by Cindy Anstey
A sharp rap sounded on the door just before it opened to admit Emily’s personal maid. The young woman stepped across the threshold with a broad grin, closing the door behind her. “My gracious. Look at the Friday-faces. Whatever has brought my girls down?” Kate bobbed her brows up and down and offered a cheeky look. “Trouble with the gentlemen?”
As Kate advanced into the room, her expression faded into bewilderment. She was close in age, with straight dark hair—firmly secured in a cap—and an elfin face. Her position as Emily’s personal maid was a new one, having only just been elevated from housemaid before the Season started. Whenever Emily and Imogene were together, Kate helped them both. Mrs. Chively thought it frivolous but did not interfere.
Emily nodded. “Trouble indeed, Kate. I thought Mr. Benjamin had singled me out. His gaze was so penetrating it made me breathless, but Imogene cautioned, and rightly so, that Mr. Benjamin is generous with his attention, that she, Pauline, and even Harriet were the beneficiaries of the same.” Emily sighed again.
“Ah, a ladies’ man.” Kate pulled Emily to her feet and turned her around so that she could reach the buttons that ran down Emily’s back. “If only there were more of them in the world … Nothing compares to the teasing of a ladies’ man. Charmers … through and through. Makes you want to float away.”
“Kate! You know of … charmers?” Imogene sat up straighter.
Emily turned, making it impossible for Kate to continue working on her buttons.
Kate laughed. “My experience is by way of three brothers and their friends. You learn a thing or two when they are pulling at your hair. The charmers get away with it.”
“This is marvelous.” Emily’s eyes were full of excitement again. “Kate, tell me what to do?”
“Do?”
“Yes, I … well, I am quite taken with Mr. Benjamin. I would like to encourage mutual interest, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh yes, indeed. I do.” Kate nodded. “You must learn to flirt.”
“Yes, exactly.” Emily’s expression was once again full of hope and anticipation. “Tell me. Tell me.”
Still sitting on the bed, Imogene listened to Kate’s advice to Emily. She laughed when Kate took Emily’s fan and showed her how to bat her eyes across it, use it to tap lightly on an arm or shoulder, and snap it to garner attention.
“Sashay, Emily,” Imogene suggested as her friend sauntered across the floor. “A little more sway,” she said as they dissolved into a fit of giggles.
It was all quite amusing, and yet a touch of melancholy stole its way into Imogene’s high spirits. She preferred not to examine the cause too closely. It was good to know that Ben had not singled her out for romantic attention as she had feared. He had simply been true to his character: friendly, kind, and beguiling. He was a charmer. A very good match for Emily.
Directing her thoughts to Ernest, Imogene recalled the gentleness of his smile and his calm manner. The memory was pleasant, but it did not make her heart race.… Still, there was time.
With a sigh, Imogene reached around to unclasp her necklace. She wound the chain around the topaz pendant and closed her fist around it, concentrating on the feel of the cold stone.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Ben stepped into an empty dining room with a grumbling belly. He had been up early to visit the castle and speak to Mr. Opine about the repairs, and now he was quite prepared to break his fast. The other gentlemen were already up and away. Mr. Chively felt that dawn was the most productive time to fish, and he had dragged Ernest and Mr. Beeswanger along with him. Ben’s reprieve was born from his agreement to see to the ruined ruins.
A generous breakfast had been laid out on the sideboard, enticing him with the delectable aromas of ham and fresh breads. Though there didn’t seem to be a pot of coffee or …
“Oh.”
Ben turned with surprise, in time to see Miss Imogene enter the dining room and then take a half step back, straddling the threshold into the hallway.
“Ah, Miss Imogene,” he said, placing his half-filled plate on the table and then executing a formal bow of his head. “How are you this morning? Up early?” He smiled and was pleased to see a like expression spread across her face as she stepped farther into the room.
