Carols and Chaos

by Cindy Anstey

  “I would rather accompany Mr. Benjamin and speak to Mr. Marshal about Jasper’s care, Father. We will follow you directly.” The words were out of her mouth before Imogene could consider the consequences. She turned, hiding her self-conscious swallow and wide, horrified eyes from all but Mr. Benjamin, who was standing in the wrong place.

  However, when their eyes met, Imogene did not look away in mortification … or disgrace … or discomfort. She didn’t feel the need. If he had noticed her disagreement with her father, he gave no sign. He turned instead to his brother.

  “Yes, we will away to the stable while you run up to the manor. You shall have to admire the snuffboxes for both of us, Ernest. How many do you have in your collection, Mr. Chively?”

  “Oh, well, let me see now. Over fifty, perhaps as many as sixty.”

  “Most impressive, sir. I’m sure Ernest will want to see each and every one … and to know their entire history as well.”

  “Might we not wait until Ben’s return?” Mr. Ernest offered the company a guileless expression. “It would be a shame for him to miss out. I’m sure they must be wonderful works of art.”

  “Ah, but that is far more your interest than mine. You know my taste runs toward brick and mortar. No, no, you gentlemen go right ahead. I shall appreciate the music boxes at another time.”

  “Snuffboxes,” Mr. Ernest corrected his brother.

  “Yes, just so.” Mr. Benjamin grinned. His tone was cordial—too cordial.

  Imogene highly doubted the sincerity of their words; they were funning. She would have appreciated the jocularity so much more if it were not for her father’s presence and the possibility that he would be insulted. However, either oblivious to or simply ignoring the undercurrents of the conversation, Imogene’s father started up the hill, expecting everyone to fall in behind him … which they did.

  Except Emily.

  “Might I join you?” she asked as she matched Mr. Benjamin’s gait and direction. Leaning back, Emily glanced behind his back to Imogene walking on his other side. She lifted her eyebrows in her friend’s general direction—several times. Imogene felt the stirring of … hmm, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling. Disquiet came to mind, or something in that order. Despite Imogene’s frown, Emily grinned and straightened.

  “I’ve seen the snuffboxes before.… Many times. I could even describe them to you, if you wish,” Emily chatted as they skirted the manor.

  Mr. Benjamin chuckled. “Thank you, no, Miss Beeswanger. Don’t use the stuff.”

  “The snuff?” Emily interrupted and giggled.

  “Just so.” Mr. Benjamin chuckled again, softly this time. “I don’t use snuff, and I’m not entirely sure why one would go to such lengths to beautify what amounts to a box—a tiny one at that.” Then, glancing in Imogene’s direction, he added, “I mean no disrespect.”

  “None taken, Mr. Steeple. I do not share my father’s fascination. I prefer a larger canvas.” Imogene frowned and glanced over her shoulder toward the ruins. “Oh dear, my sketch is still at the castle.”

  “I’m sure Sawyer will ensure your art supplies are brought up when they collect the basket and foodstuffs,” Emily reassured her.

  “Yes, I’ll mention it to him when we get to the house.”

  Turning back, Imogene looked up at Mr. Benjamin and was surprised to meet his gaze. It was brief but enigmatic—a puzzled frown. “My brother mentioned your interest in art. But he did not tell me that you were an artist yourself. You have an enviable talent.”

  Imogene lifted one corner of her mouth in a half smile. She was rather pleased. Few persons, other than family or friends, had seen her work, and her family was less than impressed. Harriet, Emily’s youngest sister, while appreciative of Imogene’s abilities and lessons, was an easily impressed twelve-year-old. To hear such a compliment from someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a learned stranger was rather heady.

  “Thank you, I quite enjoy—”

  “Imogene has been drawing since her nanny put a graphite pencil in her hand,” Emily interrupted, helping her out, filling in the awkward conversation.

  Except this time, it was not awkward, and the rescue was unnecessary. Perhaps it was his easy manner, or his aid in rescuing Jasper, or that moment when Mr. Benjamin held her as she cried—yes, when she thought on it, that moment had broken down a barrier or two. She should have been in her highest state of embarrassment, but she wasn’t.

