by Cindy Anstey
Ben shifted so that he could face Imogene and offered her an amused smile. “Most unlikely.” It was more probable that Ernest would be inordinately pleased to continue the acquaintance, if he knew his brother. Glancing back at the painting, Ben felt the tug of envy again. “Your talent for perspective and detail is remarkable.”
“Thank you—”
“I’m here!” a voice gleefully called from the doorway. “Good day, Mr. Ben.”
“Good day, Hardly Harriet,” he said with a broad grin, pleased when his greeting brought out a smile and giggle from the little girl.
“Funny, I like it when you say it. Emily always sounds—”
“Are those your sketches?” Imogene asked.
Harriet Beeswanger walked deeper into the room and dropped the pile of papers, which she had been hugging to her bodice, on the table. “Yes. I did just as you told me, Imogene. I spent the whole time you were in London drawing. Come see.” Looking up, Harriet nodded at Ben. “And you, too, Mr. Ben.” Searching through the pile, she pulled out a piece of paper—a depiction of a cat-shaped doorstop. “Look. This is my favorite.” She passed it to Imogene with pride.
It was a black-and-white pencil sketch that, though simple, showed definition and shape.
“Well done, Harriet. Your shadows are perfect. Now do you believe me?”
“Yes, I suppose … but when can I use color?”
Imogene laughed in a freer manner than she had as yet within Ben’s hearing, and he quite enjoyed the sound. It was infectious—though Ben refrained from joining the merriment as he did not know the context.
“I started teaching Harriet to draw last summer,” Imogene explained as she smiled down at the girl and then continued leafing through the sketches. “She wanted to paint horses right away, but I told her she needed to start with something less complicated. Pencil sketches, concentrating on shadows to make an object stand out.”
“And I have done it, haven’t I?”
“You have indeed. You have done an exemplary job. I think it is time to work on perspective.”
“Not color … or horses?”
“Not quite yet.”
Harriet sighed but readily pulled out the chair. She sat wiggling with anticipation, her eyes shining.
“And I think it is time for me to leave you two ladies alone.” Ben bowed formally, eliciting another giggle from Harriet and a gentle smile from Imogene. “Thank you for showing me the chimneypiece.”
At the door, he looked back and watched for a moment as the two put their heads together while Imogene explained the next lesson. Drawing what you see, not what you know. Frowning, Ben recalled all the drawing masters that he had had over the years. None had explained the process so simply … or so clearly … as Imogene was doing for Harriet.
He felt a stirring of hope. Was it possible that all he needed was the right teacher? Could Imogene Chively succeed where the others had failed?
As he descended to the first story, Ben considered how he might go about asking for her help. Naturally, spending time in Imogene’s company would require his brother’s agreement first. But that was not the worst of it. He would have to admit his failing to a pretty young lady with a shy smile and a talent that would put all his masters to shame. He would have to swallow his pride and watch the admiration in her pretty blue eyes diminish. The prospect added a touch of the dismals to an otherwise uplifting morning.
chapter 5
In which Ernest steps into the light, metaphorically speaking
Watching Ben leave from the corner of her eye, Imogene sighed in resignation. There was no favoritism—not for Emily, not for herself. From their meeting in the dining room to moments ago, Ben had been affable, a gabster, considerate, and, well, most excellent company. He had stared at her hands overlong and hesitated before leaving, but she had a feeling those were merely the usual lapses of a young man in thought. Percy’s head was regularly in the clouds.
As to Emily … well, her friend might be disappointed that Ben showed only a moderate interest in the anecdotes of her, but it was more likely that she would see his lack of favoritism as a boon or even a challenge. She would not be disheartened; she would flutter her fan with even more panache.
When Emily joined Imogene in her studio just after Harriet had skipped away, Imogene noted that Emily had donned one of her most becoming gowns. The soft teal, multiple collars, and lace-covered décolleté served to bring the eye up to Emily’s face. Her color was high, naturally so, and … yes, she had a matching fan in hand.
