by Cindy Anstey
“Gladly. Teaching is a pleasure.”
“Excellent. Then might I ask you to teach me to draw?” Ben held his breath. He stared at her, waiting for Imogene’s eyes to cloud over, censure to change her expression, ridicule … mockery …
“Of course.”
Ben blinked, certain it could not be that easy. “I want nothing more in life than to be an architect. But one has to have some ability to render if one is to be a success.”
“Of course.”
Ben frowned at her smile and continued to explain. “When Lord Penton took me on, I was not entirely honest. I indicated to him that I had some talent.”
“You out-and-out lied, Ben,” Ernest said unhelpfully.
“Yes, well, there might have been a little prevarication.” Ben glared at his brother, who glared back in silence. “Fine. I offered a bouncer.”
Ernest lifted his brow at Imogene. “He lied.”
Imogene nodded and then turned back to stare at Ben, considering for some minutes.
As expected, her expression began to change. But not in the direction that Ben anticipated—not censure but calculation, not ridicule but understanding, not mockery but concern.
“It will take a considerable amount of practice,” she said at last. “I can help you in the time we have, but, Ben, you will not be able to create a masterpiece in a day … or a week … or even by the end of the summer, for that matter.”
“I don’t need to create a masterpiece—not this year, at least. I need to be able to sketch various elements of a building. Small pieces. A cornerstone. A cornice. A sill or a doorway. Up until now, I have written out descriptions.… And Lord Penton has noticed.”
“Ben’s previous drawing teachers were talented in landscapes, seascapes … you know, vistas. They did not—could not—concentrate on architectural details,” Ernest explained.
Imogene smiled. It was a beautiful sight, offering hope. “My forte.”
“Exactly,” Ernest and Ben said together.
“And you would prefer word not get back to Lord Penton.”
“Exactly … or at least not get back to him until I can demonstrate some skill. Not a secret per se…”
Imogene’s gaze shifted to the window behind him. “It would be too apparent were you to join Harriet.… But I often sketch at the old castle.… And you were asked to oversee the repairs. Yes, that might suit.” She turned to Ernest. “Would you care to join us?”
“If you don’t mind. I will bring my book and not disturb you.”
Ben watched as Imogene smiled shyly at Ernest and felt a twinge of the oddest sensation. Had he not known better, he might have called it jealousy.
* * *
THE AFTERNOON PROVED IDYLLIC. There were just enough clouds to offer interesting shadows; it was not too hot to make them uncomfortable but hot enough to discourage flies. The scent of flowers wafted on the breeze, and the elm offered shade and cover. Hence, no distractions—save one.
Jasper.
Ben had arrived first at the rendezvous point on the hill overlooking the castle, waiting anxiously. Now that the worst was over, in regard to revealing his lack of talent, Ben could concentrate on the process … and worry instead about whether he would ever be able to draw adequately. Imogene had joined him shortly thereafter with paper and graphite pencils.
They were discussing Ben’s first subject when Ernest arrived with Jasper. It was a masterful stroke. Imogene was quite distracted—completely forgetting to be uncomfortable in his presence. In fact, she was so pleased to see that Jasper was improving—if somewhat less bouncy—that she treated Ernest as if he had had something to do with Jasper’s recovery, when, in fact, all he had done was release the dog from his compound and lead him to Imogene. Ernest had done just as Ben had suggested—found a way to look heroic in Imogene’s eyes.
It was most irritating.
“But it’s just a rock.” Ben looked at the gray form that Imogene had placed in front of him.
“You have to start somewhere. And I need to know what you can do.” She widened her eyes and pointed, looking quite owlish. “Draw!”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Draw!”
Ben grumbled under his breath but set to work.
At first, the indistinct mass looked entirely like a nameless shape … until Imogene showed him that one side of the rock was pointed, that there was a shadow in the sun’s lee, and that it was rough on top. The more she pointed out, the more the shape became a rock, and Ben started to understand why Imogene kept saying, “See, don’t look.”