“I am well.” She winced as though some thought of an unpleasant nature had flitted through her mind, and dropped her eyes to the floor. “Thank you.” Her voice was slightly muffled. “I believe the other ladies are keeping town hours.”
Ben puckered his brow. This would not do. He was certain that he had made headway with Miss Imogene yesterday. Helped her to feel comfortable in his company. He needed to extol his brother’s virtues since Ernest was not here to do so.… And talking to the crown of her lovely head was of little use.
Tipping his head to the side, Ben squatted, trying to look up into her downturned face. His antic elicited a smile and then a laugh, and then, more important, she lifted her head.
“Whatever are you doing, Mr.… Ben?”
“Well, I am trying to hold a conversation with a lovely young lady, full of wit and wisdom … and enamored with dogs and castles. But it would seem that something on the floor has caught her full attention.” Bending down, he made a show of picking up a spec of lint from the floor. “There. I have it, Miss Imogene. Worry no more, it has been found.”
“And what, pray tell, is it?”
“I think it’s a bug.” Offering the lint to her, he was surprised when she took it without hesitation and then proceeded to examine it.
“An unusual species. Often disguised as fluff.”
“Rare, indeed.”
“Indeed.” Imogene chuckled and dropped the rare bug on the floor with a jaunty look. “We’ll send it home.”
A laugh burst from Ben before he could temper it, and he stared at Imogene with admiration. Few returned his teasing so readily. “Come, let us break our fast,” he said, waving toward the sideboard—actually, her sideboard.
At first she hesitated, and then with a nod, she grabbed a plate and piled it with a healthy helping of kippers, toast, preserves, and tomatoes. They sat at the table across from each other, silent for several minutes, but it was a companionable silence born from the necessity of eating. Eventually, Ben raised his eyes to find Imogene staring at him with a quizzical look.
“So, your brother is angling with my father and Mr. Beeswanger?”
Ben had the impression that this question was not the cause of her puzzled expression. “Yes. They left rather early. I heard a fair amount of stomping down the hallway. Ernest is not light on his feet when he is tired—and a sport that requires a dawn rising is his least favorite.”
“He could have stayed abed.”
“I don’t think your father gave Ernest a choice. Enlisted him last night. Your father seemed quite determined to have Ernest’s company. I find it somewhat odd being that the entire purpose of our visit—well, there is no hiding the fact that Ernest wishes to know you better. And yet he is being thwarted at every turn. Is there something about you that your family is trying to hide?” His query was stated in a playful tone, and yet Imogene stilled and grew pale.
“Whatever do you mean?” Imogene asked, clearly expecting ridicule of some sort.
Realizing his mistake, Ben smiled and reached across the table for her hand. “Let me see now.” He uncurled her fist. “Ah, good, good. Four fingers and a thumb on this hand. And … yes, this one as well.” When he looked up, he was pleased to see that her color had returned and that, in fact, Imogene’s cheeks were a lovely shade of rose … pink … now they were red … crimson.
“Might I have the return of my hands, Ben?”
Ben looked down to see that Imogene’s hands were encased in his. He rather liked the way they fit together; then he realized that he had been holding them overlong. “Oh yes, indeed. Are these yours?” He let go with a laugh that sounded a little forced even to his ears.
“Since birth,” Imogene replied with a grin.
Her heightened color was most becoming. “I also have ten toes and … the normal set of appendages.”
“Splendid. I shall share the good news with Ernest.” Though having said so, Ben thought he might not share the holding hands aspect of their conversation. “Not entirely sure why then—”
“It’s my insanity.”
It was Ben’s turn to blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“Yes,” she continued, as if unaware of Ben’s astonishment. “My family believes anyone deeply interested in the arts is not rational … and boring. I think that might be more the crux of the matter. They believe Ernest will tire of my conversation; after all, Father certainly does. He, my father, that is, is all about numbers and business. We have little in common.”
Despite the light tone, Ben was fairly certain that Imogene was stating the hurtful truth. A lack of appreciation for her talents—enviable talents—would explain much.
