by Cindy Anstey
Imogene was terribly confused and, without a doubt, hurt. She had no contagion. Had her father’s aversion finally affected Ben’s opinion? Did he, too, now find her annoying—like a pestering insect? She thought their rapport had progressed beyond friendship, more like comrades in art, and there was a chance that she would be his sister-in-law one day. And yet, suddenly—for it was very sudden—Ben no longer valued her company. It was devastating, for all that Imogene could ever have of Ben Steeple would be his wit and laughter and his company. The thought of losing even that small allotment was close to tragic.
She didn’t know what to do.… Well, she did, but she was loath to do it.
They had to talk.
* * *
TIRED AND NERVOUS after a sleepless night, Imogene met Ben in the cellars for their next art lesson—where he could learn how to draw supports, foundations, keystones, and such. Emily had suggested it, and Ben had agreed, though reluctantly.
Emily walked with Imogene into the depths of the manor as the wine cellars formed a complicated labyrinth.
“Just around the corner and then … Well, look who is already here.” Emily’s tone took on a cooing quality.
Imogene could easily guess but didn’t bother.
“Oh, the extra candles are a vast improvement. Excellent idea. What do you think, Imogene?”
“Yes indeed, excellent.” Imogene avoided meeting Ben’s eye. She placed her supplies on the table that had been brought down for them to use and made a great chore out of arranging the materials. She glanced around for something that might be of interest for her to sketch while Ben was busy with his bricks and mortar.
Bottles … hmm, more bottles and bottles in a rack. She decided to sketch the chair.
Emily stayed for a quarter hour, trying to engage Ben in conversation, but he kept lapsing into silent concentration. She finally shrugged and headed back upstairs into the warmer environs of the manor. Imogene had brought a serviceable shawl, knowing that it would be cool belowground and not feeling a need to impress with a pretty, summery gown.
The silence of the cellar continued for some moments until Imogene saw an excuse to break into the stifling atmosphere, which had nothing to do with the airless room. “I’m afraid the proportions are off between these two stones. Perhaps if you make this one smaller, then you will … Yes, there. I think that works better.… Don’t you?”
Ben nodded, head still down, graphite pencil still scratching across the surface of the rough paper. “Yes. Indeed.”
“Excellent.” Imogene took a deep breath, swallowed, and cleared her throat. “And, perhaps, while I have your attention, I might ask what it is that I have done to put you so out of charity?”
Finally, Ben lifted his handsome head, frowning. “Out of charity?”
“You have been behaving in a peculiar manner since yesterday. As if I had been inflicted with smallpox and you were afraid of the contagion.”
Ben laughed, but not in his usual casual manner. It was staccato and forced. “Smallpox, indeed. What an idea.” He dropped his eyes back to his paper and lifted his stick, focusing on the sketch once again. His easy charm was on hiatus.
Imogene rubbed at her forehead, sighed—as quietly as she could—and settled her nerves again. “Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Ben, please look at me. Thank you. Something is wrong, but I can’t repair the damage if I know not what has caused the rift. Yes, I know that is a terrible metaphor, but I am vastly uncomfortable, and it’s getting worse the longer you stare at me without saying anything, without explaining why I am no longer your friend. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying you have no idea of what I speak. You can tell me that my sense of guilt is misplaced, that you are upset about something else, that I am not the cause of your discomfort but merely the beneficiary. That I would consider. But an out-and-out denial that anything is wrong … well, it will only serve to make me more uncomfortable and not resolve the situation at all.”
Imogene took a deep breath, looked down at her shaking hands, and moved them to her lap. She closed her eyes briefly and then lifted her gaze back to Ben. He was still staring. “You are still staring and saying nothing. Time is of the essence; we must resolve our differences before you go. To not do so would be folly … for all of us.”
She watched him take a deep breath and then swallow visibly, as if he were the nervous one.… Which was ridiculous, as he was a confident young gentleman from a good family who cared about his welfare. He had no reason to be uncomfortable.… Unless … With a sudden realization of her own, Imogene was fairly certain she had ferreted out the problem.