  Imogene did not regret finding solace in his arms—not at all. She had needed consoling, and Mr. Benjamin had provided it; it had felt natural. And rather pleasant. He had smelled earthy and manly and … yes, indeed, quite pleasant. Her heart started to beat faster with the memory.

  Surprisingly, she was comfortable in his presence … and charmed. She wanted to talk with him, understand him better and—stranger still—have him understand her. She was filled with excitement when he turned his eyes in her direction, not fear. It was a most unusual state to be in, something that she had never experienced before. Something she rather liked.

  And as these thoughts raced through her mind, Imogene did her best not to regret that Emily had taken over the conversation, leaving her with an inexplicable longing.

  chapter 3

  In which Ben inadvertently interferes with Ernest’s wooing

  Stepping across the threshold into the somewhat small but well-lit bedroom to which he had been assigned, Ben yanked off his starched neck-cloth with grubby hands. The long strip of white linen, which had been expertly tied, was now spattered with dirt. “I do apologize, Matt,” he said to his valet as he dropped it into the man’s waiting hand. The mess would require a fair amount of labor to see it returned to its former glory, but at least it was salvageable. His coat on the other hand … “Is there any hope for this?” He shucked the coat off his shoulders and passed it to his man as well.

  “Of course, sir.” Matt’s doubtful tone belied his assurance. “Well, I will do my best. You will need it—can’t get by on one coat. What would our hosts think?”

  Ben smiled at Matt’s horror. His valet was a young man and fairly new to the job, and yet he was traditional in his views— taking pride in the manner and style of the gentlemen he attended.

  “Is my brother dressed for dinner?” Ben asked as he pulled off his dirty vest and shirt before leaning over the pitcher and bowl. He scrubbed at the grime on his hands and then washed his face.

  “Indeed,” said a new voice. “Ready and waiting.”

  Ben turned to watch Ernest enter wearing a charcoal dress coat with a contrasting vest of vermilion; his neck-cloth was tied in a formal oriental knot, and his hessians shone.

  “Well, well, doing it up proud.” Ben nodded. “That should impress.”

  “You think so? I am uncertain. I seem to have her father’s interest more than hers.”

  Smiling, Ben turned back to his ablutions. He knew that the her was none other than Miss Imogene Chively—who had risen in his estimation just this afternoon. “I was rather captivated by your Miss Chively today, Ernest. She forgot to be shy when the floor of the castle caved in. Showed a great deal of character while trying to get her dog out. Yes, I can see what appeals to you after all.”

  “There, now are you satisfied?”

  “Yes, I will concede this was not the fool’s errand I had labeled it. I will support your decision in the face of any objection from Sir Andrew.”

  “It wasn’t Grandfather I was worried about, but Grandmother.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she will remain disgruntled when she meets Miss Chively. There is a winning way about your young lady that I think will shine through and sway Grandmother.”

  “And she is lovely, isn’t she? Admit it now, Ben.”

  “Yes, I will concede that as well. But, really, you can hardly fault my doubt. Until today, I never saw her eyes or her face. She was always looking at the ground.”

  “She is shy.”

  “Yes, of that there is no doubt, and
because of it, you will have to sparkle with wit to overcome that natural tendency. She definitely has a great interest in art and quite the talent. I’m rather envious of her ability.” Which was, in truth, a gross understatement. “Now, let’s see … hmm, do you know of Turner?”

  “Who?”

  Tossing his towel onto the mattress of the four-poster bed, Ben accepted a clean shirt from Matt. “Joseph Turner. He’s quite a famous artist, Ernest. Really, you have to have heard of him.”

  “Even I’ve heard of him, sir,” Matt commented while helping Ben into his vest.

  “There you go. See! Even Matt has heard of him.”

  An excessive amount of silence emanated from the other side of the room.

  “What?” Ben asked, looking toward his brother while doing up his buttons.

  “Stonework?” Ernest shook his head and then raked his fingers through his hair.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “His stonework? In the castle. Don’t take down the castle, Mr. Chively,” Ernest said in a high voice likely meant to represent Ben—though it sounded nothing like him. “The stonework is too important.”

