by Cindy Anstey
The speed with which she agreed was inconsequential. He was angry. Still. And he would hold on to that rage—yes, it was rage, fury, and all other descriptors of being incensed that he could think of. He had to hold on to all those emotions that would push Miss Imogene Chively from his heart.
And just as important, he would disregard the look of bafflement that Grandmother was sending in his direction. A look that seemed to volley back and forth between Imogene and him. Him and …
Imogene.
“Imogene is really looking forward to sketching at the ruin. Do you think we will be able to go tomorrow?” Emily asked, breaking into his effort of not noticing Imogene.
“Yes, of course,” he said with a nod and a ghost of a smile. It meant another day of studiously not noticing Imogene. “As long as the weather holds. We keep a skiff on the beach for that very purpose.”
“It’s only a short row over,” Ernest added. “We can bring a basket and have an alfresco lunch in the shade.”
“That sounds promising,” Jake said from Ben’s other side. “Might we join you?” He glanced across the table to Percy and then back to Ben.
“Six? No, no, I think not.” Grandfather raised his voice to join the conversation from the head of the table. “Too many. The boat can take five at the very most … but six … Hmm, I think not. We could ask Lord Brennan if he might lend us his dory later in the week. Takes eight, I believe. Though you might need an oarsman, as the darn thing is heavy and a bit unwieldy.”
“Might Jake go in Ben’s stead?” Mr. Tabard asked. “After all, Ben knows the ruin, and yet Jake … well—” The surprised expressions brought Mr. Tabard’s reasoning to an abrupt halt. “Oh, that wasn’t well done,” he said as if talking to himself. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all, Mr. Tabard,” Grandmother said with an indulgent smile. “I’m sure Ben would be more than happy to offer his seat to Jake.”
“Yes, of course—” Ben nodded without any hesitation.
“No, no, thank you but no. Percy and I will find some mischief or another, not to worry. It was just a passing thought, not a great ambition. Definitely not worth ousting Ben or disturbing your neighbor.”
“If you are certain.” Ben sighed. It would have given him an excellent excuse to avoid Imogene’s company for the better part of the day.
“Oh, absolutely certain.”
Ben sighed yet again and studiously ignored Imogene’s forlorn smile. He hoped his brother had noticed—perhaps Ernest could put everything to rights.
* * *
THAT EVENING SAW Imogene laughing and smiling with the best of them, to Ben’s great relief—not that he noticed. The youngest members of the house finally attempted, stress the word attempted, to put on act three, scene one from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Percy and Jake had returned from fishing earlier than the beachcombers had returned from collecting, and in the interim they decorated the ballroom. With Grandmother’s approval, huge vases had been filled with flowers from the garden and placed strategically around one end of the room. A settee had been brought in for Titania to use as her resting place—so that Emily would not be required to recline on the floor. And the chairs had been brought away from the walls into the center of the room. A very basic theater, there was no doubt, but with imagination—a great deal of imagination—one could envision a deep forest glen and home of the woodland fairies.
Percy and Jake had brought a few props with them to add to the atmosphere, the best of which was the head of a hobbyhorse that Jake, playing Bottom, used as the ass’s head. Many lines were forgotten, forcing Imogene to call them out from the sidelines, and comedy abounded—though much of the jocularity could not be attributed to Shakespeare.
When all was said and done, the audience was duly impressed. And the actors had had a great time. The night ended with smiles and “good evenings”—though Grandfather had to be awoken so he, too, might retire to his bed.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY dawned into a disobligingly sunny day with little wind and few clouds. Most people would call it an excellent day—but Ben was in no mood for excellent. The excursion was to go ahead as planned. Hours in Imogene’s exclusive company did not bode well for his patience. There was a danger that he would fly at her for something inconsequential or find her adorable and forget his anger—neither was in the least appealing.
Cook had prepared a delicious alfresco meal, full of fruit and tarts, cheeses and breads of all sorts, and divided it into two baskets for Emily and Imogene to carry in one hand, a bailing bucket and blanket in the other. Ernest and Ben heaved a set of oars, each on their shoulders, and they set off. Emily and Ernest chatted as they strolled down the lane toward the cliffs, seemingly oblivious of the heavy silence of Imogene … and yes, Ben as well.
