“Ground’s too hard, m’lord. But the Reverend is hoping for a thaw by next week.”
“I’m sure he’s getting impatient,” Duncan commented. The Reverend Wilton, younger son of the Earl of Fawcett, also served as Master of Hounds and had been known on more than one occasion to tear off his cassock at the end of matins and be in the field in hunting pink on a raw-boned chestnut within the half hour.
“Just so, m’lord. But Miss Imogen’s been shooting once or twice, trying to train that puppy of hers to the gun.” Jake shook his head. “A no-hoper, that one.”
“My sister’s very fond of Zoe,” Duncan commented. “My guests are due to arrive on the five fifteen, Jake. You’d better meet them in the brougham—it’ll be dark and too cold for the gig by then.”
“Aye, m’lord. It’s all arranged.”
Duncan sat huddled in the rug, silent until they turned onto the long driveway leading to the Hall. He was nervous at the upcoming meeting with his sisters—well, with Imogen, he amended. Esther didn’t intimidate him nearly as much, and he had particular reason to be anxious about meeting Imogen. He should have warned her about his having leased hunting rights to Charles, but he hadn’t been able to find the right words. He could only hope they hadn’t yet run across each other and that he could orchestrate matters so that it didn’t happen accidentally.
The house came into view as they rounded a corner at the head of the drive, and Jake brought the gig to a halt in front of the great front doors. Sharpton emerged immediately and waited by the open door for the master of the house as Robbie unloaded the portmanteau and headed with it for the servants’ entrance.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” The butler bowed Duncan into the hall. “Miss Esther is in the small salon.”
“I’ll say hello before I change.” Duncan, relieved that he had a little headwind before meeting Imogen, headed to the small salon at the back of the house, but before he could reach it the door flew open and Esther came out, arms outstretched in greeting.
“Ah, here you are, Duncan. The train must have been on time.” She embraced him warmly, leading him into the small parlor. “You must be freezing. Come to the fire. Are you hungry?”
“No, I had lunch in the dining car on the train. I’ll take a glass of claret, though.” Duncan stripped off his gloves, his muffler, and his coat, dropping them carelessly over the back of a sofa. He bent to warm his hands at the fire’s blaze. “Where’s Imogen?”
“She went for a walk. I’m surprised you didn’t run into her in the driveway. She said she would walk down to the lane to meet you.” Esther poured a glass of wine from the decanter on the sideboard and brought it over to her brother.
“Must have just missed her then.” Duncan took a sip of wine. “Has Sharpton brought up the ’89 burgundy for dinner tonight? Harry Graham considers himself something of a connoisseur, so I’d like to impress him.”
“I’m sure that if you sent Sharpton instructions, he will have followed them to the letter,” Esther said, wondering why her brother had gone a little pink. “Who’s Harry Graham? I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”
“Oh, just an old friend from Oxford,” Duncan said, sipping his wine.
“Ah.” Esther nodded. “By the way, we had a visit from Charles yesterday,” she continued, watching his expression.
Duncan looked stricken. “God damn the man . . . why couldn’t he wait until I’d had a chance to explain to Gen about the hunting rights?”
“Can you explain it?” Esther inquired, leaning back in her armchair, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. “You couldn’t prevent him from buying the Beringer estate, but was it necessary to give him free rein to wander over our land? You know how Gen is always out and about around the estate.”
Duncan’s flush deepened. “Charles asked me, and I couldn’t see how to refuse him. I’m not down here often enough to make good use of the hunting and, well, it seemed churlish, dog in the manger, to say no.”
“Nonsense,” Esther said vigorously. “In the circumstances no one would have blamed you in the least. I can’t understand why Charles would ask in the first place.”
“Well, he did, and I said he could,” Duncan declared with a sulky twist to his mouth. “So there’s nothing to be done about it.”
They heard the front door close and the sound of voices in the hall; then the salon door burst open and Imogen entered with Zoe at her heels. “Duncan, I went to meet you, but I must have just missed you on the drive. How was the journey?” She tossed her gloves and hat on top of her brother’s on the sofa and unbuttoned her coat.
