“Oh, sweet heaven.” Imogen rested her head in her palms. “They’re coming tonight?”
Esther nodded. “I did what I could, darling, but they’re incensed . . . every single one of them.”
“It’s unfair of me to have asked you to break the news.” Imogen rose from her stool and went to her sister, putting her arms around her. “Are they coming before dinner?”
“Yes, any minute, although Uncle George said it would upset his digestion and ruin his own dinner.” Esther offered a weak smile. “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Windsor to have some calf’s-foot jelly on hand.”
“I’ll tell Sharpton to put dinner back an hour.” Imogen sighed. “I wish we could just disappear to Beaufort Hall tonight, avoid the lot of them. If we weren’t here, there’d be nothing for the scandalmongers to get their teeth into.”
“We can’t go tonight, Gen.” Esther turned wearily to the door. “I’d better go and dress . . . and warn Duncan. A family altercation is not going to improve his shining hour either.” She paused, her hand on the door. “How did it go with Charles. Has Duncan said?”
“Not much. He just mumbled that the notices would be in the Times in the morning and disappeared upstairs to dress.”
Esther nodded. “We’ll just get through this evening, and then we can get out of town and leave the gossips to their own devices.”
Imogen nodded and rang for Daisy. “I’ll go down to the drawing room as soon as I’m ready. Don’t hurry down, Essie, this is my mess—there’s no reason you should be subjected to the bullying on my account. . . . Oh, Daisy . . .” She addressed the maid as she came back into the room. “I think I’ll wear the dove-gray crepe this evening. Suitably somber and penitential, don’t you think, Essie?”
Esther’s grimace was answer enough as she went off to her own room to change.
Five minutes later, Imogen was in the drawing room, sipping a glass of sherry and trying to calm her nerves. The dove-gray crepe, with its dark gray velvet puff sleeves and matching velvet edging the relatively modest neckline and outlining the flowing hemline, could almost pass as mourning, she reflected, looking at herself in the mirror above the long, marble-topped console table, making a small adjustment to a loosening hairpin. Whether the demure costume would mollify the irate family elders remained to be seen.
The doorbell sounded and she stiffened her shoulders, drained her sherry glass, and set it down on the console table as she turned to the door.
“Lord and Lady Marsham, Miss Carstairs,” Sharpton announced. Lady Marsham had been a Carstairs before her marriage to Viscount Marsham and considered herself the matriarch of the family and arbiter in all matters concerning it.
“Imogen, what is this disgraceful business about?” she demanded, sailing into the drawing room, casting a sweeping glance around through her lorgnette as if to ensure that every piece of furniture was present and correct, before bending her gaze upon her errant niece. “You cannot possibly be intending such a scandalous thing. I could scarcely believe my ears when Esther told me what you were intending to do.”
“It’s already done, ma’am,” Imogen said. “The notices have been sent to the Times for the morning edition. I’ll write to everyone myself, of course.”
“But my dear,” the viscount protested as his wife’s bosom seemed to balloon with swelling outrage, “only think of the scandal.”
“Uncle George, I have done,” she said with as much composure as she could muster. “I do assure you this is not some lightly considered whim. I cannot and will not marry Charles Riverdale.”
The ringing of the doorbell put paid to an immediate response and Sharpton announced the next visitors even as it rang again. Imogen endured the barrage of disbelief and indignation by simply reiterating her position and offering refreshment. When Esther at last entered the drawing room, it was to find that the various family members were all exclaiming among themselves, discussing the situation as if Imogen had no part in it at all.
“They seem to have forgotten all about you,” she murmured before moving to greet the little knots of irate elders.
Imogen’s head ached fiercely as the voices rose and fell around her. Everything had happened so quickly, she thought, she still didn’t quite believe it herself. There would be no walk up the aisle of St. George’s, Hanover Square, the day after tomorrow, no rapturous wedding night, no honeymoon trip to Paris and Rome. No settling into the new house . . . no receiving guests as Mrs. Charles Riverdale. And above all, no Charles. How could she live without him? He was her best friend, her sparring partner, her lover. She could already sense the emptiness that lay ahead, see the dark, endless plain of lonely boredom stretching in front of her.
