by Cindy Anstey
Without thought, Imogene turned to the one person who would recognize her stupor. The one who would know that bliss had escaped her heart and was racing through her veins. She turned to Ben.
He was watching. He knew; he understood. His mouth quirked up into a one-sided smile. They stood by the stairs, locked in each other’s gaze for what seemed like hours until something moved behind her and Ben blinked. His eyes clouded, his smile disappeared, and indifference replaced it. Bliss slowed to a trot. When he turned, bliss walked away with him.
“This is beautiful, Benjamin,” Emily said in a bright voice, clearly enthralled. “Are they all Italian?”
“No, not all. My parents began their Grand Tour in the Low Countries. These two are Van Eyck and this is a Rubens. When they passed through France on their way to Italy, they sent home a Chardin still life.”
Rather than follow Emily as she wandered down the length of the gallery, Imogene stopped in front of one particularly poignant painting. It was of a young girl in what seemed to be a Bavarian costume; her mother, behind her, was placing a wreath of flowers on her head. A Maypole and dancers could be seen in the background. A rite of spring. A jubilant painting, one of revelry and merriment.
Imogene tried to let it seep into her listless heart.
“I knew you would like it,” Ernest said, coming to stand next to her. It was likely a reference to the gallery in its entirety rather than this one painting. “It is a shame that my parents cannot be here to enjoy their own collection.”
Imogene nodded. “Still searching for more? Looking to expand the gallery?”
“Always.”
Perpetually composed, Ernest said the word in a tone that Imogene could have mistaken for resentment had she thought about it overly, which she chose not to do. There was a possibility of invading his privacy had she done so—Ernest might not have realized how much his voice had revealed.
“They have been gone close to five years now.” And then he added, as if compelled, “Their letters say little, though it is clear that they are utterly caught up in their Tuscan life, where they have taken a villa. It must suit their needs, for there is no talk of returning anytime soon.”
Lifting her eyes away from the expertly rendered cloth, Imogene was surprised to note Ernest’s brooding expression. Aware of her scrutiny, he turned to offer her a mollifying wink. “Perhaps a wedding will do the trick.”
Taken aback by the sudden change of subject and mood, Imogene opened her mouth to deny that possibility when she overheard Emily’s words from the other side of the room.
“Benjamin, I believe we have to discuss these incidents you keep experiencing. Imogene and I have been talking—”
“No, no we don’t. It is not a subject in which I am interested.” Ben’s tone was forbidding. “Accidents and incidentals all. There is no need to let them ruin a perfectly equitable rainy afternoon. Come, I must show you this Francesco Guardi painting.”
Realizing that Ernest was still locked in her gaze, Imogene blinked. His next words made plain that they had both been guilty of eavesdropping. “A subject not worthy of our time or concern, Imogene. All is well. Fear not, worry not. Nothing is amiss.”
Imogene did not appreciate the slight patronizing tone of this denial of reality and thought it foolhardy in the extreme. It was disturbing as much for the fact that Ben was having a perilous summer as it was that if they never discussed the reasons or culprit of these accidents, then the misunderstanding between them could not be put to rights.
* * *
IT SEEMED CLEAR to Imogene that Ben and Ernest had made some sort of pact. Any time Emily or Imogene approached the subject of a dubious character who might be party to the odd happenings, one or the other interrupted and changed the subject. Finally, Emily shrugged her submission to Imogene and gave up the attempt. Upon returning to the drawing room, Emily whispered that she would stay close to Benjamin’s side … in the interest of his safety, of course. She would be his guardian. Imogene didn’t think Emily would find it a hardship.
It also suited Ben’s mood, as he seemed quite determined to lavish Emily with attention, ignoring Imogene. Their camaraderie was gone. She didn’t even have the opportunity of an art lesson to make amends for—forgetting that he had demanded secrecy at the onset of their classes—Ben declared before all that Imogene was such an accomplished teacher that he was now capable of guiding his own path. There would be no quiet tête-à-tête to smooth over the whole.
Probably just as well.
