“Mr. Weston?” he echoed in amazement. His eyes darkened. His hand fell to his side, balling into a frustrated fist.
“Yes. That is your name, is it not?” She saw the soft filtering of early morning glowing off his shoulders, outlining him. Her eyes were drawn to the strength of his neck, visible beneath his untied cravat. He did not look so proper this morning. His jacket was discarded behind him. His waistcoat hung open, revealing the fine linen of his shirt. She could see the base of his throat beneath the revealing fall of the shirt’s collar. His flat stomach darkened the white linen as it showed from beneath the thin material. Her pulse began to race. She shook violently, wanting to test the firmness for herself. Unable to divert her gaze from wandering, she looked her fill of him.
“Yesterday you called me something else,” he whispered softly, not completely unaware of her attention to his person.
“I am sorry for it,” she admitted, wondering what she could have said to him. Everything was a blank. “I must not have been myself. I cannot remember a thing beyond speaking to you in the garden.”
Dougal stiffened at the admission. His expression steeled itself to her, but there was a deep agony within his gaze. Breathing hard, he turned from her. Quickly, he buttoned his waistcoat and straightened his cravat. Then, taking his jacket, he slid it over his shoulders. When he turned back to her, his manner was cold and impersonal like she remembered him.
He stared blankly at her for a moment. A war waged behind his expressionless eyes, tortured and alone. Imogen was drawn to go to him, to comfort him, but she held back. Swallowing nervously, she watched him.
Dougal took a step towards her. He stood, rigid and proper. His gaze probed her, willing her to remember. Her bright eyes stared back in innocent confusion. Without speaking, he curtly bowed his head and moved past her to the library door. He did not trust himself to speak.
“Mr. Weston,” she stuttered helplessly.
“Yes, Miss Imogen?” he answered, not looking at her. His shoulders seemed to slump as he waited for her words.
“What would you have me do today for my lesson? I should like to get started.” She desperately wanted to go to him. Her entire being begged her to hold him. Her lips still tingled, wanting something she could not describe. In bewilderment, she watched him. Her mind reached out, willing him to answer her unrealized questions.
“Read,” he voiced hoarsely. Then with a cold harshness, he uttered, “Pick a book—anything.”
He moved as if to go. She stopped him by insisting, “And we shall discuss it later in the garden?”
She waited breathlessly to see if he would smile at her. He did not. Back was his cold demeanor.
“Yes, Miss Imogen. We shall.” He bowed his head in her direction, not turning to look fully at her, then he left her alone in the library.
She fell to the settee, breathless. What had happened that she could not remember? Why did Mr. Weston think that she should call him anything but his name? Had they fought? Imogen paled. Or was it much worse than that? Had she shamed herself with him?
She trembled, refusing to think on it. The previous evening was a blank mystery. Taking her time, she went to the bookshelves, not seeing the binding for the nervous tears that threatened her eyes. She could not determine why her mouth shook, or why her arms trembled with strange longing. And why did it feel as if her heart was being ripped apart?
Gaining control, she let loose a deep breath. She grabbed a book from the shelf—the first her fingers fell upon. Then, making her way back to the chair, she sat with a resolve she did not know she possessed and read.
The long shadows cast from sunlight shining through windowpanes moved over the floor of the library until they journeyed from one end to the other. And as the light softened into the golden hues of late afternoon, Imogen blinked heavily. With a delicate yawn she looked up from the book in her lap to gaze dreamily around the library. Her eyes focused blindly on the patterns of orange reflecting off the rows of books.
She could not make it past the first page of the nameless treatise on animal husbandry and its relations to social economics. A duller book she could not have found. But, refusing to replace it with any other, she read and reread the first page, not remembering a single word past the very first ‘the’.