“Well, I certainly know the value of your artistic abilities … and so does Ernest.” He shrugged, trying to express his understanding and sympathy—a lot to convey with such a small gesture, but it seemed to do the job, for her face brightened.
“Chocolate, miss?”
Both Ben and Imogene started, turning toward the tall, liveried footman who was standing at Imogene’s elbow. He held a polished silver pot in each hand. “Or coffee?”
“Chocolate. Thank you.” She watched as her cup was filled and then waited as coffee was poured into Ben’s cup. “Did you find out about Jasper and the hounds, Greg?”
“Yes, miss, Mr. Sawyer sent Roger to check. The message came back that all was well. Jasper’s hobbling around just fine—and eating as much as ever. As to the hounds: the chickens did not get into the kennels again. The noise was … Well, it seems that a bone had been hung from the rafters just far enough above the dogs’ heads that they could not reach it. That’s what set them off, miss. The terrible racket that you heard.”
“I see. A bone hanging from the rafters. It has been removed?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Excellent. Tell me, Greg, have the Tabards arrived?”
“Yes, miss. They arrived late last evening.”
“Of course. Thank you.” Imogene nodded, and the footman placed the urns on the sideboard and then took a position between the windows, standing stiff and ready to serve if need be. Imogene scrubbed at her forehead.
“Tabards?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” She pulled her hand from her face to reveal a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Yes, the Tabards are the other family that we visit with over the summer. Cousin Clara is no longer with us, but Mr. Tabard and his son, Jake, have arrived. I imagine you will meet them this evening.”
Ben could see she was hesitant to say more. “And…? Does this have something to do with the hounds?”
Imogene shrugged—rather prettily. If Ben hadn’t seen her bite at the corner of her lip just before lifting her shoulders, he would have been convinced of her nonchalance.
“Whenever Jake and Percy get together, they have a tendency to get into mischief. Tying a bone above the heads of the dogs is just the sort of lark they would get up to.”
“Pranks? Always in the suds?”
“Yes, indeed. They make a mull of everything!”
“Hard on a younger sister.”
Imogene’s smile broadened, and it not only reached her eyes but shone through. The transformation was astounding.… And Ben swallowed, entranced.
“I have learned,” she said, “to stay out of the way.”
“A very good strategy.”
“I believe so.”
They stared at each other for several minutes—it was a natural break in the discourse—until Imogene looked to the mantel clock. “Oh my, where has the time gone? I want to get my studio ready before Harriet gets there. I had better put a little hustle on.” The footman was behind her, pulling out her chair, before Ben could even acknowledge the statement. And then she paused. “Are you off to see to the old castle?”
“No, I was there earlier. Mr. Opine had it well in hand and required little of me.” Ben stood, without the footman’s help, and followed her to the hallway. “I thought I might take a closer look at the chimneypieces in the grand saloon; they were impressive. In the classical style—”
“Well, actually, they are reproductions added only five or so years ago. In fact, well … if you are interested … then you might. Yes, a better example you will never find … I think … perhaps.”
She stopped in her tracks, turned, and waited expectantly. Ben puzzled for a moment, reran the dialogue back in his head, and decided that it really didn’t make sense. “I apologize, Miss Imogene, but I am not entirely sure of what you are speaking.”
“Oh … oh. I beg your pardon. We were talking of chimneypieces, and my mind jumped ahead. Dear, dear.” She leaned back momentarily, then lifted her chin and nodded to some unasked question. “Yes. Perhaps the better chimneypiece to see is the one in my studio. It came from the old castle. It is a fine example of typical Elizabethan craftsmanship: embellished columns, pilasters, and engravings. It’s almost a shame that it is hidden away in my studio.”
“Except that you appreciate it—I can see that—and you have the opportunity to show any of us who are greatly interested.”
“Are you?”
Ben stared again—no longer sure if Imogene was being enigmatic or if he was having a problem thinking. His brain seemed to have lost its train of thought. “Am I what?”