He had no idea how long they sat under the tree focused on the bloody rock, but when he eventually lifted his head, Ernest and Jasper were asleep, both snoring softly. Imogene, however, stared at him with a gentle smile—though he did not understand why.
He frowned his question.
Wordlessly, she lifted his paper from his knee and held it up.
There it was—a rock. The drawing would not win any awards, but without a doubt a rock in shape and definition.
“Success,” he said, causing Ernest to stir and mumble in his sleep. “Success,” he said again, this time in a whisper.
“Yes.” Imogene looked proud.
And then he frowned. It had taken him hours and a lot of intervention from his teacher to draw a simple object. A simple, irregular object. Nothing even remotely as complex as a cornice, let alone as intricate as the chimneypiece in Imogene’s studio. He sighed.
“This is going to take a long time.”
Imogene’s smile faded slightly until it took on a wistful appearance. “I’m afraid so.”
* * *
STANDING THE SKETCH against the glass above the window seat in his bedroom, Ben stood back to stare at it. He was pleased, too much so. Really … it was just a rock.
“Lovely, sir,” Matt said, entering the room. He had Ben’s evening waistcoat and fresh neck-cloth in hand. “A bird, right?”
Incensed, Ben whirled around to see the amusement in Matt’s eyes. “No, indeed,” Ben replied loftily. “It’s a glen, with children playing in the grass. Here we have a little boy”—he pointed at the rock’s shadow—“teasing his sisters while a horse runs through the background. It’s all symbolic.”
“Symbolic for a bag of moonshine?” Matt asked, trying to maintain a serious expression—with little success. He placed his load carefully on the bed and then opened the wardrobe door. “Do you wish to change your watch this evening? Perhaps the silver fob—” He lifted a chain out of the small box that housed Ben’s pocket watches, fobs, and rings, but it caught on the edge and tumbled from his grasp. Bending to pick it up, Matt said with a muffled voice, “What’s this?” He rummaged behind the leg of the wardrobe. He stood and then glanced over his shoulder at Ben.
Ben met his quizzical gaze. “Is something amiss?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Though I am surprised that you are in possession of a lady’s necklace.” Matt turned with the silver fob in one hand, a topaz necklace in the other.
Recognizing it as the one that Imogene wore on the evening of their arrival, Ben stepped forward, taking it gingerly. “Odd. It belongs to Miss Imogene.” He frowned down at the pendant, trying to understand how it came to be in his room. And why.
“To say the least, sir.”
Ben looked up. “Pardon?”
“Odd. And dangerous.”
Ben snorted and then realized that Matt was in earnest.
“Why would you say dangerous?”
“If the housemaid found it here … in your room, where it has no business … it would look like thievery. Or that Miss Imogene … well, you know … visited.”
“Matt!”
“Exactly so, sir. You now understand my concern.”
“Indeed.” He continued to stare at it for some minutes. Then he shifted closer to his evening coat, which hung over the desk chair, and dropped the necklace into the pocket. “I’ll give it back to Miss Imogene this evening.” He want
ed it out of his possession as soon as possible.
Matt nodded and turned back toward the wardrobe, but not before Ben saw that the valet’s frown had deepened.
“This will not fall on you. I will make sure of that.” Ben watched Matt nod, though the man did not turn around. “I suspect this is yet another lark by a couple of mischief makers. They are likely unaware of the repercussions. Tomfoolery is all.”
Despite his words, Ben was certain the two troublemakers he had in mind would know exactly what the accusation of thievery would do to Ben’s reputation. He would be asked to leave forthwith, and likely Ernest would be given the boot as well. This was not the work of a couple of rascals—this was spiteful.
chapter 6
In which the words “dreadful” and “secret” are bandied about
“You are so very clever, Imogene. That will do very nicely. Pending parental approval, of course, but it will certainly do the trick. Especially since we have been forbidden to cross the bridge to the old castle until the work is complete. Clever, clever girl.”
Imogene shifted her gaze from her own reflection in the looking glass to that of Emily, who was standing behind her. “Clever?” Imogene laughed. “Not the usual description of my character.”