More often than not, her eyes would wander to the embroidered roses on the bodice of her gown. Her fingers would pluck at them absently. She recalled every detail of Mr. Weston’s soft look of the morning, when his clothes were disheveled and lovely in their aimlessness, before he once more became rigid and gruff and proper. And the memory only brought with it a profound sense of loss. Her mind tried to recapture the look of him when she closed her eyes—a soft smile, a tender expression, the gentle reach of his hand as if he would touch her.
Imogen groaned. Rising from her seat she went to the window to look out over the garden. The book she left on the settee forgotten easily. A gentle mist surrounded the garden, tugging painfully at her memory. Her mind begged her to recall. She struggled to grasp a thought, but as she detected a hand—slender and pale—coming into focus in her mind’s eye, she jolted in fear and the image was gone.
Behind her, the door opened. She turned, hopeful to see Mr. Weston again. Instead, she found her father—his cravat loosened, his brown eyes brimmed red with drink. Gasping to find him thus so early in the day, Imogen froze by the window. The Viscount did not see her as he walked into the room. He glanced at the roaring fire in surprise before kicking off his wet boots.
Lumbering across the carpeted floor, swaying only a little, Viscount Sutherfeld stopped at his favorite chair. Wearily, he sank into the stiff folds. He kicked his stocking feet out with a sigh. She saw only the balding top of his head and realized he still had not detected her. She started forward when he cursed. Sitting up, he leaned forward, his gaze on the settee.
“Not again,” he murmured, shaking his head. Pushing himself up with a groan he went to the settee and picked up the book. Looking at it dismally, he walked over to the shelf and put it back in its place on the shelf. “Who the devil reads such in this house?”
Imogen cleared her throat delicately, thinking it high time she made herself known to the drunken Viscount. The Viscount spun on his heels. Grabbing his head in his hands at the quick motion, he paused, endeavoring not to weave.
“Father?” Imogen questioned.
“What?” he muttered. Looking up, he squinted. His gaze found her briefly, before blinking heavily to clear them of his self-induced pain. Under his breath, he cursed, “Bloody Hell! I must have drunk more than I figured.”
His laugh was bitter as he stumbled back to his chair. He sank into it wearily. His eyes closed, his mind falling into a stupor.
“Father, can I get you something?” asked Imogen.
“Ah,” he muttered, his lips smacking soundly, “leave me, child.”
“Father, what has happened?” she inquired lightly. She placed a hand on his head. It was warm. He moved his forehead from her.
“Blast it all, Gennie!” he grunted and slurred. “You were always a stubborn child. It is the reason I took you from London’s influences. And you resent me for it. I should have taken a heavier hand with you. Mayhap then things would be different.”
“You mean with the Colonel?” she asked, willing his eyes to open once more. It was not to be. A soft snore escaped his lips. Imogen dropped her hands from his forehead. Lovingly, she smoothed the tousled hair back from his flushed, round cheeks. With a sigh, she moved his limbs, arranging them in a more comfortable position. Her father muttered but did not open his eyes again.
Mr. Weston did not meet her in the garden. She waited the remainder of the day, her thoughts preoccupied with him. She walked throughout the curved paths, always drawn back to the stone bench of their first meeting. The wind blew over her gown, pressing it to her body. Occasionally, a chill would work its way over her spine and she would feel that she was not alone. Then the moment would pass and she wou
ld decide the chill was from the cool breeze and the feeling was from her desire for Mr. Weston to come.
With a wry smile, she realized she had not heard from Mr. Tanner. Not that she was surprised by Edward’s absence. It had only been a few days since her father had ordered him not to call on her. Hopefully one of the local families would throw a ball or a small garden party where she might happen upon him. Her father couldn’t very well keep her from talking to a known acquaintance at such a time.
Thinking on it, Imogen realized that she had seen no mail or invitations lately. And beyond that, no one called upon Rothfield Park. Had her mother driven all guests away? Or worse, with the sweet Jane gone, did no one think to visit her? Suddenly, she wished she had been a bit more hospitable to the poor country folk of Haventon. Small society was better than no society at all. And keeping oneself busy was better than so much time given to contemplation. Was this how her mother thought to sway her decision in regards to the Colonel? Was that what her father had meant? Imogen felt a grin fan over her features. So that was their game, was it? Well, they would soon see the strength of her resolve.