“Oh dear. You have decided that I am not worthy of Ernest.… And you don’t know how to tell me … or him.”
With a melancholy smile—which is quite a feat—Ben shook his head. “No. That is not it.”
“No? Then … then, could you please enlighten me? I would not normally utter such a personal query. You must know how difficult it is not to simply hide inside myself and fret in silence. It is a testament to how close we have become that I am comfortable sharing my dreams and … now, my distress with you. And I am distressed, Ben. No matter what happens with Ernest, I would like to think of our friendship continuing. You are a kindred spirit. And … well … I…”
“I humbly beg your pardon, Imogene. I was not aware that I was causing you any concern. I am not conscious of behaving abnormally.”
“Well, you are.”
“Again, I apologize.”
His smile lifted, losing its dejected aspect. Sitting up straight, he nodded. “Yes. We are indeed kindred spirits, and I, too, wish our friendship to continue regardless.… However, I have come to realize that there will be a significant change in the dynamics of our family should Ernest … well, you know. We have been each other’s support since we were knee-high to a grasshopper. Circumstances will have to change.” He blinked, nodded again, and looked expectant.
“That’s it. You treat me like a leper because I am going to change the family?”
“In a delightful way, of course.”
“Are you certain?”
“Well, I believe the change will be delightful. Though that remains to be seen, and it would be up to Ernest and yourself—”
“Are you certain that this is the cause of our rift?”
“Yes.” Ben looked serious, and his downhearted smile reappeared. “There are some who find changes challenging.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you to be stymied by change.”
“It depends on the significance of that change. This is monumental.”
“My joining the Steeple family would be monumental?”
“Yes. I believe it would be.” Laughing, Ben reached across the table and tapped Imogene on the hand with his graphite pencil. “Marriage is monumental.”
Imogene ignored his words and the slight doleful tone; she instead stared into his eyes. The tenderness of his gaze warmed her from her fingertips to her toes. She knew his excuse to be a bouncer, but the reason no longer mattered as long as they had returned to their easy rapport.
Imogene grinned and grabbed his hand, giving it a little squeeze; he didn’t pull away. Yes, the world had righted itself again.
* * *
WHILE IMOGENE’S SILENCE but a day earlier had caused little notice and no comment, her affability created a stir. With a smile and a nod, Imogene ignored all remarks on sparkling eyes, queries about bended knees, and covert looks that volleyed back and forth between Ernest and her. The speculation that he had made an offer was rampant. It was fortunate that he was either blissfully unaware or ignoring the wheedling questions.
Ernest was all kindness and consideration, abiding by her request to delay any questions of a matrimonial nature. Knowing that, he waited for her to signal her preparedness, allowing Imogene the opportunity to settle her anxieties. Father could prod and grumble as much as he liked.
However, the weather was most disobliging the last day of the
Steeples’ stay at Shackleford Park. Rain, rain, and more rain. A fluctuating combination of persons occupied the various family rooms. While the fathers seemed to prefer the billiard room and the mothers the drawing room, the younger generation meandered between the music room and the library. Private conversations were nigh on impossible. The evening was devoted to cards, and most made an early night of it.
Standing in the shelter of the portico, waving Ben and Ernest away the next morning, Imogene was subjected to an inquiring look from Emily. “Well?” she said, lowering her hand. “You do not have the countenance of a bride-to-be.”
“I don’t look sanctimonious?”
“Most definitely not.”
“Well, I was asked a question.” Imogene grinned at her friend’s sudden intake of breath. “No, no. Not that one.” She laughed. “He asked if he might write.”
“And you said yes, of course.”
“I didn’t have the opportunity. Father agreed for me.”
“Are we talking of Ernest or Ben?” a voice queried from the shadows of the portico.
“Mr. Tabard, I did not see you there. I thought everyone had gone back inside.” Imogene turned a grimace to Emily, sharing a wide-eyed look of embarrassment.