Once on the beach, they set off in the opposite direction from the day before toward the overturned skiff sitting six or seven feet from the water. Neap tide was within the hour, so they would not have to haul the skiff far. With a practiced move, Ben and Ernest overturned the small wooden boat, untied it from the post embedded in the rock, and dragged it to the water one foot at a time. Once the back end was floating, they set the oars and food inside—and then helped Imogene and Emily aboard. Taking off his coat, Ben draped it atop Ernest’s in the bow.
“I don’t believe I have ever been out on the ocean before,” Emily said with excitement as she lost her balance in the dip and lift of the waves. She landed with a thump on the center seat and giggled.
Imogene smiled as she took Ernest’s hand and shifted to the stern seat. He had to slosh through the water to deliver Imogene to the back, but he did not appear to mind. Emily clung to the oarsman seat for a moment and then dove for the back … nearly upsetting the whole. She dropped down beside Imogene and giggled again—in a thin and forced manner.
“Don’t think I would make a good sailor.” Emily glanced at Imogene as if expecting a reflection of her discomfort in her friend’s eyes.
“I imagine it is the same as anything—you would get used to it.”
Emily nodded without conviction and then turned to glance over her shoulder. “How long did you say it takes to row to the island?”
“Just fifteen or so minutes. Not long,” Ben answered.
“Not long,” Emily repeated, and then turned back to sit ramrod straight—eyes glued to some midway point on the beach. “Not long.”
Pushing the boat into the water a little farther, Ernest then lifted his leg, stepping over the gunwales, dripping water everywhere as he did. Ben pushed off as soon as Ernest had the oars locked in place and jumped into the skiff, trying, unsuccessfully, not to drag his feet in the water. Apparently, there would be two with sodden feet for most of the day.
Using the retreating wave to pull them deeper, Ernest hauled on the oars and turned them about in jig time. Ben was soon settled on his bench, gripping his oar handles. After watching Ernest’s rhythm for a moment, he matched his pace. Soon they were away from the beach and past the most treacherous of rocks—Ben had not mentioned them to Emily, though he saw Imogene looking into the water with wide eyes.
As the beach receded, Ben glanced over his shoulder to sight the island. When he turned back, his gaze fell on Emily, who was no longer gripping her seat with a white-knuckled grasp. “Better?” he asked, impressed. Bravery was not about being nonchalant in a dangerous situation; bravery was doing something despite being terrified. Emily was being extremely brave.
“Yes, thank you. It seemed as if we were about to tip, and I cannot swim.”
The swell of the waves provided a gentle roll as they pushed past the halfway point. Imogene swiveled her head from side to side, smiling at the view, while Emily stared straight ahead at—Ben assumed—the nearing island.
“Most. Ladies. Can’t,” Ernest said, talking in time to his exertion.
Ben couldn’t see his brother, because he was facing stern as well, but Imogene was watching him, and something on h
is face made her smile. “A necessity for those living by the sea, perhaps?” she asked.
“Indeed.”
Looking up, Imogene caught Ben staring. He flushed, swallowed, and glanced back over his shoulder to gauge their progress. The rocky shore was visible now, odd boulders peeking out of the water, offering a hazardous maze. The best landing spot was a cove around the point near the ruins. Ben directed his brother to pull to the right.
“Almost there, ladies—”
“Benjamin?” Emily sounded anxious again.
“No concern, Emily. This beach is on the lee side of the island. Far fewer waves. It will be easier to disembark. Let us do the work—”
“Ben!” This time it was Imogene who spoke, and she sounded as anxious as Emily.
“Not to worry,” he started to repeat, but glanced her way as he did so and saw that Imogene was pointing to the bottom of the boat. Water was seeping up through the floorboards—far more than could be accounted for by wet boots—and the line was rising. “Bail, Imogene!” Ben shouted. “Grab the bucket! Anything! Ernest, hard left, we have to go in double time.”