“It would seem the gentlemen have disappeared,” Emily said with raised brows.
“You mean Ben, of course,” Imogene said with a smile as she collected the objects Harriet had been tasked to draw. “Did you try the castle?”
“I thought of it.… But I don’t want to appear too bold—as if I am setting my cap at him. I would rather Benjamin come to me.”
Laughing, Imogene removed her painting apron. “You might not see him until dinner, then.”
“I will keep my fan at the ready, just in case.” Emily sashayed across the floor, looked back over her shoulder, and then raised her fan to cover all but her eyes.
“Oh, well done!”
“Thank you.” Emily ruined the mysterious effect by breaking into a grin. “I have been practicing. You’ll have to try it with Ernest.”
Imogene’s smile froze. “Perhaps,” she said as lightly as she could, and then led the way to the stairs.
* * *
IMOGENE SPENT THE rest of the day trying not to think about either of the Steeple boys. She stayed sequestered through the afternoon with the ladies idling on the patio. Emily read, Imogene sketched, the younger girls played a string game, and the mothers gossiped. It was a normal summer day. Even when Jake threw a bucket of water from the window, soaking Pauline, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
And yet, as much as she tried, Imogene could not get either Ernest or Ben out of her mind. It was the height of ridiculousness, for dwelling on the matter didn’t help one iota. She did not know how she felt about Ernest—that could not change until they spent some time together. And as to Ben, she had to discover a way to not find every move he made, every twitch of his brow, or every smile … appealing. It might be simpler to admit a modicum of awareness and attribute it to the possibility of being related—by way of marriage—someday.… Oh dear, that brought her right back to Ernest.
“Where are the gentlemen?” Emily asked in an excessively casual tone partway through the afternoon. She met Imogene’s gaze and grinned. “Shouldn’t they be back from the lake by now?”
Mrs. Beeswanger turned and squinted into the shade where Emily and Imogene were seated. “They have been back for some time, my dears. I believe they are with Mr. Tabard, playing billiards. Jake and Percy have joined them as well.”
Emily frowned. “Really? You would think that they would want to be out of doors on such a fine day.”
“Perhaps they had had enough of the sun and warmth. Gentlemen feel the heat so much more than us ladies.”
Emily huffed and went back to reading.
It was a quiet afternoon.
* * *
THE GAIETY OF the evening impressed Imogene as being entirely false until dinner was complete. Ernest and Ben had indeed met the Tabards, and while Jake was the same age as the Steeple brothers, they had little in common. The conversation at dinner was awkward, a few comments about the winning shots at billiards and the catch of trout that had made its way to the table. Even Ben’s attempt to engage Miss Watson in an intellectual discourse about natural history was strained.
When Emily suggested an impromptu dance, the idea was quickly taken up with relief. The footmen were instructed, and the entire party retired to the music room, where the carpet had been rolled out of the way and the furniture set against the walls.
The elder members of the group collected at the far end of the room, near the open windows, to enjoy the draft and watch and appreciate the
grace and high spirits of their fledglings. Without a word to anyone, Miss Watson sat at the piano and began to play.
It was a somber piece, not at all suited for dancing, but the company smiled politely and then encouraged her to choose something a little more lively. She complied readily enough, and, at last, the room was filled with merriment as eight young people prepared to be frivolous. Though Harriet should have been abed, Mrs. Beeswanger allowed that she might stay up another half hour … or so.
Standing awkwardly beside Ernest, Imogene tried to keep her eyes on Miss Watson but found they kept wandering toward Ben … and Emily. She watched Emily practicing her fan flirting but looked away when he laughed and asked her for a dance. Imogene stared at the floor for some minutes, until she realized that a pair of well-shone hessians was in her field of vision. When she looked up, Ernest smiled.
“Would you care to dance, Imogene?”