“Don’t concern yourself, my dears. I was just trying to understand. The maneuverings of your generation are quite beyond me at times. Clara always kept me straight. It seems as though you are talking of Ernest, and yet I thought it was Ben who was casting calf-eyes at Imogene. No, no, I see that I have it mixed up. Never mind my ramblings.”
Mr. Tabard sighed. Shifting his balance from one leg to the other, he squinted toward the drive and the diminishing figures. “There is always a great deal of fuss when strangers are about. Perhaps now the stay will return to ordinary days. More comfort, as Clara used to say, in familiarity.”
“You are off on the morrow, Mr. Tabard,” Emily reminded him.
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, then perhaps when you come to visit at Greytower. Yes, things will be as they always were at the Hall. Except that Clara … of course.”
Imogene swallowed against the tightening of her throat and joined Mr. Tabard at the door. “It will not be quite the same, but I’m sure…” Her words petered off. It wouldn’t be the same without Cousin Clara at all, and to pretend otherwise almost felt disrespectful to her memory.
“Might I ask”—Mr. Tabard turned his watery eyes to Emily—“that you include Jake in your company at Greytower? I know you to have a calming influence on him.”
Emily’s frown came and went quickly; it was unlikely that Mr. Tabard saw it. But Imogene knew the frown’s source. Any influence Emily had on Jake lived solely in the imagination of poor Mr. Tabard. “Of course,” Emily said easily. “Though I’m not sure he or Percy will be interested in the same pursuits. They have a tendency toward more energetic jaunts.”
Mr. Tabard nodded, but Imogene was fairly certain that though he had heard, he would not heed. Percy and Jake had always treated Imogene and Emily as pestering little sisters with no wit. There was hardly any chance of that changing in the near future.
Looking back over her shoulder, Imogene sighed silently. The drive was empty, the Steeples were gone, and she did not know when she might see them again. The prospect of returning to ordinary days, as Mr. Tabard had called them, held little appeal.
* * *
GREYTOWER HALL, DOWERSHAM, KENT—
EARLY AUGUST 1817
EMILY’S BAROUCHE WAS an ideal carriage for a summer drive through the countryside. It provided unobstructed views when the hood was pushed back, and it seated four. There was plenty of room for a close friend and two sisters, but not their governess. Miss Watson complained bitterly; the girls did not.
As they were traveling to Dowersham en masse, the Beeswangers arrived from Tishdale in their travel coach, Emily’s barouche, and a luggage cart. They added the Chively coach, Percy on horseback, and, of course, their own luggage cart to the convoy. It was just as well that the journey would take only an hour.… Perhaps an hour and a half, since there was negligible wind and the pace was slow.
With little privacy, deep matters—such as whether or not any letters had been received in the past fortnight—were not discussed. Instead, the discourse seemed to center on a new milliner in Tishdale, the Beeswanger cook’s attempt at French cuisine, and the spot on Harriet’s pretty gown—which may or may not be ruined. Imogene paid scant attention.
For the first time ever, Imogene found that she was not interested in yet another stay. Too much gadding about in her mind, though it was not dissimilar from every other summer of her life. Still, this time the families had spent the spring in London. Perhaps it was the combination of constant upheaval for the better part of two seasons that had given her the unsettled feel.… Or it could have something to do with the Steeple brothers and indecision. It would be most inconvenient if that were the case; it would mean her lackluster humor could be laid only at her own door.
Emily said nothing—nor could she with younger ears seated so close—and yet she tossed a fair number of frowning glances her friend’s way. Imogene shrugged and smiled, in a most convincing act of nonchalance that didn’t fool Emily one iota. They were barely out of the carriage—the girls bounding toward the front door of Greytower while their parents stretched and laughed together as they stepped down onto the gravel—when Emily pulled Imogene aside.
“Has Ernest not written?” Emily asked in a voice ready to be outraged.