How was she to bear it? Charles was an essential part of her.
“Well, there’s nothing more to be said,” Lady Marsham announced suddenly, her voice silencing the chatter. “If you persist in this foolishness, Imogen, you must leave London first thing tomorrow. I doubt your reputation will ever be salvageable, but we must hope that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ has some effect. And I suggest, while you’re in the country, you reflect on the disgrace and inconvenience you have inflicted on the family. We shall all have to retreat from society at the height of the Season.”
“Indeed, it will be as bad as going into mourning,” Lady Cynthia announced, waiving a lavender-soaked handkerchief under her nose. “We won’t be able to hold our heads up in public.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Imogen muttered, glancing at Esther, who gave her a complicit wink. The day the Carstairs family removed itself en bloc from society without a death in the family had yet to be seen. However, she offered a wan and meek smile of agreement even as she wished them all to the devil.
Finally the door closed on the last of them and Sharpton inquired, “Shall I announce dinner, Miss Carstairs? His lordship is in the library.”
The last thing Imogen felt like was food, but she owed it to Esther and Duncan to show a brave face. She couldn’t blame Duncan for avoiding the family scene: He hadn’t caused it, and he was probably ravenous. “Yes, thank you, Sharpton.”
Chapter 3
BEAUFORT HALL, FEBRUARY 1900
Imogen came down the stairs into the hall, a springer spaniel puppy bounding at her heels. “Good morning, Mabel.” She stopped to greet an underhousemaid who was sweeping the wide oak stairs of the Jacobean manor house.
“Mornin’, Miss Imogen.” The maid shuffled sideways on her knees to give Imogen room to get past. A weak February sun shone through the mullioned windows of the beamed and paneled great hall on either side of the arched front door, throwing a pale line of light across the black and white squares of the floor.
“Are you going out, Gen?” Esther, still in her embroidered dressing gown, her curly brown hair loose on her shoulders, emerged from the morning room, an unopened letter in her hand. “It’s still a hard frost out there, even though the sun’s shining.” She stepped to one side to avoid a suit of armor. “I always forget he’s there.”
Imogen shook her head. “He’s never been anywhere else in my memory.” The huge hall was dominated by floor-to-ceiling paneled walls studded with the coats of arms of various members of the Carstairs family through the ages. It was by no means a cozy space, despite the massive log burning in the inglenook fireplace. A small minstrels’ gallery hung out over the fireplace, but it had been many years since a minstrel had played there.
“Well, at least it’s not some gigantic stuffed bear,” Esther commented. “Father always used to tease us by threatening to buy one to stand on guard at the front door, do you remember?”
Imogen smiled. “I do remember. I don’t think we ever believed him though, did we?”
“Oh, I did once or twice when I was very little,” her sister responded. “It is really cold out, Gen. Wrap up warm, won’t you?”
“I’m just sick of being confined to the house,” Imogen confided. “That was one of the worst Januarys I can ever remember.”
And not just in terms of the weather. But that thought she kept to herself: The long winter weeks had been as tedious for Esther as for her, although without the black melancholy that tended to descend without warning upon Imogen. They had both had to endure the covertly raised eyebrows, the murmured disapproval of their county neighbors during endless evenings of cards and the tedious round of Christmas social events, but only Imogen had had to put up with the feigned sympathy for her sudden spinster status. Such a bore for you, my dear, after all the excitement of being engaged, and with such a wonderful wedding to look forward to. You were the envy of every one of our girls. And now look at you, all those great prospects dashed. Imogen could still hear the squire’s wife, her voice dripping honey, pitched to catch the attention of everyone in the room.
Esther saw her sister’s mouth tighten, her eyes harden, and made a good guess at the reason. Imogen had certainly been made to pay for her rebellion against society’s precepts, but Esther knew that social retribution mattered little enough to her when compared with her deep inner unhappiness. However, she merely commented, “You are looking rather peaky. Not that that’s unusual these days.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “Maybe some fresh cold air will put the roses back in your cheeks. There’s a letter from Duncan.” She waved the envelope vaguely in the air.
