by Cindy Anstey
Invited cold reflection … that she would soon be betrothed to his brother and a most welcome sister-in-law. What a happy family they would be. Yes, the Steeples and the Chivelys getting together for Christmases and baptisms. Somehow the thought of baptisms brought a hitch to his calming thoughts, and he forced his mind to other topics, again.
Looking behind him, he saw that Matt’s cart was lagging behind, and he pulled up Lancelot to wait. He heard Ernest do the same but did not look over until he heard his brother clear his throat—as if he were about to broach an uncomfortable subject.
“I was wondering,” Ernest started to say, then paused and started again. “Well, I know it to be an imposition as it is and to ask further is…”
“Spit it out, brother. You are being mysterious, and it does not suit you.”
“I was wondering…”
“You said that already.”
“Yes, but I still don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“I saw that Emily was somewhat taken with you, and I wondered if you felt any affinity toward her, because if you do, that would be wonderful and marvelous and all that. But if you are just being charming—because that is what you do—I was wondering if you wouldn’t. It might cause Imogene a difficulty with Emily—being a friend and all. And I was wondering … I know I asked you to accompany me—and I can’t tell you how very much I appreciate your support and I could not do this with you—but I was wondering if you wouldn’t.”
“That didn’t make any sense whatsoever.”
Ernest looked crestfallen and then laughed. “It didn’t, did it?”
“No.”
Taking a deep breath, Ernest began again, speaking slowly—whether the purpose was to make himself clear or to settle his tumbling thoughts, it was not apparent. “I could not help noticing that Emily is rather taken with you.”
“I noticed that, too. Unlike Imogene, Emily is not shy.”
“Yes, just so. I would not wish Emily to be hurt, not only for her own sake but it would upset Imogene prodigiously. They have been fast friends all their lives.”
“Ah, you want me to be standoffish around Emily.”
“No, not at all. But perhaps a little more guarded. Unless all your tête-à-têtes are your way of getting to know Emily better … that she has imposed on you … that you are interested in her … conversation. Then that would be another matter altogether. Not that I am asking for a confidence, I … I…”
“You … you … are floundering again.”
“Yes.”
Seeing that Matt had caught up to them, Ben pulled Lancelot’s head around and heeled him into a walk. “I will be a little more prudent in my conversations with Emily so that neither she nor anyone else will make any assumptions. Emily is a very amiable and worthy young lady, and I enjoy her company immensely; however, I am not interested in being riveted as yet. Only at the start of my apprenticeship, if you recall.”
Riding alongside, Ernest nodded. “Of course. Though, long betrothals are not uncommon in circumstances such as these.”
“Yes. Well, I shall keep that in mind.”
Ernest sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Don’t get too comfortable, brother of mine. If I am not mistaken, Tishdale is dead ahead … and then on to Shackleford. And you still don’t know how you will propose. Have you considered throwing yourself at her feet and begging?”
“No.”
Ben laughed and continued with his absurd suggestions.
* * *
SHACKLEFORD PARK, TISHDALE, KENT—
LATE JULY 1817
AS EMILY AND IMOGENE meandered through the great rooms of Shackleford Park, Imogene could not help but reflect on how much more there was to impress in this elegant estate than at Gracebridge Manor. The affluence of the Beeswangers was patently obvious: from the quality of their furnishings and tapestries to the number of rooms and the large staff.
When their mothers and Cousin Clara had been school chums, there had been little difference in their social or monetary stature, and while each had married a gentleman, Mr. Beeswanger’s prosperity was decidedly more significant. It was not to be wondered at; Ralph Beeswanger inherited his fortune under the guidance of an exemplary land agent, and that fortune had grown.
Mr. Chively’s success came from an unexpected source: Cousin Clara’s husband, Mr. Tabard. Myles Tabard had inherited an estate weighted by debt. Without knowledge or management skills, Mr. Tabard could not prevent Greytower Hall from slipping further and further into the mire until Imogene’s father stepped in to help. It had not been an altruistic gesture on the part of John Chively. It had been a sensible business arrangement: one that brought both gentlemen success.
