Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  She patted her hair and without a backward glance, picked up a stole from her chair as she went to join the family downstairs. Frowning, she secretly hoped her parents had gotten over the disappointment of her not wanting the Colonel. He was just such a dull and dreadful man. Although he was proper and she could find no particular fault with his etiquette, he was not to her liking.

  Running the light stole through her gloved fingers, she pulled absently at the fringe. Then, dropping the material around her arms as she came to the main hall, she frowned. Outside she could hear a carriage pulling away from the front of the house. Curious, she went to the window, pulling back the drapes. It was their family carriage leaving the estate.

  Before she could investigate, a manservant opened the front door. He bowed slightly as her mother walked in. The Viscountess glanced around the hall. Then, nodding to the servant in dismissal, she came to look out the window beside Imogen.

  The Viscountess lifted her hand to pull aside the curtain. She did not look at her daughter, choosing instead to sigh out towards the lawn. Imogen studied her mother’s face carefully. It was strained, more so than usual. Her eyes appeared sad and wet as if she had been crying.

  “Mother?” Imogen questioned softly. She lifted a hand to her mother’s shoulder. “Is aught amiss? Who is in the carriage? Where are they going?”

  The Viscountess glanced at her shoulder, shivering slightly as she shook her daughter’s hand from her. For a moment, Lady Sutherfeld looked toward Imogen, not meeting her daughter’s eye. Then, turning back to the window, the Viscountess whispered, “There goes the last of my daughters from Rothfield Park. Godspeed, my dear Jane. May your visit with Harriet bring you a comfort I cannot feel.”

  Imogen gasped at the deliberate slight. Her face paled in understanding. Desperately, she whispered, “Mother? What do you mean? You cannot be so angry with me as to really ignore me forever. The Colonel—”

  “The Colonel?” echoed the Viscountess in a dramatically sad whisper. Her brows furrowed. She lifted her chin proudly into the air. Sniffing, more tears wet the woman’s blue eyes. She dabbed at them lightly with an embroidered handkerchief. Then, without one look at her pallid and waiting daughter, she turned away. The handkerchief dropped from her hand as she walked, the light fabric sweeping over the floor as it fell, forgotten.

  Imogen started to call out to the Viscountess, but, seeing the little square still stained with her mother’s tears, she picked up the fabric and rubbed her gloved fingers over the damp material. Clutching it in her hand, she felt like weeping.

  Her mother had dismissed her, coldly and callously. Imogen knew the woman to be given to theatrics, but surely such an extreme punishment was unwarranted. And although to be treated with silence was nothing new to her, the pointed refusal to acknowledge her was.

  But just as she knew the bend of the Viscountess’s nature, she knew too that her mother was stubborn in her convictions and it might be a long time until she deemed her eldest daughter worthy of conversation. Imogen had no idea the Colonel’s fortune meant that much to the Viscountess.

  “Fine, don’t speak to me!” Imogen exclaimed in an angry hiss. She refused to cry as she went back to the window. The carriage was gone. Remembering what her mother had told her, if not directly, she stiffened. Jane was sent away to London.

  “Oh, Jane,” she whispered, already missing her sweet little sister. Jane would not have chosen to go to London on her own. Surely this was another of her mother’s punishment—to take away her dear friend. Her grief was overridden by anger at her mother and soon she found herself storming to the dining room.

  Seeing a tray of pastries set out, she hurried over and grabbed one. Hearing a gasp behind her, she turned just in time to see the offended maid’s pale face. It was the same girl who had given her the plate the day before.

  The girl’s mouth opened as if she might speak. Imogen cut her off with a grimace. Rolling her eyes, she huffed, “Not you, too! I will not suffer your accusing glances atop those of my mother. Now begone from my sight at once!”

  The maid scampered off with a pitiful look of horror. Throwing the pastry down on the tray, she stomped angrily from the room without eating.