“But the rocks!” Ernest shouted, even as he set the boat on the new course and picked up the pace.
“Better hung up on a rock than swamped.” Looking past his brother, Ben could see the girls bailing. They had flung off their bonnets and were throwing water out of the boat as fast as their bucket … and fruitless bowl … could manage. But they were not getting ahead of it.
For several eons, Ben and Ernest raced time until they rammed into a rock and it bounced them sideways. Dropping his oars, Ben turned. He flung himself across the front and stared into the water, shouting instructions at Ernest. Terra firma was still a good hundred or so feet away, and the skiff was getting lower in the water. It was harder to maneuver. “Hold on to the boat, Imogene, if it swamps completely. Do you hear me, Emily? It’s a wooden boat; it will float. Right, Ernest! No, the other right! There. Straight on. Give ’er a strong pull and then left.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Ben could see that the water was still only halfway to the gunwales. There was a good chance they were going to make it.
Then a wave dipped into a trough, exposing a rock directly ahead of them. “Left! Left!” Ben shouted as the skiff jerked sideways, glancing off the rock—directly into the path of another boulder. “Right!”
This time a cresting wave took the skiff up and over with a screech and groan of splintering wood. They were thirty feet from shore, but it was a shore strewn with obstacles, and they had two ladies who could not swim.
“I’m going in,” Ben shouted, jumping to his feet. He grabbed the mooring rope. “I’ll guide. Don’t pull against me, Ernest.”
“But—”
Ben didn’t let his brother continue. He slung one leg over the side and then stretched across the gunwale. Shifting his weight, he pulled his other leg over and dropped into the cold, brackish water. It wasn’t as far down as it should have been. Kicking out, his boot slammed into an unseen rock; Ben used it as leverage—pushing away, taking the skiff with him. The rope ran through his hands, burning, as the boat fought, pushed in the wrong direction by the waves. Scraping across another rock, the skiff ground to a halt. It shifted slightly with the next wave but only to hang up further. Pull as he might, Ben could not get it off the rock. It would not budge.
Sputtering as the waves crested and splashed into his face, Ben swam to the other side only to see that the rock had staved in the planking below Ernest’s oarlock. Not a hole … yet. Looking over the gunwale, he saw Imogene’s anxious face looking down at him.
“I’m afraid you are going to have to get wet,” he said, shaking the water out of his eyes as another wave crashed against the side of the boat.
Imogene smiled, though it was a weak attempt. “We are already wet,” she said.
“There are too many rocks to get the skiff any closer, but that means there are enough to cling to—”
A rogue wave startled Ben, lifting him up higher than he expected. He was almost nose to nose with Imogene, but only for a second. As soon as it crested, the wave rushed back out to the channel, dropping Ben into its deep trough. He slammed into the rocks below. He kicked, trying to push his head above water, but his foot caught in a crevasse, and there it remained.
With waves crashing over his head, Ben gulped at what little air he could and then bent down into the swirling water. He gripped his boot and pulled—to no avail. He tugged and tugged until his breath ran out and he was forced to straighten. Only then did he realize the cresting waves were above his head. Stretching his chin up and his mouth as high as possible, he was able to breathe when the waves rolled out—occasionally. Worse still, the tide had not yet reached its peak. Soon there would be no air for Ben at all.
Salt stinging his eyes, Ben watched Imogene through the murky haze of the foaming water and saw the horrified comprehension on her face. She opened her mouth. Ben thought she might be screaming, but his ears were filled with water—all he could hear were the muffled roar of the waves and the thud of the skiff on the rock.
chapter 18
In which a crumbling ruin offers the perfect backdrop for abject misery
Terrified, Imogene watched Ben struggle. His head wasn’t above the water; he couldn’t breathe. “Ernest!” Imogene screamed, reaching out, trying to get hold of him. “Something’s wrong! Ben needs help!”
She couldn’t touch him; he was too far. Without considering, Imogene stretched across the gunwales and rolled over the side of the boat and into the water. Gasping with the cold, she ran her hands down the side of the boat until she was as close as she could get without letting go.