Though his words were few, his expression was kind and patient, encouraging a welcome sense of enthusiasm in Imogene. She laid her hand on Ernest’s arm, and he led her to the center of the room. It was just as well that there were only four gamboling couples, as the space would not have accommodated more. Country dances involved skipping the length of the room, switching partners, hopping, and leaping. As it was, there was much bumping and hilarity. Most contact was accidental—though Jake’s tripping over Percy’s foot might have been intentional.
Throughout the evening they changed partners. Ernest proved to be a good dancer, considerate of her toes and not overly chatty as they passed each other. Imogene found this informal manner of dancing far more to her taste than the elegant balls of London, where every move and every partner was scrutinized by the tittle-tattle Ton. Here, those watching wore indulgent expressions and participated in the levity, if at a distance.
It was good to see Mr. Tabard smile, a rarity since the passing of Cousin Clara. Tonight the old gentleman grinned broadly as Jake danced in circles around Emily—perhaps he was remembering the days when Cousin Clara teased about Jake and Emily making a match of it. He clapped out of rhythm, stomping his foot one minute, slapping the other gentlemen on the shoulder the next. His loud guffaw echoed throughout the room.
It was good to hear.
In appearance, Jake favored his mother. Mr. Tabard was a reedy figure with an abundance of shoulder-length hair—gray, of course—and a slight stoop. While his son was short and stocky, with an appealing grin—complete with dimples—and mischief in his eyes. Only when their faces were in repose did the similarities of the two gentlemen emerge: the narrow shape of their faces, large noses, thin lips, and the aspect of melancholy.
Partway through the evening Harriet was sent to bed, with protest, leaving an odd number of dancers. The extra gentleman should have waited until the end of each set to take up a partner, but when his turn came, Percy would have none of that. Cutting across the lines, and generally making a nuisance of himself, Percy managed to tangle the company up so thoroughly that the steps were completely confused, and the parents called for a break.
“For Miss Watson’s sake, if none other,” Mrs. Beeswanger said with a smile. “Perhaps refreshments are a good idea.”
Collapsing into a chair, Imogene was quite glad of the rest; while not particularly tired, she was very thirsty. Not surprisingly, Ernest took the seat next to her. Across the room, Emily joined Ben, with Pauline on his other side. Percy and Jake headed out of doors for a breath of fresh air. Imogene thought their departure had more to do with Percy’s newly acquired tobacco pipe and Mama’s dislike of smoking.
“The country suits you, Miss … Imogene.” Ernest smiled down at her.
Feeling her comfort slip away, Imogene straightened, shifted to the edge of her chair, and stared at a painting on the far wall. “Thank you.” Would that she could think of something further to say … but her tongue did not cooperate.
“Do you enjoy the paintings of Turner?”
“Most certainly.” Imogene nodded.
She could hear a tap-tap sound and turned to see Ernest’s toe bouncing on the floor … as if he was nervous. Looking up, she met his gaze, briefly, and then she dropped her eyes to his waistcoat—a very nice shade of red with crested buttons … dapper. But why was he not talking?
The silence between them continued for some minutes. In the background, Imogene could hear a smattering of Emily’s discussion with Ben and parental murmurs from the far end of the room. However, the lack of conversation with Ernest was proceeding to uncomfortable.
Finally, he spoke.
“I would like to apologize, Imogene. I am a fraud.”
He sounded so serious, and upset, that Imogene lifted her face to puzzle the matter out. “Whatever do you mean? I … beg your pardon … but…”
“I am not who you think me to be.”
Glancing around the room, Imogene met Ben’s gaze; he smiled, nodded, and then returned to his conversation with Emily. She turned back to Ernest. “So you are not Ernest Steeple of Musson House, grandson of Sir Andrew Steeple?” When his expression did not change, she added. “I see. You are, in fact, a vagabond wandering the country—impersonating young gentlemen in order to secure lodging … and a dance.” This time, Imogene was rewarded for her levity.
Ernest Steeple burst into a loud, rich laugh that brought a smile to everyone in the room—curious looks, as well, but she ignored those.
“No, indeed,” Ernest said, catching his breath. “I have been trying so hard to find a subject in which we share an interest that I have represented myself as a gentleman of the arts.”