  “If no one wants me about, I shall go outside,” she declared to herself. Part of her felt sorry for taking her animosity out on the maid, but she did not turn around to apologize. Without waiting for a servant to attend her, she went out the large front door, slamming it shut behind her

  Outside the day was as fresh and clean as the morning sunlight in her bedroom window had promised. Imogen strolled over the graveled drive, through the dry grass pathways to the garden. She ignored the paved courtyard close to the house, choosing instead to follow the earthen walkways leading through the rows of flowers and benches.

  The farther she wandered from the house, the easier her steps became until she could feel no anger, only joy in a beautiful day. Making her way to a bench, she sat demurely on the stone seat. She realized then that she had forgotten to bring a book. Not that she felt like reading, she assured herself, refusing to go back.

  Time passed with the rolling of grasses and the gentleness of the breeze. Imogen closed her eyes with a sigh, letting the sun warm her features as she turned her face to it. Unfastening her bonnet, she let if fall from her fingers forgotten, her stole loosely clung to the sides of her arms.

  Suddenly, a chill swept over her and she shivered violently. The crunching steps of footfall drew near, coming from the house. Jolting her head around to confront the noise, she froze. Her features hardened in expectation as the footsteps steadily came closer.

  A figure appeared from behind a shrub, his tall frame outlined by sunlight. Imogen blinked, instantly realizing she was not acquainted with the man. He was much too slender to be Edward and his gait too relaxed to be the Colonel, as she had first feared. Lifting her chin, she waited for him to reach her. His head turned to the side, stopping to admire some bird taking flight in the distance. The sun bounced off the shiny dark queue of his hair, bound at the nape of his neck. He leaned lightly on a slender walking stick.

  Imogen coughed delicately, watching him in expectation. At the noise, the man’s head whipped around toward her. He took a step forward, coming out of the sunlight into the shade. At first he did not make a move to acknowledge her, watching her with veiled curiosity. The wide eyes of grayish green that stared out from beneath a worried brow struck her deeply with their unmistaken depth. If ever in her wild youth she had been stunned to dry-mouthed silence, this moment was it. Her heart choked in its usually steady rhythm. Another chill worked its way over her and she was forced to blink and look away, as she assessed his effect on her composure.

  The man seemed to relax when she looked away. Without comment, he took another step as if to pass her completely by, propelling Imogen into action. She quickly stood to block his path. Confusion passed over his face as he studied her. Slowly, he bowed. Imogen curtsied dutifully in return.

  “Good day, Sir,” she said politely. Her voice was as weak as her legs, but she did her best to control it. She could not let this man move on without discovering who he was. She waited to hear his voice, hoping it was high or off-pitch to counteract the disturbing effect of his handsome features.

  Her gaze traveled over his attire. His dress was of fine quality, but by no means of the latest style. A stiff cravat fitted about his throat, the tall points of his high collar nearly touching his ears. His waistcoat of dark gray looked solemn next to the black of his knee-length jacket. She realized his attire was more suited to the styles when she was a young girl.

  “Good day,” the man answered carefully. His tone was dark and grave. His eyes shone with wonder and confusion, and his voice was not at all unpleasant, much to Imogen’s delight and dismay.

  “Are you lost, Sir?” she asked.

  “No, Miss, I am not,” he said in a clipped voice, his words stunted, as if he were afraid to use them. He swallowed a bit nervously, ma
king no attempt to go around her or to leave her, waiting patiently for her to speak.

  Imogen studied his eyes. They swam with thoughts and dark emotions, but she was not acquainted enough with him to understand. Then an idea struck her. She was expecting a new tutor and surely this man was he. His old clothes were obviously gifts from some previous lord he had served, which explained why he was dressed a decade behind the times. His uneasiness could only mean her parents were still not talking to her and had sent him to introduce himself. It was clear by his stiff demeanor that he was not pleased by the arrangement.

  Sighing, she said, “You must be the new tutor father has arranged for me and my sister. However, I do believe Jane has left for London just this morning and your services are not required by me.”

  This seemed to shock him. The man tilted his head thoughtfully. Imogen imagined she saw distaste for her bluntness on his features.