  “Well, it worked, didn’t it? The purpose of my comment was to keep Miss Chively happy—you would never have gotten so much as a smile from her if she was mourning the loss of her beloved ruins.” Ben tugged down the corners of his sapphire vest, affixed the fob of his watch, and then dropped it into his pocket. “So now, not only will the castle not come down, but I will see that it rises from the ashes. Miss Chively will be ever so grateful.”

  “To you.”

  “To your brother, Ernest. I’m standing in your shadow.” He snorted a laugh. “I barely exist to her father.” Wrapping a clean band of linen around his neck, Ben tied the neck-cloth in a simple knot.

  “Yes, but what happens when Lord Penton does not arrive and there is no interest in his stonework? The man will look at us with jaundice eyes.”

  “Well, Chively can’t expect Penton to drop everything and rush into the country, especially when I stated that the old gentleman has taken a hiatus.”

  “There’s no telling what he expects.” Ernest lowered himself to the window seat and turned his gaze to the view. The roof of the old castle tower could be seen peeking above the trees.

  Lifting his arms into his dress coat, Ben let Matt pull it on and then smooth out the shoulders. He was rather pleased with the reflection in the looking glass; he rarely took the time to dress for dinner—a habit that annoyed his grandmother and amused his grandfather. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Hmmm.” Ernest continued to stare out the window.

  “She’s not there, you know.”

  “Pardon?” Ernest turned a sheepish grin in his brother’s direction. “Oh, yes. Well, no…”

  “Well said.” Ben laughed. “Let’s go downstairs so you can make calf-eyes at the lovely Miss Chively in person.”

  Ernest was up from his seat and waiting at the door in a flash. “If we must,” he said with mock nonchalance and another grin. “Tell me all about Turner on our way down.”

  Ben chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I’ll give the basics. How’s that?” And he ushered his brother into the hallway.

  The upper corridors of Gracebridge Manor were not wide, but they were long and convoluted because they accommodated the irregular shape of the building and its many bedrooms. Ben and Ernest had been assigned chambers at the far end—far north end, if he was judging the direction correctly. It took a little navigation to wend their way to the noble, carved staircase and allowed Ben to provide Ernest with enough information about Joseph Turner to give his brother something to talk about, if he found himself searching for a topic of which Miss Chively might be interested. At the top of the stairs, they lapsed into dignified silence—yes, dignified. That had been Ernest’s request; Ben was not entirely sure how one was silent in a dignified manner, but he did his best.

  While the staircase delivered them into a lovely reception room on the ground floor, complete with seating in front of a marble fireplace as well as the nearby window, the family could not be seen.

  “This way, young sirs.” Sawyer, standing beside the newel post, indicated a corridor to the left from which voices echoed. He was a tall man, with sharp features and a no-nonsense cast to his eye. Rather intimidating.

  Ben nodded, with continued dignity, and allowed his brother to take the lead. It was a good sign that the general tone of the voices bouncing toward them was convivial. Proceeding to the far end of the corridor, they passed the library and billiard room as well as a large dining hall.

  The reception room at the end of the corridor, however, gave no hint as to its size or décor until they passed through the double doors and were presented with a grand saloon. Two huge mullioned oriel windows lit the company in rays of sunshine and offered a spectacular view of—what else?—the old castle. The room itself was opulent in color, material, and trinkets—knickknacks that Ben could admire though not identify. However, the chimneypieces at either end were modeled with Tudor elements and quite impressive.

  As much as Ben would have liked a closer look, he was forced to note the company in the room instead of the architecture surrounding them. A silent company—for the happy chatter was no more.

  They were a party of ten; fortunately, only four of the faces were not familiar. The elder Chivelys stood with Mr. and Mrs. Beeswanger between them in a group by one of the windows. Well-dressed for what had been touted as a casual meal, it was still clear that the Chivelys had taken great care with their toilette. Mrs. Chively, in particular, had not been sparing in her use of jewels.