Imogen decided she should go inside as the sun began to fall over the horizon. The streaks of evening bathed over the earthen pathways and the stone carvings of the beautiful lawn. And, as she walked towards the manor, a fine dust settled over her feet, blowing from the ground to surround her. Darkness seemed to come too fast, like the rapid clicking of time kept by an over-wound clock.
Imogen gasped in sudden surprise. Her heart pounded in violence. She did not know why she was scared, but she began to run anyway. Her wide eyes darted about her. She could feel something growing around her, swelling up from the earth, awakening with the night. Spooked by the stillness of the silent grounds and the eerie coolness of the evening, Imogen looked straight before her feet.
Within moments she was on the front steps and through the manor’s large front door. She decisively slammed the door shut behind her and, with the feeling that all was not well beyond the walls of the house, Imogen flew to the safety of her bedroom.
Changing quickly for bed, she crawled beneath the thick folds of her coverlet, comforted by the weight of it on her body and feeling protected beneath the folds of its barrier. She pulled the coverlet over her head, leaving only a small space between the side of the coverlet and the bed to peek out. Refusing to move, she closed her eyes, and fell instantly into a fitful sleep.
* * * *
The mist gathered in the night, creeping eerily over the tall grass of the field, around the strong bark of flowering trees. The full moon shone brightly over Rothfield Park. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers, but, to some, another smell could be detected on the breeze. It was the acrid smell of burning wood.
Dougal swallowed. He could feel an old presence gathering in the misty darkness. Desperately, he searched through it, looking for signs of movement within the fog. Occasionally he would detect a stirring, so brief that it was gone before his eyes could make out the shape of a hand, the flowing material of a sleeve, but he could tell that they were there—just as surely as they could sense him.
Following the path into the woods, he felt his heart beat with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He was too old to give credence to hope, but he felt the stirring of it inside of him, refusing to be hidden away. The speckled light over the path grew dim. Insects hummed in the distance, unafraid of what lingered. The limbs of trees crashed overhead, clanging their leaves in an orchestra of foreboding melodies.
“Margaret?” Dougal called softly. He stopped near the stream, trying to listen past the water for any sign of an answer. The wind grew stronger, the stiffness of the breeze was a stout warning that he tried not to heed. He could detect the smell of roses wafting around him. He took a step. The mist grew thicker in warning. He called out again, “Margaret!”
He could feel that he wasn’t alone anymore. There was someone else on the path and it was not Margaret. The mist hid its secrets well, for he could not see ahead of him. He knew he should turn around and go back to the safety of the house, but he dared another step. His heart thudded painfully. The mist began to choke him, growing weary of keeping him at bay. A sudden slash of a tree limb disturbed the fog before him, twirling it about in curling waves, aiming for his head as if to crush his skull. Dougal paled, stumbling. When he righted himself, he knew he could not go on. It would not let him pass. It never let him pass.
“Margaret,” he whispered, heartbroken, beyond anger, frustrated. With deep regret, he watched the mist clear as he stepped slowly away and, as the way opened before him once more, he was forced to go back to the house.
* * * *
Imogen shot up in her bed with a gasp of fright. Sweat beaded her clammy skin. Gulping for air, she threw the coverlet from her legs. It was dark. Only the thin slivers of shimmering moonlight shone on the floor and the only sound she could hear was the beating of her heart in her ears.
Jumping off her bed, she padded barefoot over the floor as she made her way to the window. She leaned close to the glass, squinting to see. Beyond the chilly panes were the gardens, swirling with the fine mist of night. She pressed her face against the glass, her nose fogging a pattern over her lips as she frantically searched the countryside for any signs of life. There was nothing.
The thudding of her heart lessened. The tremor of her breaths began to lighten and calm. Imogen giggled, nervously berating herself for her bad dreams. She thought she had been awakened by a terrible scream, but all was silent and still as it should be. She began to relax.