  “Oh, do not tell me you are at a loss for words,” she laughed. “You are a tutor and must know of a great many things to say. Surely you know that it is up to me to introduce myself since my parents will not do it. And I expect you are the man they have sent to change my very disagreeable nature.”

  “I—” he began, cut off by the expectant raise of her brow. Then with a worried frown, he questioned slowly, “You don’t know—?”

  “Oh, I know that you are here to be my tutor. My father thinks I am still in need of an education, though I quite disagree. Already I have had nigh thirteen women as governess.” Imogen laughed airily. “I alarm you with my straightforward nature, do I not? I must warn you, it only gets worse. If I were you, I’d leave your post immediately.”

  The man did not move. He studied her thoughtfully, his eyes roaming for the first time over her unruly hair to the bonnet lying on the ground. She stiffened at the disapproval on his face as he studied her. Patting her hair, she felt her windswept locks, wondering why his disapproval should so upset her when she had gone out of her way to displease so many before him.

  “I can see by your look that you will consider no such thing. Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you away from here. So whatever happens from here on is entirely your fault. Now, you must be called something, what was it again?” she began, her tone more amicable.

  “Dougal Weston.”

  “Mr. Weston, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Miss Imogen Drake, but please, if we are to be forced together, do call me Imogen, or even Gennie. I much prefer it.”

  “Miss Imogen.”

  “I do hope your journey to Rothfield Park was pleasant? I must apologize in advance for any unpleasantness you will discover here. I am not on speaking terms with my parents, or should I more adequately say they are not speaking to me. You see, they are greatly disappointed in me at the moment.”

  At that bit of personal information, his frown deepened into one of grave distaste, “Surely you do not wish to discuss such matters with me.”

  “Oh? What do you mean?”

  “I have no wish to clarify at risk of insulting you, Miss Imogen.” Dougal watched her carefully. The crease between his eyes deepened. She noticed he had the most distracting birthmark beneath his eye, near his cheek. The small mark was quite disarming and handsome. She had the strangest urge to touch it and from that urge grew the desire to feel his skin and hair.

  “Please speak candidly, Mr. Weston. For how else am I to learn?” she said before she could stop the words. Her gaze moved from his cheek back to his eyes. She couldn’t help but meet the challenge his gaze brought forth within her. Any admiration she had felt just moments before left her, to be replaced by a delightfully challenging anger. This man was trying hard to disarm her with his superior attitude. She would not allow it.

  “I think your words thus far indicate you are in very bad need of a tutor. You are lacking in propriety. I can only hope that by expanding your mind, you will grow more assured and less… frivolous.” Dougal gave her a curt nod of dismissal. He moved step around her, but she stopped him by stepping to the side to block his retreat. His lips set in a straight, immovable line.

  “Indeed,” Imogen gasped, feeling like a scolded child. “And do you propose you are the man to teach me this propriety I appear to lack?”

  Dougal was instantly sorry for his harsh words as he watched the hurt filter through the deep blue of her eyes.

  Her pale lips trembled, but she held her own. It had been a long time since Dougal had spoken to a beautiful woman.

  “I daresay we will be spending a great deal of time together,” he answered, his brow lightening.

  “So that is my mother’s game, is it?” Imogen forced a laugh. Turning from him so he wouldn’t see her insecurity, she leaned over to pick up her bonnet. Dusting it, she studied the ribbons. She formed them into curls by winding the straps over her long fingers. She couldn’t meet his piercing gaze as she uttered resentfully, “They wish to bore me with your teachings until I relent and marry the Colonel. And I suppose her refusing to talk to me and sending away my only confidant is to make me desire your lessons out of nothing better to do.”

  When he was silent, she glanced up at him.

  “They intend for you to start right away, do they?” Imogen asked quietly.

  Dougal nodded. His face looked almost helpless as he studied her. Imogen refused to see it in him. All she saw was a hard man with an overly disapproving nature and a boorish sense of himself, too arrogant and lacking compassion. And the impudence in him! It was inconceivable that he could have anything to teach her about how to be a proper lady.