Better to think of him as an unreasonable, self-centered sot with a terrible temper who jumped to conclusions rather than a kindred spirit who, under different circumstances, would have made an excellent companion through life. Not to mention the possessor of expressive eyes, a physique that made her mouth dry, and a mouth that looked to fit hers perfectly.
No, best not turn her thoughts in that direction at all. As soon as she turned down his brother’s offer of marriage, Ben would be exceptionally happy to see the back of her. The holiday would be cut short, and she would never see either of the Steeple boys again … unless Emily and Ben … No, it didn’t bear thinking about, either.
Dinner did not prove to be the ordeal that Imogene expected. With a full table, it was easy enough to look elsewhere. Her eyes settled on Ben only every few minutes, and he spent the entire time entertaining the group at large—studiously looking around her. His family smiled indulgently, and only Percy glanced her way from time to time with a frown of confusion.
One of the topics that received a fair amount of attention was that of rock collecting … again. It would seem that while Sir Steeple was now unable to walk the beaches in search of treasures himself, he thought that those in the company would find it immensely entertaining. It was not hard to see whence came the obsession to collect.
And so it was decided that, should the weather cooperate, an excursion would be planned for the next day. There was general assent, but Imogene saw the look that passed between Percy and Jake and was fairly certain that rock collecting was not high on their list of amusements. A Midsummer Night’s Dream proved to be more to their taste. They were both greatly enthused when Ernest suggested another rehearsal, and Lady Steeple thought the ballroom might be just the place to do it.
Emily and Imogene smiled at each other—cleverly done. The adults now had the drawing room to themselves, including Sir Steeple’s favorite chair, and the younger generation could be lively without censure. Had Imogene not been carrying around a heavy weight of anxiety and guilt, she might have enjoyed the process.
And so it was that the company made it through another day with no disaster and no threat to Ben’s person. Imogene thought it unwise to let their guard down, and Emily agreed. And yet it was hard to see danger in an elegant ballroom, in a gracious manor where all is calm and full of laughter. Perhaps this being Ben’s home meant that the peril and the perpetrator were no longer in their midst. It was a comforting theory that saw Imogene into her dreams.
* * *
IT WAS NOT to be wondered that, when the beach walk was organized, several previously enthused guests were no longer inspired to partake in the grand excursion.
“A little too damp for my taste,” Mother complained at breakfast.
“I’m sure the mists will clear, Olivia,” Mrs. Beeswanger said. She had expressed a continuing interest in stepping out and letting the wind blow out her cobwebs. Mr. Beeswanger quite agreed.
“Count us out,” Jake called from what had now become the gentlemen’s side of the breakfast table. “Percy and I are going to fish in … what did you say the name was?”
“Duff Lake. More of a pond, really, but a reasonable place to wet a line,” Ernest said.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to accompany us and lend an arm to the young ladies, Jake.” Mr. Tabard looked across his raised cup at his son. “Beaches are notorious for uneven ground. We wouldn’t want a twisted ankle for want of a sensible young man.”
“Not to
worry, Mr. Tabard.” Ben laughed. “Ernest and I will be there. No need to press Percy and Jake to join us if it is not what they wish.”
“Capital,” Jake said. “In that case, we will go fishing. And hope that the mists don’t clear.”
Mr. Tabard did not look mollified. Imogene suspected the excursion was meant to provide more gentlemanly lessons—Jake had knowingly escaped.
And so it was that just after luncheon, when the sun had burned away the last vestiges of the morning mist, a much smaller party of walkers and beachcombers emerged from a side door in the rustic. They numbered only eight—the Beeswangers, Mr. Tabard, Imogene’s father, the Steeple brothers, and two fast friends.
Though not visible from the house—protected from the wind by a stand of larch—the coast was not distant enough to warrant ordering the carriages. It was, in fact, faster to traverse the winding lane to the cliffs and then along the ledge to a dip that brought the path and the beach together. A bit steep in parts, the adults had already decided to let the younger members of the group climb down, while they would enjoy the vista, the breezes, and steadier footing along the cliff’s edge.