Another scream rent the air. Imogen jumped, and then held completely still. Her body quaked in renewed terror. Turning slowly on her heels, she carefully searched her bedchamber. That scream had been real. This was no dream.
Detecting nothing within the shadows of her room, she crept slowly to the candle on her dresser, striking the flint to light it. Lifting the meager flame high, she looked around the room before hurrying to her bedroom door. Cracking the door, she moved the candle to light the hall. The orange glow of the small flame haloed her, casting ghostly shadows around in a globe of diminishing light, but she saw the hall was empty.
She listened intently for any sound. Without stopping to consider the danger, she moved quickly through the halls until she reached the main foyer. It too was empty.
The voice came again, this time softer and almost childlike. A gentle crying followed the pitiful discord.
Imogen hesitated. It was coming from outside and it sounded very close. Surely whoever was screaming would be standing on the other side of the door, waiting for someone to answer her. Glancing around the empty hall, before eyeing her long white nightgown, she decided to see who was at the front door. The child continued to cry, not bothering to knock or ring for a servant. Imogen set the brass candleholder on a table before pulling the door open. Outside there was nothing. The crying grew louder.
“Who’s there?” Imogen whispered. There was no answer. “Please, come forward. You will not be hurt.”
The crying began to fade, moving around the corner of the house. The sound seemed to travel on the wind. Imogen followed the noise with her gaze. Then she glimpsed the faint gleam of blonde hair formed into thick ringlets, outlined by the full, bright moon. Ignoring the frantic pounding of her heart, Imogen raced after the vision.
“Wait,” she called softly, coming around the corner. “Where are you going? Come back. I can help you.”
The child stopped. She turned around, her head tilting impishly to the side. A sly smile formed on her lips, instantly replacing the tears that had so recently occupied rounded features. The brightness of her clear, green eyes struck Imogen. She froze. Her feet stumbled to a stop.
The child’s yellow dress was old, the tight sleeves and stiffly formed bodice fitting snugly to her thin frame. The skirt was rounded like a bell, swinging back and forth as if it would ring. The child giggled, lifting her skirts to show an abundance of petticoats beneath the
little gown. With a small shake of her head, the little girl turned away, running along the path to the flower garden.
Imogen followed her. The child seemed to run on the wind, almost appearing to float. Always several paces behind, Imogen raced through the garden, around the stone path until finally the child was out of sight. Breathing heavily, she slowed her pace to walk quickly down the path the child had led her to. She tried to be quiet, listening for footsteps other than her own.
As she stepped around a small shrub, she saw the child. The girl sat demurely on the stone bench where she and Mr. Weston had talked. Imogen stopped. The child’s face was buried in her hands. When she looked up, Imogen saw tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks. Picking up her little shawl from the bench beside her, she tugged it around her shoulders then stood and started to turn away.
“Wait,” Imogen said, lifting her hand to stop her. She took a step forward. The girl turned curiously, her head cocked to the side.
“Why do you cry?”
The child sniffed. “I am lost.”
“I can help you,” Imogen stated, drawing nearer. “Where are you from?”
The child eyed her. She glanced up at the sky and then over her shoulder. Her bright eyes glowed as they searched the distant trees. Again her face turned to the moon as if to see the time in the mystical globe.
When the girl did not answer, Imogen inquired, “What is your name?”
“Have you seen my mother?” the child asked suddenly. Her sweet voice was soft, carried over like a whisper on the breeze. The words were almost hollow as if they echoed before reaching Imogen. Her pale skin was translucent in the moonlight. “Have you seen my father? I am looking for him.”
“No, I don’t believe I have. Who is your father?” Imogen questioned, daring another step forward. The girl, seeing her advance, stumbled backwards, moving down the gentle incline of a small slope. Her small face wrinkled as if she might again cry. Imogen stopped, not wanting to frighten her away.
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