“Only by those who know you not. I would never omit such an obvious trait.”
Kate’s grin and nod brought Imogene’s eyes back to the maid, who was combing out her hair, preparing to twist it into an upsweep. Imogene watched Kate work out the tangle of knots formed during a restless night of tossing and turning.
“Well, I have yet to put the idea to the boys. It might not be to their liking … or other plans might have been made.”
“Last night, I believe I overheard your father suggest a visit to the oast house. He seemed to think Ernest would be interested in the process of drying hops. I did not discern any enthusiasm.”
“Oh dear. I’m sure a picnic by the abbey will be more to his taste … their taste. Especially since the weather is being so obliging. Ben can examine the ruins and Ernest can—”
“Make calf-eyes at you without any interference.”
“Really, Emily, I am nervous enough in his presence without—Oh.” Imogene frowned on recollection of the previous evening: the easy manner of their conversation about Sir Walter Scott, his rich laugh when Pauline suggested that he try his hand at playing the bagpipes, and the way in which he included Harriet in their discourse. “Strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“Hmm? Oh, I beg your pardon. I just realized that I am far more comfortable with both the Steeple boys than I ever would suppose after such a short acquaintance.”
“I think everyone noticed.”
There was an edge to Emily’s comment that Imogene didn’t quite understand. “Did they?”
“If I didn’t know you better, I would think that you were trifling with Benjamin as well as Ernest.”
“Oh, Emily, that is nonsense.”
“Yes. I know it is.… But something was going on, Imogene. Benjamin kept looking at you, trying to get your attention. And then, after dinner, he sat next to you … and passed you something.”
Imogene sighed deeply. “Yes. I’m not really sure what to do about that. Percy and Jake have been up to their usual tricks, but this cuts a little too close to the bone. Ben found my topaz necklace in his room. I didn’t even know it had gone astray until he handed it to me.”
“Wonderful! I knew you wouldn’t flirt.… I mean, that’s terrible!”
“I quite agree. Father would not have looked favorably on Ben at all had he known of it. Would have assumed the worst and had Sawyer see him to the door. It would have been a horrid scene.” Shifting her gaze back to her friend, Imogene noted Emily’s tight lips. “I can talk to Percy, but there is no reasoning with Jake. He’s much worse since…”
“Since Cousin Clara died. Yes, there is a nasty look in his eye these days. As if he is greatly irritated by the entire world. Should I speak to Mr. Tabard?” Emily asked. “Although, I’m not certain the old gentleman is quite right yet, either.”
“I’ll try my brother first.”
“It will do no good. He listens only to your father.”
“Too true.” Imogene met Kate’s eyes in the looking glass as she sighed. “Idle young men, Kate, a breed unto themselves.”
“Too true.” Kate nodded solemnly.
The morning proceeded much as expected. Despite asking Sawyer and Greg, and sending Roger to the stables, neither Percy nor Jake was located, and Imogene was forced to defer her discussion about the topaz necklace until later. However, Ernest and Ben were far less elusive. They were sitting in the dining room, noses in the newspaper and coffee at their elbows. It was almost as if they had been waiting for Imogene and Emily to break their fast.
“Mr. Chively had a dispatch from the bank earlier this morning,” Ernest said as he folded The Times and set it aside. “It will tie him up for a good part of the day.” This was not said with any inflection of disappointment.
“Oh, that is unfortunate,” Emily said with a big smile turned toward Ben, who was peeking over his newspaper. “It will be up to us to keep you busy, then. And it just so happens that we have a splendid idea.”
Little convincing was required. Ernest and Ben were kindly disposed toward the idea of setting out on a picnic after Harriet’s lesson. Carden Abbey, it was agreed, would make a splendid destination; the Beeswanger landau was chosen as the vehicle to take them the four miles past the village; and Emily offered to arrange the baskets while Imogene was busy in her studio. It was implied, though not stated, that in seeking the use of the family carriage, Emily would also obtain the necessary parental approval. One set of parents would do. Emily would avoid Imogene’s mother and father; they were seldom amenable to anything they had not conceived.