“Oh, what does he say?” Imogen tried to sound interested as she buttoned the high collar of her thick woolen coat and tied the scarf that covered her straw gypsy hat under her chin, peering at her reflection in the spotted mirror above a pew bench beside the door.
“I haven’t opened it yet. I was looking for the letter opener but I remembered I left it in my room. . . . Where are you going to walk?” She was worrying at the seal of the envelope with her fingernail.
“Just up to Hawker’s Wood. I’ll take a gun and give Zoe some exposure. If she stays gun-shy, Hartman will want to sell her, and he gets so crusty if he doesn’t get his way with what he considers estate assets.”
“You still won’t let him sell her though,” Esther said shrewdly. “Even if she always runs a mile at the sound of a shot.”
“No, of course I won’t.” Imogen bent to lift one of the spaniel’s floppy ears. “But I don’t like it when Hartman gets crusty.” She pulled on her gloves and unhooked a leash from a peg by the door. Zoe immediately began to prance and bark, making little runs at the door. Imogen fastened the leash to her collar and the spaniel instantly looked the picture of misery. “Yes, I know,” Imogen said. “You know the leash means the gun, but we’ll take just two or three shots and then we’ll go for a proper walk.”
She headed for the gun room just as her sister, having finally liberated the letter from the envelope, said, “Oh, Duncan writes that he’ll be coming down with a small shooting party next week.” She glanced towards the rear of the hall but her sister had vanished. Her eyes returned to the letter and a slow and inelegant whistle escaped her. “Gen . . . Gen . . .” But there was no response. She took a step to the rear corridor that gave access to the gun room and then stopped. Why spoil Gen’s walk? The news would wait until she got back.
Imogen thrust a handful of bullets into the deep pocket of her coat and tucked the gun into the crook of her elbow. “Come on, Zoe.” She tugged the reluctant puppy out into the freezing air. It hadn’t snowed, but the ground was white with frost and crunched crisply underfoot. Silvery lids of ice covered what once had been puddles in the pathway and she stomped through them with all the satisfaction of a small child in waterproof boots.
They crossed the sweeping lawn and headed for a small evergreen coppice at the far end that after a few hundred yards emerged onto the expanse of gorse- and fern-covered heath that formed large tracts of the New Forest. Many of these old New Forest estates had no real delineation from the surrounding forest. Occasionally a five-barred gate with a stile would close off a paddock, but generally the estate lands simply bled into the heath and onward into areas of ancient forest, dominated by massive oaks and beeches.
Imogen put a bullet into the gun and snapped the barrel closed. Zoe whimpered and put her belly to the ground. Imogen spoke softly to her, trying to reassure her, one hand on the animal’s head. But she wound the leash around her hand once again, knowing that Zoe would try to bolt.
She raised the gun and fired randomly into the sky. Zoe shot off, only to be jerked up sharply at the end of the leash. Imogen pulled her back, bent and spoke to her, showing her the gun, letting her smell the sharp cordite of the barrel. The she straightened and they walked on towards a thicket of oak trees, up a small rise at the far edge of the heath.
Twice more she discharged the gun and went through the same ritual, but Zoe’s reaction was always the same, and eventually Imogen decided the dog was a lost cause. Her father had always detested dogs kept as pets, and his agent had the same attitude, but no one was going to sell Zoe. She would simply become a fireside companion and an enthusiastic taker of country walks.
Imogen released the dog from the leash, and Zoe, knowing the ordeal was over, lifted her ears, barked excitedly, and raced off across the heath, chasing the scent of rabbits. Imogen followed at her own pace, her own thoughts heavy as once again the black cloud descended, despite the fresh crispness of the day.