“Yes. Yes, indeed,” Imogene said quickly, divesting her friend of the idea that Ernest was an inconstant suitor. “Nearly every day. And you? Did Ben write?”
“No, goose. He did not have Papa’s permission.” She winked. “Though I would not have sent any missives away had he done so.… But it is irrelevant as—”
A shout of amusement cut through the air and the company’s conversations.
“Jake!” Percy laughed loudly. “What are you about?”
The Tabards had come to greet their guests and stood waiting by the door. With the antiquity of Greytower Hall in the background—its ivy-covered tower entrance with a steep roof and rows of chimney pots peeking over the ridge—the tableau was dramatic and unexpected. Mr. Tabard and Jake were dressed in London fashion. Gone were the country brown coats, plain waistcoats, and buckskins. In their place were black tailcoats, richly patterned waistcoats, pantaloons, and hessians. With shoulders back and chin lifted, Jake looked entirely unlike himself. He bowed to the parents, nodded to Emily and Imogene, called “hullo” to the girls, and then ruined the effect by grinning—and hooting—with Percy.
Imogene had to admit that Jake was imposing; though not handsome in the classic sense, as the glint of mischief in his eyes was still too pronounced by her way of thinking, his toothy grin was infectious—and he was well turned out. It was somewhat of a surprise, as Imogene did not recall Jake being as well attired in London.
“Did you take a detour on your return to Dowersham?” Percy circled his friend. “By way of Town?”
That would have been a significant deviation.
“Indeed. Jonathan Meyer of Conduit Street. Do you like it?” It was a rhetorical question. It was clear that everyone was duly impressed. “Do I not look the epitome of a gentleman?”
“Your mother would say that a gentleman is not a braggart, Jake.” Mr. Tabard gave his son a quick glance and then turned back to the company. “But accommodating … accommodating and welcoming. Or was it obliging and hospitable.… I can’t quite remember.”
“Oh. Oh yes.” Jake lifted his chin once again. “Welcome to Greytower, one and all. We are so very pleased that you have come to join us. We have excellent entertainments planned, and I’m sure you will have a most excellent stay.… Lawks, I believe I used excellent twice—let me try again—”
“A gentleman does not—” Mr. Tabard interrupted.
“Repeat himself?” Jake frowned.
Mr. Tabard sighed. “Use vulgar language.”
Mr. Tabard shook his head as the company burst into laughter and made their way into the manor.
Imogene’s father patted Jake on the shoulder as he stepped past. “Well done, my boy. You’ll get the right of it in no time. Percy, take note.”
“Entertainments?” Emily whispered in Imogene’s ear. “Since when have we done much more than appreciate the serenity of the Hall’s isolation? I have two novels with me.”
“There might be time for both.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about it overly. The wonderful aspect of books is that they wait for you … and are not in the least insulted if you deviate for a bit. It is merely the oddness of the enterprise. Your Cousin Clara thought that enjoyment of nature was as much as anyone needed.”
“Yes, but then Jake was not behaving like a buffoon. Perhaps this is meant to keep him out of mischief. Whether it does so remains to be seen.”
“Indeed.”
The remainder of the afternoon was spent settling in. As the Hall was a rather humble home in its number of bedrooms, Imogene and Emily shared a small room with dark wood paneling and a window that overlooked the formal gardens. In the way of many medieval manors, a small alcove—just large enough for a narrow bed—accommodated Kate.
The evening included an exemplary meal and a pianist—far superior to Miss Watson.… But none were unkind enough to say so. Yet perhaps the best entertainment was that of Jake attempting to emulate an erudite country gentleman with the prods and hints of his father. It was rather charming, and Imogene found herself in far better charity with Jake than she had ever been. Percy was not charming in the least. At first, he tried to goad Jake into misbehavior and then chose to sulk. The company did their best to ignore him.
The next morning saw Jake and a prune-faced Percy not up early with the other gentlemen but dawdling with the girls at breakfast midmorning. Emily and Imogene had yet to decide on their plans for the day, but they found the boys expected to be included.