“Careful of the erosion,” Lady Steeple warned as she waved them away.
After five minutes or so of an easy walk, they stepped out from behind the trees and were greatly rewarded with sweeping views of the channel. It was breathtaking, and Imogene instantly and instinctively turned to Ben … who was watching Emily. Casting her eyes at Ernest, she saw him frown. He had noticed that her first glance had been toward his brother.
Imogene lifted her cheeks and gestured toward the channel. “It would make a marvelous painting.” It was an explanation, of sorts.
Ernest nodded. His expression of bewilderment faded, and Imogene felt the joys of the view succumb to her worries once again. She turned back to the vista, trying to shunt all but the glory of the moment aside.
A meandering path topped the hilly grass cliffs, and beyond that the gray-blue of the water and the cornflower blue of the sky. Fingers of rock formations stretched into the water, creating rugged coves and reaching toward an island not far from shore. Visible above the foliage, the top of a crenellated tower offered a hint of the ruin below. Turning back to Ernest, not Ben, Imogene pointed toward the tower. He nodded again, this time with a grin.
“Oh, Benjamin, look!” Emily shouted against the wind. “The tower. We shall have to go tomorrow.” She skipped closer, taking Ben’s arm and leaning into him. She had left her parasol behind, opting for a wide-brimmed, well-secured bonnet in its stead—as had all the ladies. A parasol was impractical in the gusting wind. Better yet, a bonnet allowed for closer proximity.
Glancing over her shoulder toward the Beeswangers, Imogene was relieved to see that Emily’s parents wore agreeable expressions. Far from being uncomfortable with Emily’s behavior, they were pleased. Beyond them, her father’s glare told Imogene she should be doing the same with Ernest, and Mr. Tabard looked oblivious, staring at the view. Imogene returned her gaze to the path.
As planned, the younger members of the party left the adults just up the trail. Ernest helped Imogene down to the beach, and he would have retained her hand had she not demurred, saying that the terrain was not conducive to intimacy. The rocks—for it was not a sandy beach—made footing and balance a challenge. The shrug she received might have meant that he was hurt, or insulted, or in agreement.
Imogene shook her head in self-castigation—she was being overly sensitive on everyone’s behalf. Emily offered her a look of sympathy and then went back to exclaiming over each rock or stone that Ben pointed out to her. They were soon dropping their treasures with a regular plunk and plop into the bucket Ben carried.
Imogene found that she was not really interested in rocks, even the striped ones with golden flecks that Emily seemed to think superior to all others. No, Imogene found a small piece of shell, and as she admired the shiny pearl casing, Ernest handed her another larger piece. It was suffused with shades of pink.
“It’s lovely,” Imogene said, turning it this way and that, watching the light reflect and change color. It was really very pretty.
“I’ll find you another,” he said in a muffled voice. His head was already down as he was doing just that.
Staring at the top of Ernest’s hat, Imogene sighed, trying to understand why her pulse did not race when he looked at her. Why she didn’t want to fling herself into his arms. Why thoughts of a future with Ernest felt stifling. He was such a good person, and he cared greatly for her. Was that not enough? And then she heard Ben laugh … and knew that it wasn’t.
“Come see this, Benjamin,” Emily called sometime later from farther up the beach. She had skipped ahead and was pointing to some object that had captured her attention. “It’s too big to lift, but the layers appear to be folded.”
“Be right there,” Ben said as he sidled up to the cliff, reaching toward a spot a few feet above the beach floor.
A skitter of stones from overhead dropped at his feet. Imogene looked up with him in time to see the ground above start to shake.
“Ben!” she screamed. “The ledge is coming down!”
Grabbing her skirts to her knees, Imogene ran. But she wouldn’t reach him in time. She was too far away.
chapter 17
In which Ben spends a fair amount of time not noticing Imogene
Jumping back, Ben lost his balance and fell hard, still under the path of the falling rocks. Someone grabbed his collar and hauled him back—half choking, half lifting. Hat knocked one way, bucket flung another, Ben braced his feet and pushed away from the cliff just as the ledge gave way. A shower of dirt and rocks, large and small, piled onto the very spot Ben had been standing moments earlier.
