying down the law where her own personal affairs were concerned. She could think only of the night ahead.

  It was so typical of Charles to make a unilateral decision and simply inform her of it. The habit had often irritated her in the past, but on this occasion Imogen didn’t mind in the least. The prospect of a night in his arms filled her with delicious anticipation, and her travel fatigue had disappeared as if she had never felt it. She managed to hold her own at the dinner table, despite moments of abstraction. Duncan was full of the upcoming trip to Paris and could talk of little else. The restaurants they would visit, the theatres they would go to.

  “Surely you’ll visit the Place Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge,” Esther said with a touch of mischief. “What red-blooded young man would pass up the opportunity? You might even see the more scandalous version of the cancan.”

  Duncan flushed. “Really, Esther, you shouldn’t mention such places in polite society. And as for the dance . . .”

  Imogen went into a peal of laughter. “Duncan, darling, don’t be so prissy. How could you be such a prude? It’s not natural at your age.”

  If anythin
g, her brother’s color heightened. “And it’s not natural for a well-bred lady to talk about such things. You and Esther have no sense of delicacy.”

  “Duncan, we’re sitting around our own dinner table in private, we can say what we wish,” Esther expostulated. “Harry, you don’t mind, do you?”

  Harry was looking amused. “Not in the least. Duncan, dear boy, I do think you’re being a little too sensitive.” He placed a hand on Duncan’s arm, smiling at him, a warm and gently teasing smile.

  Duncan briefly placed his hand over his friend’s and then, still rather flushed, turned back to his plate. “So, are you going to be seen in public with Charles, Gen?” he asked after a moment. “Now that you’re both in town.”

  “Oh, I should think so,” Imogen said, cutting a small piece of roast beef from the slice on her plate. “Unless he’s too busy in the courts to go about much in society.”

  “He’s certainly rather busy with the Warwick divorce case,” Harry remarked, helping himself to Yorkshire pudding. “I met him in the club the other afternoon, and he was very distracted, buried in papers.”

  “Warwick?” Imogen looked up from her plate. “That odious man who belly-shot the stag?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Harry said, looking at Duncan. “Do you, Duncan?”

  “I heard something,” Duncan said vaguely. “But it’s nothing to do with us.”

  Imogen said nothing, putting a dab of horseradish on her beef. If Warwick was one of Charles’s clients, then it would explain his presence as Charles’s guest in a shooting party at Beringer Manor. What were the circumstances of the divorce case? If Charles was in court for the husband, what were the grounds? She was prepared to accept that wives could be unfaithful and husbands had sufficient grounds for divorcing them, but the evidence in those cases was frequently suspect. Even Charles acknowledged that on occasion. But maybe Mrs. Warwick was divorcing her husband? And that was still so unusual it would be a much more interesting situation.