“Very pleasant,” her brother said. “I love trains.”
“As if we didn’t know,” Imogen said with a teasing smile, sending her coat to join her hat and gloves. “Are you drinking claret?” She went to the sideboard and poured herself a glass. “So, who is in your party?”
“Oh, all people you know except for one,” her brother responded. “You don’t know Harry Graham, do you?”
Imogen considered, then shook her head. “The name’s not familiar.”
“We were up at Oxford together—he was in the year below me. He’s just gone down and is living in lodgings in London. I ran into him only the other day.” Duncan picked up the poker and stabbed at a log in the fire. “I’d like him to have the room adjoining mine. . . . Robbie will valet him as well as me, as he won’t have his own man.”
“I’ll tell Sharpton,” Emily said, going to the door.
“Where’s his family from?” Imogen inquired.
Duncan turned from the fire with a casual shrug. His face was pink from the fire’s heat. “Somewhere in Leicestershire, I believe. Good hunting ground anyway. He’s anxious to go out with the hounds.”
“Well, he might be disappointed on this visit. The ground’s rock-hard.”
Imogen took a seat in the corner of the sofa as Esther returned to the room saying cheerfully, “That’s all arranged then.”
Imogen took a sip of claret and said thoughtfully, “The shooting is as good as ever. How have you arranged matters with Charles, Duncan? Does he have rights on alternate days, or does he have exclusive rights to certain parts of the property?”
Her tone was quite mild and pleasant, but Duncan was not fooled into thinking he need not tread carefully. “You have to forgive me, Gen. I really meant to make sure that you knew about this before it happened . . . but . . . well, there was a lot going on in town and—”
“It slipped your mind,” Imogen said with a tranquil smile. “Quite understandable. But how much liberty does he have, Duncan? The run of the estate whenever he wishes?”
Her brother nodded, looking as miserable as a scolded dog. “It seemed simplest.”
Imogen smiled. “Of course it was, love. And Charles and I are quite capable of carrying on a civilized conversation in whatever public arena we find ourselves. So don’t worry about a thing.” She rose from the sofa and bent to kiss him. “Poor Duncan, what a scold you must think me. There’s nothing to worry about. The dreaded first meeting has already taken place and we’re all alive and well.” She gathered up her outdoor garments and went to the door. “I must change my shoes before tea.”
The door closed behind her and Duncan looked at his other sister. “Is she really angry, Essie?”
Esther shook her head. “She was a little annoyed at first, but now she tells me she’s indifferent to Charles, and she certainly behaves as if she is. So, why don’t you just relax and enjoy your guests and let Gen deal with matters with Charles as she sees fit?”
“Yes . . . yes, I suppose that’s best. It’s certainly a relief.” Duncan stood up. “I should change too.”
Esther nodded, waited until her brother had reached the door before asking casually, “Why did you really feel it necessary to agree to Charles’s request, Duncan?”
Duncan flushed to the tips of his ears. “It was polite . . . neighborly. To do otherwise would have made the scandal worse. Surely you can see that, Ess
ie?”
“I’m not sure that I can,” she returned, frowning slightly. “No one would have expected you to do Charles any favors now. A polite distance in social situations is all that’s required.”
“Well, I don’t agree,” Duncan declared flatly and marched from the room, closing the door with something of a snap behind him.
Esther raised her eyebrows. Whichever way one looked at it, Duncan’s behavior towards his sister’s ex-fiancé was far too friendly. It wasn’t even as if they’d been bosom friends before the debacle. Duncan did not move in the same circles as Charles, who was a good ten years older. Something was off-kilter about the whole situation, but she couldn’t put her finger upon it. She wondered if Imogen thought the same. She was behaving as if nothing could disturb her serenity, but serene and Imogen were not generally spoken in the same sentence.
Lord Beaufort’s guests arrived at dusk and the Carstairs sisters were there to welcome them alongside their brother. Three of them were well known to the sisters: Lord Alfred Marsham, Sir Gregory Flint, and Mr. William Markham, but the fourth, a young man of fair complexion, dark blue eyes, and a slight but elegant figure was a newcomer.