Imogene laughed. “Greatly interested?”
Ben stared at pretty Miss Imogene Chively in her soft blue dress that accented her lovely blue eyes and agreed readily. “Most definitely,” he said, no longer sure of the topic. “Very interested.”
* * *
AS THEY MADE their way to the attic level of Gracebridge Manor, Ben made a concerted effort to clear his thoughts and regulate his breathing. He talked of Ernest. There was no sequence to his soliloquy; he began with an anecdote about Ernest’s first pony, threw in a story about a winning hand at a London card party last week, and then mentioned Ernest’s cataloguing abilities whenever their parents sent newly purchased art from Italy. He thought of mentioning Ernest’s interest in Turner but changed his mind—he would let his brother enthrall Imogene with his Turner knowledge—whenever Ernest returned from the lake.
Imogene, not surprisingly, contributed little to the conversation, but when she did, her subject was Emily: her love of dance, her interest in horses, and her affable character. Even the discussion about Italy brought with it a reminder of her best friend, as Imogene’s only comment was that Emily had always wanted to go to Florence.
The stairs narrowed with each ascending staircase as they headed toward the pinnacle of the manor. However, when they entered the room that Imogene called her studio, he was surprised. It was cavernous, in length and height—made all the more impressive by the windows at either end and the skylights worked into the peaks of the dormers at the back of the manor.
This was not the dusty garret he had expected but a wonderful room full of the natural light needed for rendering true color. There were two easels under the skylights, an ornate desk between them, and a scratched table with two spindle-legged chairs in the center. Other than a couple of covered chairs ruined by shattered silk, the room was full of canvases. Some sat on the floor, and many hung in a crowded hodgepodge on the rough walls.
“Your father may not understand your talent, but he has certainly provided you with a haven. This room is amazing—especially this!” Ben made a beeline for the Elizabethan chimneypiece in the center of the far wall.
Imogene snorted a laugh. “This was originally my grandmother’s studio. She had the fireplace moved here—draws far better than the small one that it replaced. Before she passed away, Grandmamma insisted that the room, in its entirety, be mine. She also provided an allowance to purchase any supplies I might need. She knew Father would not support any costs associated with art.”
Ben nodded and sighed in understanding. Turning back to the shallow hearth, he examined, and marveled at, the engravings on the mantel. Though somewhat worn with age, it was a fine example. He ran his fingers across the grooves, noting the depth, assessed the weight ratio of the pilasters, and admired the angle of the chimney to provide a strong draft. After a while, Ben pried his gaze away from the stone and glanced around, focusing on the artistry of the canvases around him.
The paintings were in various states of completion. On closer examination, there was little doubt of two artists. Their styles and subjects were very different. One preferred big sky landscapes—and were often half-finished—while the other offered intimate scenes of plants, vistas of the castle, and various manors. He stopped in front of one painting to admire the architectural details, marveling at the talent and ability to render a mansard roof with such precision.
If only he could do as much—half as much—he would no longer have to worry about Lord Penton. He could sleep through the night secure in his apprenticeship, comfortable with his future—a future that slipped out of his grasp every time Lord Penton suggested that a drawing would serve better than notes. What would the old gentleman do when he discovered that Ben could not draw? What use is an architect who can’t render his designs?
“That’s Shackleford Park,” Imogene said as she came to stand beside him. “Emily’s country home. Newly built—I believe just a decade or so old.”
“It is quite impressive. You can see where the architect has tried to provide balance and function—the mullions, the intricate brickwork … more than a hint of a French chateau. The square towers are perfect foils against the central round entrance. Yes, very impressive.”
“The Beeswangers are very proud. Love to take guests around, pointing out the details. I’m quite certain that they would be more than happy to show it to you. Give you a full tour. We go to Shackleford en masse in a few weeks.… You and Ernest could join us.”
“We could not impose.”
“I doubt it would be an imposition. Though you might wish to be shed of us by then.”