Senselessly, Ben leaned back farther, only to encounter a wall. A wall sitting on the ground behind him, feet extended. A familiar wall, who had lost his balance and fallen, too, in the rush to pull his brother out from under the rockslide.
As the screams faded, Ben realized there had been three sources, not two. One had come from overhead, from where the eroded ledge had given way. Gasping for breath, he looked over his shoulder to see Emily rushing toward him and heard Imogene behind, doing the same. Ernest patted Ben’s shoulder while gulping at the air.
Scrambling to his feet, Ben dusted off his hands, his posterior, and his hat, and puzzled about the scream from above. Imogene and Emily fluttered about, touching Ben’s arms and exclaiming excitedly, while Ernest got to his feet and proceeded to dust himself off. All seemed unaware that there was an unidentified party in this mishap.
“Oh Lordy, that was close, Ben.” Ernest shook his head and laughed weakly—still wheezing from panic. “You have become quite accident-prone.”
“Indeed,” Ben said with a final glance at the top of the cliff. He turned his gaze toward Imogene. “Ernest, my brother, has saved me from certain death. My brother. Saved me.” He repeated, refraining from adding: This proves how wrong you were.
“Certain death? Might be doing it up a little brown, Ben.” Ernest bent to retrieve his hat.
“Halloo,” a voice called from above. “Is everyone all right down there?”
Startled, Ben pivoted to stare at the head peeking over the top some thirty feet or so above them. It was Mr. Beeswanger.
“I say, is everyone all right?”
“We are all fine, Papa,” Emily called up, hands cupping her mouth so that her words would carry.
“Oh thank heaven. So glad to know. Your mama almost landed at your feet, dearest Emily. That would have been a terrible tumble.” He laughed in an affable manner, but there was a telltale shake to his voice. “Weren’t paying attention, I’m afraid. Standing too close to the edge. Tabard grabbed your mama just as it gave way. Quite the scare, yes … quite. Well, not to worry, she’s a bit mussed but otherwise fine.” A murmur behind him could be heard, but not the words. “What’s that?” Mr. Beeswanger turned. “Oh. Very good, then.” He turned his head toward them once
again. “Been told,” he said, chuckling, “to get away from the edge. Very well. We’ll see you back at the house. Your mama wants to clean up a bit.… I think she looks lovely.… But, well, there you have it. Cheers.”
And so saying, the head of Mr. Beeswanger disappeared.
With a most unladylike snort, Emily pivoted to face the group. “Yes, well, humble apologies, everyone. Apparently my mama wanted to add a little excitement to our day.”
They all smiled, as they were meant to, and then set about picking up the bucket and all the treasure that had been spilled. Within a quarter hour, they were meandering around the beach again—well away from the overhang.
* * *
CAREFUL MANEUVERING SAW Ben sit down to dinner between Emily and Jake. He would have preferred to be at the other end of the table, well away from Imogene, but this would do. When he looked up, it was to see Ernest, and he could ignore the lovely young lady beside his brother—in a soft sage green gown cut to a neat fit around her tantalizing figure with an enticing décolleté … with ten … no, twelve pearls sparkling in her golden upsweep. Yes, he could ignore her completely.
He hardly noticed when Imogene gave Grandmother the cockleshell she had found and exclaimed over on the beach. Ernest must have mentioned that Lady Margaret was partial to shells. It was certainly not impressive that Imogene had given the treasure away to someone who would enjoy it equally.
And Ben certainly did not notice that Imogene ate little—pushing her food around the plate. Was she paler than usual? Were those dark circles under her eyes? How could he notice any of those things when he was not paying the least attention? Besides, why should he care? He was angry. Still angry. Nothing had been resolved. He had merely pointed out that Ernest could hardly be considered a villain when he had pulled Ben out of harm’s way.