“Imogen . . . Esther . . . may I introduce my friend, Harry Graham. Harry, my sisters, Miss Imogen Carstairs and Miss Esther.” Duncan made the formal introductions in the hall as the guests arrived on a flurry of cold evening air, their bags following them in the hands of footmen.
“Mr. Graham, we’re delighted to welcome you to Beaufort Hall.” Imogen extended her hand with a warm smile.
“Indeed,” Esther declared, stepping forward with her own hand extended. “And Lord Alfred . . . Greg . . . Will . . . how delightful to see you again. Come into the drawing room. You must be freezing after the drive from the station.”
The party moved into the drawing room, where the long velvet curtains had been drawn against the winter night, the fire blazed, and the gas lamps were lit. Sharpton and a footman passed around glasses of sherry and Madeira.
“Duncan says the hunting’s off for the moment, Miss Carstairs.” Lord Alfred drew close to Imogen. “Shame . . . I was hoping for a good run across Burley Heath.”
“There’s always shooting, Lord Alfred.” Imogen smiled at him and moved away to where Harry Graham stood, for the moment alone to one side of the fireplace.
“Are you a fervent rider to hounds, Mr. Graham?” she inquired. “If so, I fear my brother has misled you.”
“No . . . not at all, Miss Carstairs.” He smiled, showing a flash of very white teeth. “I enjoy the exercise, and one doesn’t need to hunt for that.”
“Indeed,” she agreed, warming to the young man with the bright smile and the easy manner. “Allow me to refresh your glass.”
As she turned from him, she became aware of her brother’s gaze. She couldn’t read it—it seemed almost pleading, almost hungry. But that wasn’t Duncan. He could be sulky sometimes when things didn’t go his way, and he could make decisions that were far from well thought out, but she and Esther understood their little brother. He had been both spoiled and neglected, praised and criticized in almost equal measure throughout his boyhood. School had been a brutal experience, but it had given him an identity that he shared with his social peers. As far as his sisters knew, he had never had a mentor who could have guided him into the right choices. And at the most vulnerable point in his growing, their father had died and he’d inherited a fortune, a mansion in London, and a country estate without anyone to steer him through. Except for his two sisters, who, of course, suffered from the eternal disadvantage of being women. They might see more clearly than Duncan did, but their opinions were tainted by their sex.
Chapter 7
The evening seemed eternal. Imogen enjoyed the company of her brother’s friends in small doses, but both she and Esther, after a while, found them callow, their youthful exuberance lacking in any conversational stimulus, with the exception of Harry Graham, who had a sophisticated range of interests far ahead of Duncan’s other friends. It was with relief that they rose from the dinner table to seek refuge in the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
“I will never understand how a university education can leave such a nonexistent mark on the minds of its graduates,” Esther declared. “If we were to have such an opportunity, can you imagine how the world would change?”
Imogen chuckled. Usually it was she making such comments. “Well, we could attend Oxford or Cambridge, just not graduate,” she pointed out.
“And have no public recognition at all of what we’d achieved,” Esther stated, pouring coffee. “At least Charles acknowledges that injustice.”
Imogen was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she agreed eventually. “Yes, he does.” She took up her coffee cup. “Different subject . . . but don’t you think Duncan is behaving a little oddly? He seems very nervous, and I don’t think it’s anything to do with me and Charles. I’ve tried to make as little as possible of that hunting business, and Duncan’s conscience never bothers him for very long anyway.”
“No, I agree. He does seem oddly anxious. And yet he’s surrounded by his friends.” Esther stirred sugar into her coffee. “To tell you the truth, Gen, I’ve never really understood our little brother.”
“Me neither,” her sister concurred. “But I don’t feel like waiting around for them to break up the dinner table. I’d like a quiet night upstairs. They’re bound to want to play billiards, and I’m sure they’ll be relieved if we’re not here when they come in.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Esther set down her coffee cup. “Let’s make our escape before they remember our existence and their manners and come hotfoot.”