* * *
THE FOUR SET off on their adventure just after the strike of twelve. Mr. Fowler needed little in the way of direction. He had been coachman for the Beeswangers for some years and knew the roads around Fotheringham well. Two large baskets of foodstuffs—along with a smaller one for Mr. Fowler—were strapped to the back, as well as a satchel of art supplies.
As they rolled along, Imogene rehearsed various scenarios in her mind of how she and Ben might continue their drawing lessons unbeknownst to Emily. Most involved subterfuge or misdirection, but all leaned heavily on prevarication. She and Emily had shared confidences since childhood, and not doing so now felt wrong. Still, it was not her confidence to reveal. However, all her anxiety proved to be pointless—as most anxiety usually does.
With the boys facing the girls and the carriage hoods folded back so they might all enjoy the cooling breeze, conversation was, at first, very general. They discussed the abbey’s history, the various shops in Fotheringham, and the conviviality of the day. Then Ben took the bull by the horns.
“Now that we have you away from the house, Emily, we must swear you to secrecy.” Ben’s tone was light, almost playful.
Imogene wondered if he was going to mention something other than his inability to draw. Gone was yesterday’s discomfort—hardly any hesitance.
As expected, Emily looked puzzled. She turned toward Imogene, an unspoken question in her eyes. Imogene smiled wanly and looked back at Ben, waiting.
“Our picnic is going to include drawing lessons.”
“Oh.” Emily’s expression was less than pleased.
“Indeed,” Ben continued. “My skills are not what I would like them to be. Imogene has offered to help.”
“Goodness.” Emily laughed a sigh. “Such a relief. I thought for a moment that you were going to suggest that we all participate. I must assure you, I have no talent, no talent at all.” She looked over at Imogene, touched her arm, and then turned back to Ben. “What is the secret? I will swear.… But I must know what it is about before I do so.”
Ben laughed. “That was it, Miss Emily. The secret is that Imogene is to be my teacher.”
<
br /> Emily shook her head and shrugged at the same time. She was clearly confused. “So it is no great secret, then.”
Ben laughed again. “Apparently not.”
With a sigh of her own relief, Imogene nodded. It was evident that Emily did not understand the significance of an apprentice architect not being able to draw.… And Imogene was not going to enlighten her. But the path was now clear—the lessons could continue with impunity.
* * *
“YES, THAT’S VERY NICE.” Emily leaned across the blanket for a closer look at Ben’s sketch, bringing her shoulder in contact with Ben’s. She tapped her fan on his paper, hummed her approval, and then turned her head to look up at him. Their faces were mere inches apart. “Beautiful,” she said, taking a deep breath, trying to look up at him through her lashes.
Flirtation at its finest.
Imogene wondered if she should take notes.
“Thank you. Almost done.” Ben shifted the paper out from under Emily’s fan. He continued to frown, adding an additional line here and there. “Imogene, there is a problem. The edge is not clear, and the ivy … well, it looks more like…”
“Cracks.” Emily nodded, unaware of the insult.
Ben cleared his throat. “Yes, apparently the ivy looks like cracks.”
“But very nice cracks,” Emily clarified.
“Indeed. My ivy has the appearance of very nice cracks.” He gave Imogene a long-suffering look.
Imogene chuckled, setting her own sketch aside and leaning across from the other direction—without touching Ben’s shoulder or batting her eyelashes.
They were lounging in the shadowed grass next to what used to be the chapter house of Carden Abbey. It was a ruin now, abandoned during the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the sixteenth century. Many of the stones had been carted away over the years until all that remained were the arches of the cathedral and parts of the monks’ meeting room.
Ben was attempting to draw one corner of the room. Ivy had grown up and over the half wall, creating a lovely tableau that had appealed to Ben immediately. Imogene had suggested something simpler or even a portion of the wall; that would be more in keeping with his present skill level … but—well …
