“Colonel Wallace,” she acknowledged with a polite nod of her head. She refused to smile at him, not wanting to encourage any misplaced affection he might have developed for her.
“Miss Drake,” he returned in his usual curt fashion. “I was hoping to meet with you this morning.”
“Oh.” Imogen looked away. With forced airiness, she claimed, “I cannot imagine what for!”
“It is my wish to be allowed to call on you this evening, before supper of course,” said the Colonel. His tone was hard and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for doubts of his intentions.
He speaks to me as if I was one of his men to be ordered about! thought Imogen in disgust. Flippantly, she responded, “Well, alas, good sir, it cannot be my wish. My afternoon is already promised to another. I believe you have been introduced to Mr. Tanner?” She waited for his reluctant nod. “I thought as much.”
Before she could continue, the Colonel broke in politely, “Most unfortunate for me. Your parents, however, have invited me to dine tonight and I should be happy to speak with you at that time. Good day, Miss Drake.”
“Good day, Colonel,” she answered with a curtsey to match his bow, unable to do otherwise after such an abrupt dismissal. Shaking her head, she waited until he was let out the front door before turning to join her father.
“Ah, Imogen!” exclaimed the Viscountess, Lady Sutherfeld. She beamed graciously as she stood from a low chair.
Imogen eyed her mother’s good humor with a sense of foreboding. Nodding, she acknowledged, “Mother. Father.”
“Come in, Gennie, come in,” Lord Sutherfeld said with a merry wave, favoring his eldest daughter with a grin as he motioned her toward a chair.
Imogen dutifully sat. As she watched, her father cleared his throat and then turned to some of the papers on his desk. Gathering them up, he organized and stacked them neatly into a pile.
Imogen waited patiently as her father went through the ritual of looking busy as he collected his thoughts. Seeing a frown develop the more he collected, she squirmed uneasily. Glancing at her mother’s happy blue eyes, she learned nothing from the woman but that she was pleased solely with herself, as was always the case when her mother was concerned.
The Viscountess was a pretty woman for her advanced years. And though she was prone to a hearty dislike of her eldest child—whom she blamed for the slight roundness to her figure—she often hid it behind a smiling mask, knowing that many men had admired her for her dainty contrivances of pleasure.
When her father did not readily speak, she said, “The Colonel told me you wish him to dine this evening. I wish it were not so for I have already allowed Mr. Tanner to come this afternoon. It was my hope that you would also see fit to allow him to dine.”
“Well, of course we would not wish to appear inhospitable to your guest,” said the Viscountess. She looked helplessly at her husband, wishing him to deny his daughter’s request. When he did not answer, merely continued to gather his thoughts, the Viscountess uttered, “But, mayhap the invitation would be better if postponed to another night.”
“I don’t see why, mother,” Imogen protested as meekly as she could manage. “Colonel Wallace should not mind. Already, I have told him of Mr. Tanner’s coming today to see me—”
“Oh, Imogen.” The Viscountess gasped. “You did no such thing!”
“Why, yes, mother. I saw no reason not to. Besides, the Colonel is rather tiresome company and I think that table conversation could be much lightened by what Mr. Tanner has to impart.” Her smile might have looked sweet, but inside she wanted to scream.
“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” the Viscount stated before his wife could speak. He saw well the fight brewing between the women. Imogen looked expectantly at her father. The Viscountess looked demurely at her lap. “We will get to the Colonel in a moment. First, I have to discuss something of great discontent to us all—Ms. Martens.”
Imogen cringed, having completely forgotten her last disagreement with the governess. “Oh, father, you cannot believe that dreadful woman!”
“That dreadful woman is the finest governess we could get to come—” started the Viscountess.
The Viscount cleared his throat, interrupting his wife. Without glancing at her, he continued, “Ms. Martens is a highly competent woman and you vexed her quiet grievously. She has left her position here as of this morning.”