They abandoned the coffee tray and headed up the stairs. At the head of the horseshoe staircase Esther took Imogen’s hands. “Are you really all right with Charles living next door?”
Imogen held her sister’s hands for a moment and then shrugged with a tiny grimace. “I have to be, Essie. It’s what’s happened, and I can only deal with it with as much grace as I can muster. I just wonder why he decided to come down here. There have to be other country houses for sale.” She shrugged. “Anyway, he’s not going to be here that often—he’s far too busy with his law practice—and once we return to town, we’re bound to run into each other. I don’t intend to cause any embarrassing scenes, I promise you.”
“As if you ever would,” Esther stated. “You have never embarrassed anyone in public. What you do in private, of course, is neither here nor there.” She hugged her sister tightly. “Good night, love. Sleep well.”
“You too, Essie.” The two parted ways and Imogen closed the door of her bedroom with a small sigh of pleasure. The peace and quiet of her own room, with the gas lamps flaring and the fire crackling, the coverlet turned down on the deep feather bed, hot water steaming on the dresser, were all anyone could wish for on a freezing February night.
Daisy tapped on the door and came in on Imogen’s invitation. “Should I help you to bed, Miss Imogen?”
“Just unlace me, please. I can manage the rest.”
Daisy unbuttoned, unhooked, and unlaced the evening gown of sky-blue silk and Imogen heaved a sigh of relief as the constriction of the whalebone corset was loosened. “Instruments of torture,” she declared. “Why do we allow ourselves to be bullied into the things?” She held up the undergarment with an expression of disgust. “Men decree we should have a certain kind of shape, and we allow ourselves to be pushed and prodded into that form. It’s quite ridiculous and I’ve a good mind to stop wearing corsets altogether.”
“Oh, Miss Imogen, you couldn’t,” Daisy exclaimed with a horrified gasp. “Why, nothing would fit into the dress in the right place.” She gestured to Imogen’s small bosom, which the corset had ensured was both separated and uplifted, revealing a cleavage that was far from natural. “And you’d have no hips to speak of neither.”
Imogen poked at the padding at the hipline of the long corset. “Well, why should I pretend to ha
ve something that I haven’t?” she asked reasonably, and then went into a peal of laughter at Daisy’s shocked expression. “Trust me, Daisy, the day is coming when women will rebel against these man-made ideals of perfect form. We shall stride the earth in divided skirts, with natural waists and breasts and hips, and not give a tinker’s dam.”
Daisy looked as if she thought her mistress was run mad. She gathered up the despised undergarment and folded it into the armoire. Imogen sat down on the dresser stool to unroll her stockings. In truth, she knew that she and her sister were lucky in that neither of their parents had permitted them to wear the steel-boned corsets that were considered fashionable but were frowned upon by the medical profession. Whalebone was bad enough, but the steel rods must be agonizing, she reflected, reaching up to unpin her hair.
Daisy picked up the brush and began to draw it through the shiny mass that fell almost to Imogen’s waist. After a few minutes, however, Imogen said, “Oh, that will do for tonight, Daisy. I don’t think I have the patience for the full hundred strokes. We’ll do double tomorrow. You go to bed.”
“Well, if you’re sure, Miss Imogen.” Daisy proffered a white lace nightgown but Imogen shook her head.
“I’ll sit up by the fire for awhile. I’ve some reading I’d like to do.” She stood up in her chemise and drawers and reached for a damask and brocade dressing gown with a velvet collar and cuffs. “Go to bed now, Daisy, and sleep well.”
The maid curtsied with a murmured good-night and slipped from the bedroom. Imogen tied the girdle of her dressing gown as she went to the fire and stood for a moment looking down into the flames. She was wakeful; her limbs seemed to be twitching, although she knew it was an illusion. But there was a restless sensation in her belly, and the sense that her blood was sending energy coursing through her body. It was a most uncomfortable feeling and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, or even lie still enough to invite relaxation.
Jane Feather Page 6