There, she held onto the boat and flapped her other hand toward Ben. Her fingers touched flesh, and she lunged, closing her hand around his wrist. She pulled, but he didn’t budge, didn’t move. She tried again, but it was as if he were resisting.
“Ben!” she screamed senselessly.
He thrashed and gulped a breath. “Foot!” But the effort had cost him. He had gulped down water in the attempt to speak. Flailing, as he tried to get his head above water, he coughed and spewed water twice before he gasped air and then was back under.
A splash by the front of the boat told Imogene that Ernest was on his way. But would he be in time?
Grabbing a deep breath, Imogene ducked her head under the water. Between the waves and Ben kicking up algae, the water was too cloudy to see anything. She would have to get closer; she would have to let go. And so she did.
Pushing away, Imogene crossed the huge distance of a few inches and sunk. She knew she would. She was ready; she kept her eyes open, grabbed Ben’s arm, and used it to propel herself down. She clutched at his vest, his pantaloons, his thigh and then found his foot—jammed in between two rocks. Braced on either side, she hauled up. After two useless tries, Imogene ran out of air. Pushing away from the rock, she surfaced, grabbed a breath and allowed the momentum to take her down again.
This time when she got to Ben’s leg, there was an extra pair of hands. Ernest. He was braced as she had been, pulling at Ben’s boot. Imogene grabbed Ben’s leg instead. They pulled and tugged, and just as she ran out of air again, Ben’s foot shifted. Only a fraction, but it was enough for Imogene to ignore the pain in her lungs and pull with every last ounce of strength. And with that, his foot slipped free. Free of the rocks. Free of his boot.
All three shot to the surface. Grabbing a breath, Imogene expected to sink again, but Ben reached out and seized her about the waist, even as he was gulping at the air. For several minutes, they gasped, choked, and wheezed, and Ben held her tight.
Leaning her head back against the cap of Ben’s shoulder, Imogene stared skyward.… Or at least she tried; there was something in the way. “Emily? Are you all right?” she asked. Emily was leaning over the boat, looking down at them. Her hair was a tangle, hanging over her shoulders, her face red as if she had been crying and yet … she was laughing.
“Couldn’t be better.” Emily’s voice was scratchy, as if strained. Her gaze shifted to something over Imogene’s shoulder. “I thought I was going to lose you—lose all of you. What’s being marooned compared with that?” She laughed again, even as the tears streamed down her face.
* * *
GETTING TO SHORE was miserable but not treacherous. There were rocks aplenty. Ben scouted out the best route, while Imogene and then Emily followed. It had taken a fair amount of convincing, but Emily had eventually dropped over the side and into the cold, crashing waves. Hence the misery. They were soaked and shivering, covered in algae and grit, with rescue a good many hours away. They wouldn’t be missed until dinner.
Once onshore, Imogene and Emily huddled on a downed tree and watched the boys swim back out to the boat and collect their belongings. Other than the fruit, the lunch was a soggy, inedible mess. Her sketching paper was pulp. Bonnets, coats, and blankets all ruined, only the bucket and oars were fine.
Dropping onto the ground in front of the girls, Ben sat with his knees bent, leaning against the tree. He had flopped quite close to Imogene, and she lifted her hand, laying it on his shoulder in reassurance, in camaraderie, in empathy … and in love. But he was not to know the last.
“Well, that was an adventure I might have done better without,” he said. “Another accident … and yet, Josh checked the boat yesterday in preparation.” He sighed and shook his head.
“Not an accident,” Imogene said, watching his beloved profile. He was safe; he was alive. It had been so terribly close.
Ben nodded, staring at the water. “No, not an accident.”
“There are times I do not like to be right. This is one of them.” Although her being right had somehow dissipated Ben’s anger.… Or had nearly dying done it? Mattered not, they were friends again.
Imogene smiled, wishing she could kiss his cheek. Just a chaste kiss, nothing provocative. A sign of her affection and relief. Though, if he turned at the right moment … No, best not think it. Emily was sitting beside them a scant two feet away. It was a disloyal thought. She squeezed his shoulder instead.