Good! thought Imogen. She hid her triumphant smile. It had taken her only two short months to get rid of the insufferable woman. “I wish I could say I was sorry for it, father, but the woman was a bore. And I daresay her French was that of… lower society.”
The Viscountess paled at such a thought, but she was for once at a loss for words.
“Be that as it may, you need someone to guide you,” her father said.
“I am above the age of needing a governess,” Imogen complained, unable to hide her pout. “I am just turned twenty-one. I am not a child to be led about by the hand.”
“That has yet to be proven,” the Viscount muttered under his breath. Seeing his daughter’s stricken face, he said, “I have decided not to get you another governess.”
“That’s wonderful!” Imogen exclaimed happily.
“What?” shot the Viscountess in horror. “My dear, dear lord husband, you cannot mean for me to escort our daughters everywhere? Whenever would I have the time?”
“No, my lady.” The Viscount’s eyes held only a passing fondness for his wife as he looked at her. She was an amiable companion to him, one who had still been blessed with charm and looks even after children. For that he gave small thanks. “I have decided that our daughter needs someone more commanding if they are to properly educate her and not be frightened away by her outspokenness.”
“Father?” Imogen asked in growing apprehension.
“I will hire you a tutor,” said the Viscount, proud of his own cleverness. “I think an educated man is just the thing for our Gennie.”
“But, propriety,” argued the Viscountess weakly, her face paling with the threat of a swoon. Frantically, she began to fan herself.
“Get ahold, my lady.” The Viscount was unaffected by his wife’s theatrics. “Mr—”
“Father?” Imogen whispered, not hearing him.
The Viscount continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He is beyond reproach. I have the highest recommendation of his character and have spoken extensively about him with the Colonel. Now, Colonel Wallace has allowed that such a fine character of sound mind and impeccable reputation will not be improper at all, considering Imogen is never alone with the man in a private atmosphere. And it is my hope that you, my dear Gennie, will learn from him the proper discourse to be had with a gentleman. No more speaking of horseflesh and breeding, do you hear me?”
Imogen flinched. Ms. Martens had caught her conversation with Mr. Tanner the week before and had harped endlessly. She should have known the woman would have tattled to her father about it.
“And why would the Colonel be involved in such a decision as to my tutor?” she inquired with a frown. Seeing her mother’s teary smile, she felt her body weaken.
“Colonel Wallace is rather taken with your charms, my dear,” stated the Viscount.
“Yes, quite taken,” echoed her mother with a nod of her head.
“What are you saying, Father? By all means, speak plainly.” Imogen gripped the sides of the chair, her gloved hands working hard against the rough material. Her cheeks burned with the first simmer of anger.
“He wishes to marry you, daughter, and I have given him my consent. We have agreed that, after some intensive training of your mind and actions, he will claim you as his wife and formally introduce you to his uncle.” The Viscount appeared a bit puzzled by her reaction. “Surely, you know of his feelings?”
“No, I do not!” Imogen shouted.
“Imogen, your tone!” her mother cried.
“I will not mind my tone!” She stood, desiring nothing more than to run away. “You must send him notic
e at once that you have changed your mind.”
“I will do no such thing.” Her father remained calm. “A gentleman does not rescind on his word without good cause. And you can forget Mr. Tanner. I will never consent to such a disagreeable man as he.”
“But, the Colonel? He wishes to change me,” Imogen whispered in a mix of anger and mortification. “Am I not suited as I am? He would turn me into a meek and mild plaything?”
“You overreact.” The Viscount scowled in displeasure. His tone became hard. “We merely wish to see your more desirable traits polished before you are to be a wife. And you will not be entertaining Mr. Tanner tonight or again, unless it is with the Colonel’s consent. Mr. Tanner has been a most unwelcome influence over you, Gennie.”
“You will receive the Colonel’s attentions tonight daughter,” put forth the Viscountess.
“I will not,” Imogen growled through clenched teeth. “If he wishes to speak to me he will hear my thoughts. I will not have him. He will be wasting his time for the very character of my person, which he finds so objectionable, cannot and will not be changed. So I beg you, spare the Colonel the embarrassment of asking!”