  “Well, I am not ready to begin my lessons. I wish to flounder a bit more in my insufferable impropriety. Why don’t you go sit with my mother? I am sure the both of you can find enough faults with me to while away the entire afternoon. Please inform her that I will be dining alone in my room tonight and at every other meal until the end of time. I want nothing to do with either of you.”

  Imogen skirted around the stunned Mr. Weston without giving him time to answer. She could feel his gaze on her back as she stalked off. Stomping as hard as she dared in her little slippers, she did her best to appear as uncivilized as possible. If she were lucky, he would declare her so far gone as to be beyond teaching anything to and leave Rothfield Park at once.

  Reaching the front of the house in a breathless flutter, she pushed open the door. The heavy wood crashed behind her as she stormed inside. In the hall, her pale mother gaped in surprise, blinking in confusion and turning in horror at the sound. Imogen ignored her, hurrying past the Viscountess to her room. Her mother rushed to close the door behind her. She was gone before the Viscountess could even turn around.

  * * * *

  Blast that Mr. Weston! Imogen raged inwardly. And his arrogant, vile, insufferable disposition! I should not be forced to endure his presence.

  She stopped near the window, tapping her fist impatiently against the wood frame. It had been nearly five hours since she had introduced herself to the man and still his coldness stung just as fresh as the first bite of his haughty disparagements of her character. Resuming her pacing, she grumbled, “Who does he think he is, speaking to me as if I was in need of manners! Was it I who stared blankly as if the other did not exist? Was it I who left all the awkwardness of the introductions to a gentlewoman? No, it assuredly was not!”

  Imogen refused to leave her bedroom. Undoubtedly, she would not find a sympathetic ear with her parents. They were the ones who had hired the man. Besides, she hated to admit that she was too much of a coward to see her father. After the way her mother had acted, she was sure her father was just as displeased, if not because of her stubborn disobedience, then for her mother’s ill humor which he must certainly bear the brunt of.

  “Oh!” she huffed loudly. Frustration seeped from every pore. Her limbs shook with indignation and outrage.

  There was no one left to distract her attention or ease the displeasure of her bad mood. Jane was off to London without even a word. Her father had
undoubtedly informed Mr. Tanner he was not to visit, as was his intention. And the Colonel, well he was the last man Imogen wished to see. In her mind, all of it was his fault.

  She was trapped at Rothfield Park. And it would seem her only company in her imprisonment was to be Mr. Dougal Weston. Imogen paused in her pacing tirade to stare at the plastered wall of her bedchamber. Suddenly, she was struck with the image of his handsome face. He had been rightly disturbed by her actions. Assuredly, a man as proper as he was would be offended by her outbursts. It wasn’t really Mr. Weston whom she had been mad at, but he had nevertheless endured the blunt of her wrath.

  A knock on the door broke through her thoughts. Turning, she called for the visitor to enter. Seeing a maid carrying a tray laden with food, she tried to smile at the girl.

  “Miss,” the girl curtsied. The maid averted her gaze, staring down at the floor. Imogen saw the young girl peek curiously from the corner of her eye when her mistress turned to motion to a table. The maid quickly laid down the tray before turning to leave.

  “Wait,” Imogen ordered. Then softening her tone, she asked, “Do I know you?”

  “No, Miss,” the girl answered. Her impeccable red hair was swept beneath a dutiful white cap. The cap bobbed as she again curtsied nervously. She detected the dialect of the north in her words. “I am Charlotte.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Charlotte.” She tilted her head to see if the girl would look at her. “Are you newly come to Rothfield Park?”

  The girl did look up at that. She seemed to struggle nervously with her answer, before saying carefully, “New to your household, Miss.”

  “And are you from here?” Imogen asked, desperate to have any type of company, even that of a servant.

  Again the maid was pained as she answered, “From the north originally.”

  She saw that the girl would willingly say no more. Sighing, Imogen waved her hand in distraction. “That will be all. Thank you, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, Miss,” the girl again curtsied and hurried from the room.