How she missed Charles. Every waking minute she missed him, his soft, teasing laughter when they were at play in his deep feather bed, the long, slow caress of his strong, elegant hands, the feel of his naked body along her length, the glorious sensation of holding him inside her. Sometimes, particularly as she lay sleepless and aching with desire, she tried to convince herself that it was just the lustful passion that she missed, and that it would pass. It was an ephemeral pleasure at best. But she could not deny to herself that that, if anything, was the least of her losses. She missed the crossed swords of argument, the sharp engagement of wits, the triumph of scoring a point, and even the acceptance of defeat.
But the worst thing, she thought, as she tramped across the frozen heath, the very worst thing was the loss of his friendship, his companionship, that easy knowledge of what he was thinking, how he would react to something or someone, the shared, conspiratorial glances and smiles across dinner tables or a dance floor, the shared acknowledgment of some absurdity. The knowledge that he would always know what she was thinking and feeling, that sense of belonging to someone, which, it seemed, had become indispensable to her happiness.
But that sense had been built on shifting sand. She had thought she knew Charles as well as she knew herself, but she had known nothing about his true self, about how he valued people, how he valued truth. And it was that loss of trust that underpinned every aspect of her grief.
Zoe had stopped just ahead of her and was sniffing the ground intently, her tail waving wildly. She barked once, sharply, and Imogen increased her speed, striding up the rise. Zoe was sniffing at bright spots of blood, a trail that led on towards the oak wood at the top of the rise. The blood drops were large, clearly from an animal larger than a hare, and as Imogen followed the trail it became a steady, dark red trail, growing thicker as it went on. Feeling slightly sick at the thought of what she would find at the end of the trail, she went on, Zoe sniffing the ground ahead of her as they entered the dimness of the wood. The blood trail was even thicker now and still very wet. Whatever injured creature had left the trail, it was not very far ahead of her now.
A sound from somewhere to the right side of her, into the trees, brought her up short. Zoe gave a little yelp and dived into the trees. “Zoe, heel!” Imogen shouted the command, suddenly imagining the spaniel worrying at some injured animal too damaged to defend itself. She plunged after the dog and then stopped as she saw what lay ahead.
A six-antlered stag was on its knees, blood pouring in a steady but sluggish stream from a wound in its belly. Imogen had once before seen a badly shot stag when she had been out with the head gamekeeper. She could still hear his stream of vile epithets at the ignorant barbarian who had done such a thing, before he ha
d put the animal out of its pain.
She approached the magnificent beast, slipping a bullet into the gun. Roughly she toed Zoe aside and swallowed, taking a deep breath as she steadied the gun against her shoulder, aiming for the spot between the antlers. She squeezed the trigger and the shot resounded through the wood, leaving a silence almost as loud in its wake. The animal buckled and fell, his eyes glazing, and Imogen stood looking down at him, filled with a rage that she recognized as akin to that of that long-ago gamekeeper. If you were going to hunt, you made damn sure you killed your quarry, didn’t leave it stumbling around in bleeding agony.
But who had been hunting in these woods? They were part of the Beaufort estate. No one had the right to hunt and kill on these grounds without the express permission of Viscount Beaufort.
She looked around for Zoe, but the dog had, of course, vanished. Slowly she cracked the gun and settled it in the crook of her arm. She would have to tell Hartman, who would send someone to retrieve the stag. There was no point wasting good venison, although as every true huntsman knew, the meat of an animal that had died slowly and in pain was never as tender and flavorsome as that which resulted from a swift and efficient kill.
It still left the question of who had been trespassing on Beaufort land.
She heard a crackle of twigs, the sound of approaching voices, and turned towards the sound, her face pale now with anger. These, she was certain, were the barbarian trespassers. Not locals, of course. They might poach, and Hartman and his gamekeepers for the most part turned a blind eye, but native New Foresters knew what they were doing. This piece of barbarism would never have happened at their hands. Instinctively she had closed the gun and was holding it in both hands. It was unloaded, but who was to know that?
“Imogen.”
Just the sound of her name in those particular tones sent the blood rushing through her veins. Charles Riverdale stepped into the space between the trees, his eyes darting between Imogen and the corpse of the stag. “You shot it?”
Jane Feather Page 3