“Will not have him? But he is worth nearly seven thousand a year!” The Viscountess fluttered her hands nervously before her face, hovering between the desire to scold her daughter and the desire to faint. “You could not hope to do much better. And as to change, a wife’s place is nothing if not sacrifice.”
“And, after his uncle passes, he will own Rothfield Park,” put in her father logically. “He will be the new Marquis of Rothfield.”
Imogen took several deep breaths. They were serious! They wanted her to give up her chance at happiness for a man with seven thousand per year and a house whose location she abhorred.
“If you don’t marry him,” claimed the Viscountess. “I shall never speak to you again. And neither shall your father.”
“Then I look forward to a long and happy silence!” Imogen shouted in a huff. She rushed through the library door. Seeing Jane’s worried face as she passed through the front hall, Imogen met her sister’s stricken expression and experienced a moment’s regret. She refused to cry, as she ran from the house as fast as she could.
Ignoring Jane’s gentle entreaties, Imogen made her way quickly to the stables. The angry red of outrage and horror stung her porcelain features, burning violently against her skin.
Not seeing one groom to help her, she went straight to her mare. Grabbing a set of reins from the stall she fashioned them about the horse’s neck. Then, leading the palfrey out into the diffused sunlight, she brought the horse to the stairs so that she could maneuver onto its back with as much incensed grace as possible. Seated without the benefit of a sidesaddle, she nudged the mare and tore off towards the north field where the grass was the most open.
The spirited mare bolted forward with a jerk. Imogen, having ridden since the age of four, did not think twice about her wild ride. Her skirts flew behind her, pressing against her legs and fanning over the backside of the horse. When she was well into the field, she discovered she had two choices. Either she could ride out into the clearing, well within view of the library window, or she could ride into the mist, far from the sight of her father’s perusal. Imogen chose the mist.
Once out of sight, she swung her leg over the mare’s back and adjusted her skirts so that she was better seated astride the horse. The mist grew thicker. At first, she didn’t notice it. She raced past shrubs and then trees. The mare found an easy path. Its hooves pounded down a gentle incline, through a limb-covered alcove. Imogen reined the mare to a rough stop. She could hear the gentle babble of the nearby stream, but she could not see the water. The horse’s hooves pattered nervously. Before her eyes the mist grew, it expanded and thickened until she could not see the trees in front of her.
Her eyes rounded in terror. Her head snapped to one side and then another. The trees faded completely, leaving behind a consuming whiteness. The water grew louder until she could not tell from which direction it came. Turning the horse around, she urged the palfrey to move. The horse at first resisted but finally obeyed as she yelled at it to go. Imogen leaned close to the horse’s tan neck, willing it to feel its way home. But the fog only thickened. The horse’s movements were slow and cautious. The animal’s ears twitched and its head bobbed in agitation.
Imogen forced a scared laugh. Inside she trembled. The flesh on her neck pricked. She hugged closer to the skittish mare. She could feel its hot, sweaty flesh pressing into her gown. As they moved, she watched the white fog, willing her eyes to detect anything familiar. A tree limb passed close to her face. She jolted back in alarm.
And then she heard singing, the sweet ringing of a child’s voice in play. But the melody was haunted and hard, despite its joyful laughter. It echoed in the trees. At first it was behind her, running through the mist. But as she urged the horse faster, it was beside her, keeping pace with the swift mare.
“Play,” she heard the childlike whisper near her ear.
Imogen jolted in fright. Tears poured over her cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The singing came from her side, growing louder. The fog became so dense she couldn’t see the horse’s ears pointed to alert. She couldn’t see her hands.
“Hello!” she called, her voice cracking. “Who’s there?”
“Play,” said the pouting voice again, demanding and hard.
“Who are you?” Imogen insisted. Her limbs shook. She was too afraid to move from the comfort of the horse’s back. She could feel the mare shake and jolt with each ring of laugher, each start of an eerie ballad. “What do you want?”