  The younger members of the group had gathered by the ornate chimneypiece at one end of the room, where, if one could go by their positions, a young man enjoyed the attention of two young girls who looked to be around the ages of fourteen and twelve. The young man bore a striking resemblance to the Chivelys—blond hair, blue eyes, oval face—though there was a hint of merriment that was entirely missing in his father’s gaze. This, of course, must be Percy Chively, Miss Chively’s older brother.

  Standing next to Miss Beeswanger, Miss Chively was a reflection of her parents in dress, though not in expression. Her eyes sparkled as much as the jewel in her necklace when their eyes met. A smile hovered on her lips … until her gaze shifted to Ernest, and she swallowed visibly, the promising curl to her mouth faded.

  A lady of some indiscernible age between twenty and thirty sat sour-faced on the settee between the two groups. Her gown shouted mediocrity—an unembellished serviceable gray. This was likely the governess.

  “Welcome, Mr. Steeple, Mr. Benjamin.” Mr. Chively stepped forward, enunciating and projecting his words so that it felt more like a performance than a greeting.

  Fortunately, the company laughed, and the atmosphere relaxed immediately.

  “Chively, old fellow, no need to be so formal,” Mr. Beeswanger called out.

  Mrs. Beeswanger, who looked as genial as her husband, nodded with great vigor. “Indeed not.” She stepped to the center of the room, glanced toward Mrs. Chively—who shrugged— and then back to Ernest. “The countryside lends itself to a far less decorous lifestyle—the strictures of society can be relaxed somewhat here. To that end, we”—she gestured to those around her—“are quite comfortable with given names for the younger generation, and if it would not insult your sensibilities, we would offer you the same casual address. A little untoward, perhaps, but we are all on good terms.” The implication being, of course, that the good terms would soon include the Steeple boys. There was no hiding why they were visiting.

  Ben glanced at Ernest, knowing he would be flummoxed. Ernest found great comfort in those strictures; they provided a template—expected behavior drilled into him since birth. Well, no, that was an exaggeration. Their regimented life had begun only when Sir Andrew and Lady Margaret had accepted the responsibility of two lads while their parents traipsed around the Continent. Still, f
ive years of rules and regulations had been of comfort to Ernest … though not to Ben.

  “Untoward, indeed, Mrs. Beeswanger,” he said, stepping into the fray, allowing Ernest to gather his wits. “But a welcome deviation. Another reason to appreciate country life.”

  “Marvelous” was her reply, said with an exhalation as if she had been holding her breath.

  Ernest’s silence continued a tad overlong, forcing Ben to nonchalantly shift in his brother’s direction and knock him shoulder to shoulder.

  “Yes, yes, indeed.” Ernest came to life. He turned toward Imogene, raising his voice slightly to include the offset group. “Call me Ernest. Benjamin prefers Ben.”

  Looking at Ben, Miss Chively smiled quite broadly. “Thank you, I shall. I’m Imogene.” She turned and swept her arm back as if to indicate those standing with her, but her gaze moved as she did, falling on Ernest. She turned a bright shade of pink— that Ben thought rather becoming—then blinked and swallowed, all in silence.

  Clearing her throat, Miss Beeswanger secured the attention of the room. “Ernest … Benjamin … please, call me Emily.”

  Ben noticed the use of his full name, pronounced slowly as if it were being measured, and he lifted the corner of his mouth, offering a weak smile. Benjamin was pretentious in his mind; it reminded Ben of his namesake, General Benjamin Steeple, a great-uncle of a stern and pompous repute. Not exactly a person he wished to emulate.

  “These are my sisters, Pauline”—Emily gestured toward the older girl first and then, the younger—“and Hardly Harriet.”

  “Em,” Hardly Harriet whined with a deeply entrenched frown and … yes, a pout. “You can’t say that to strangers. It’s not right.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Miss Emily said, facing Ben, not her sister. “Harriet prefers Harry.”

  “Do not!”

  “Percy Chively.” The young man stepped forward with a nod, ignoring the teasing. “Everyone calls me Percy.” He, like his parents, was focused on Ernest.