“But you are not?”
“No, in fact, I am. But not painting. I have little to no knowledge of fine art.… Ben has been trying to educate me ever since I met you.” He took a quick breath. “However, I am interested in literature.”
“You are a poet? Or an essayist?”
Another hearty laugh. “Would that I were. No, I’m afraid it is much worse than that.… I am a reader. Nothing that I like better than quiet days of contemplation and the written word.” He breathed deeply through his nose and then sighed. “I realized that I wasn’t being fair. If we are to know if we suit, I have to be honest. So the truth is now before you. I will no longer maintain the facade of being an art aficionado.” He stared at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting in a quirky—rather appealing—smile. “Please tell me that you have done the same. It will make me feel so much better about my deception.”
Imogene frowned ever so slightly. She was confused. Staring into the eyes of Ernest Steeple, she felt her heart stir; this young gentleman might not be a charmer, as was his brother, but that did not make him any less engaging. It was merely a different sort of charm. Ernest’s allure was not flashy but understated and gentle.
“I have indeed been cutting shams, Ernest.” It was the first time that she had used his name comfortably. “I cannot say if I enjoy the paintings of Turner … as I have seen only one.” Again, Imogene was rewarded for her sauciness by a broad grin. She thought she might enjoy getting to know Ernest, after all. She appreciated his honesty, and his laugh was rather captivating.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Ben stood at the bottom of the main staircase, leaning on the newel post, trying to look casual. Sawyer had walked by several times, eyeing him with speculation, but said nothing. Campbell’s book The British Architect–Volume Two was not providing the distraction he needed as he pulled out his pocket watch every few minutes to check the time. Harriet had come down from her lesson a full quarter hour earlier, and yet there was still no sign of Imogene.
“Steady on,” Ernest said without looking up from his own book. He was relaxing with the historical novel Waverly in the sitting area by the window. The large entrance doubled as a reading room.
“Easy for you to say.… You are not going to expose your darkest secret.”
“No, I did that yesterday.”
“Hardly. Admitting that you know nothing of art doesn’t q
ualify. Perhaps if you had told Imogene that you snore, then that might—”
“I do not snore.” Ernest’s protest was mild. He sighed and continued to read.
“Who snores?”
Ben turned to find Imogene standing on the landing looking down at them with curiosity.
“No one. No one. Just giving Ernest a hard time, is all. Yes indeed, that’s all.”
“Brotherly banter, then?”
“Yes. Indeed.” Ben shifted to stand out of the way—closer to the unlit fireplace, no, a little more toward the hall, yes, there. Perfect. He lifted his chin and realized that Imogene had descended and was now watching him from a distance of a mere six or seven feet.
“Is anything amiss?”
“Yes, I mean, no. Might I have a word with you?” Without allowing her time to decline, Ben gestured to the empty chair opposite Ernest. Once she was seated, Ben lowered himself onto the cushioned window seat between them.
This was the best arrangement. All seats were occupied, discouraging others from joining them and … and he could head for the door if he felt the sudden urge to flee.
“Are you quite all right?” Imogene looked genuinely concerned.
“Not entirely.” Ben shook his head, surprised that this conversation was proving to be so difficult. “Since I was a child … No, that might be going back too far. When Lord Penton took me on…” Scrubbing at his face, Ben pursed his lips for a moment and began again. “I was hoping that I might solicit your help.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t know to what I am referring yet.”
“Indeed not, for you are being rather enigmatic; however, if there is something that I can do that would assist you, then of course you can count on me.”
“Told you,” Ernest said, looking over his book at the two of them.
Imogene sniffed a laugh and turned back to Ben. “Apparently, Ernest told you that would be the case. So perhaps you might now enlighten me about my role.”
Ben smiled back, feeling a modicum of tension drain from his shoulders. “It is a familiar role for you.” He sat up straighter and took a deep breath, preparing to let it all spill out—to get it over with. “Might you be prevailed upon to take on a new art student?”