Suddenly, the laughing turned to tears. The mist seemed to press into Imogen’s skin. She breathed it into her lungs like the smoke from a fire. Coughing, she wheezed for air. Almost instantly, perspiration dotted her skin. The horse neighed and bucked in protest. Her fingers found her throat, tearing at her gown as she fought for breath.
“I want to play with you,” answered the child with a sulk in her voice. The sound of her words was hollow, garbled by a roaring Imogen couldn’t make out. She coughed louder, desperate to get out of the fog. Sweetly, the voice called, “Are you my mother? Are you the girl from my bedchamber?”
“No!” screamed Imogen. She kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it forward, not caring if she was still within the trees. She would much rather take her chances against the forest.
As she began to gallop, she saw a hand shoot out from the fog trying to stop her. The masculine fingers reached for the horse’s reins. It was the hand of a man, pale and strained and strong. She saw the ruffling of a shirt. Imogen screamed louder. Her mare jolted violently and she lost the reins. The hand disappeared behind her. She sat up, looking over her shoulder to see if the man was coming for her. There was nothing but mist all around.
With a relieved sigh, she turned on the horse to look forward. But her eyes never had time to focus as a branch materialized out of the fog. It struck her across the forehead, knocking her back with a sharp crack. Blood filled her mouth. Her head hit the jolting movements of the galloping rump. Her feet loosened their hold and she flipped off the back of the horse to the ground. And, as her head struck the earth, the white mist turned into enveloping darkness.
Chapter Two
The early dawn came and went, dragging into the lateness of morning. The sun peeked high and warm over the fields and valleys of Rothfield Park, dispersing the misty fog of night with the warmth of day. Trees danced gently in the graceful wind, flowers dotted the land in full bloom of spring. The perfumed air crept into every crack and crevice of the manor until all was fresh and clean with the brilliance of it.
To this wondrous delight, Imogen opened her heavy eyes. With a moan, her hands stroked over the comfortable linen of her bed, sweeping dreamily beneath her pillow. Sighing lightly to test her voice, she lifted a hand to feel her forehead. It ached lightly but was nothing to be concerned over and she quickly forgot the d
ull pain.
Imogen’s bedchamber was a large square filled with woven rugs and quaint furniture. The raised four poster bed was carved elegantly in dark wood, contrasting nicely with the white painted walls. Her dressing table was long, covered with an embroidered cloth. A low chair fitted by the fireplace, which was raised on a platform of circular design.
A long window with paned glass that opened inward was on the side of the fireplace, letting in enough light to see. There was no fire burning on such a brilliant day as this, so the far corner of the room was darker than usual. She sat up, crawling from the fluffy bed to the wooden floor. Her bare feet crushed the mauve floral rug beneath them.
Seeing that she was alone in her room, she decided not to call a maid to attend her and hurriedly dressed herself for the day. The lateness of the morning hour was alarming, since she never slept so long. She wondered why no one had been sent to wake her. Then, with a rueful smile, she remembered her mother was angry with her for refusing to wed with the Colonel and had undoubtedly extended her displeasure to depriving her of servants.
Imogen donned a lightweight gown of green floral design on white linen and gauze. She smoothed the skirts and managed to tie the little bow in the back of the high waist herself. The draping sleeves were shortened, so she decided it would be best to wear her long gloves, pulling the material up her arms to rest above her elbows. From the look of the delicate sunlight through her window, it would be a perfect day to walk alone in the gardens, mayhap with a book.
Next came her white stockings and low cut slippers. She slipped her feet easily into them as she brushed up her hair into a quick coiffure, hiding the dark locks under a matching floral green fabric bonnet. The bonnet had a shallow crown and deep brim and was adorned only with the subtlest of ribbons. Tying the hat under her chin, she looked into the mirror with satisfaction. Even her mother couldn’t be disappointed with her appearance this morning. Her skin seemed to shine with the beautiful look of fine porcelain and her eyes were bright with life.
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