In the process, Imogene’s father had discovered a skill for organization, management, and banking; he had found himself a career. There was none more horrified than his wife. Olivia Earlton Chively had not been brought up to support a husband in trade.… But after a few years of prosperity, Imogene’s mother had decided that banking was not unlike being a magistrate or a bishop. The social censure she had felt initially was tempered by large gatherings at the newly acquired London townhouse. And while Lady Scatney and Mrs. Redger might refuse to acknowledge them, Mother was on the best of terms with Mr. and Mrs. Alma, who were well-placed members of the Ton. Such was the complexity of proper society.
“I thought this might make a good study,” Emily said, pointing to the cornice above one of the windows in the dining room.
All of Emily’s suggestions involved rooms in the front of the house near windows. She was watching, as was Imogene, for the arrival of two young gentlemen of the surname Steeple.
“Yes, actually. I think that would do much better than the one in the billiard room. And a corner of the chimneypiece in the library rather than the whole. I’m not sure that Ben is quite up to the entire piece yet.… And we don’t want him frustrated.”
Imogene smiled at Emily to show her appreciation for her friend’s careful consideration of subject matter. It was apparent that she had spent a great deal of time considering Ben’s artistic needs. But Emily had already turned away and was watching the drive again.
“What’s that? Oh yes … I see … I see … Bother. I believe it is one of Papa’s deer. They are always munching on the hosta. Most inconsiderate.” She sighed and turned back to Imogene. “So there we have four projects for Benjamin to sketch.”
“Five, actually, if you include the newel post of the backstairs. Well done. Simple enough but excellent practice—very practical examples of architecture. This is more to his purpose.”
“As to the medallion in the great hall—Oh, horses. Yes, look. A carriage. It’s them. I know it’s them.” Emily made as if to desert the window and rush to the front door, but a movement outside caught her eye. “Oh, Percy has seen them as well. And he’s waving with great enthusiasm. Dear me. He is too pleased. It has to be the Tabards. Only—”
“Jake. Yes, only Jake would get such a greeting from my brother.” Imogene sighed, as did Emily, and they laughed at each other’s foolishness. Imogene watched as Emily turned back to the window to verify that the carriage did indeed disgorge the Tabards.
Sighing again, though silently this time, Imogene observed that the passage of time was a boon for those whose sensibilities had been clouded by unformed emotions. A fortnight had proved to be just the right span of time for her to set her thoughts to rights—to realize that her attraction to Ben was fleeting. It was born from a misinterpretation of his charm. She had been interested in him merely as a result of believing he had been interested in her. When he hadn’t been … interested.
Ben was his own man. Enjoying the company of others … not Imogene in particular. That was as it should be—for Ernest was the gentleman Imogene should consider. And she had. Ernest had so many stellar qualities that Imogene had made a list of them … a list she repeated every time her traitorous thoughts veered towar
d Ben.
Ben Steeple was not for her. Any attachment he formed, if he formed an attachment, would be toward Emily. They were better suited by far, both being in possession of outgoing characters, both enjoying opportunities to laugh, and both finding life an adventure.
Ernest was quiet, as was Imogene. He thought before he spoke, and he was not impulsive. Imogene had even detected a slight shyness in his manner. Yes, they were much more suited to each other. Peas in a pod.
Imogene sighed.
“Oh, look!” Emily fairly shouted. “Two riders and a cart.” Her gaze was focused at the far end of the drive, past the opulent flower beds and the manicured lawn.
Yes, indeed. Two large black horses with tall, broad-shouldered riders were approaching at an easy trot, followed by a pony cart. It would seem that the Steeple brothers had, at last, found their way to Shackleford Park.
Imogene joined Emily in a rush to the door. Though they exited the manor with decorum and grace, of course.
* * *
PULLING HIS HORSE to a stop behind the Tabard carriage, Ben alit and passed the reins to a waiting groom. He was greeting Mr. Tabard when the front door of the manor opened to let loose two excited and squealing girls. Ernest’s horse shied and stepped back. Ernest quickly brought it under control and dropped to the ground, passing his reins as well.
“Hello, ladies.” Ben bowed deeply to Pauline and Hardly Harriet. Their enthusiasm was artless and delightful. Never before had Ben and Ernest been beneficiaries of such a reception. Even at Musson House, where their grandparents were usually pleased by their return, the greetings were unexceptional. “It has been such a long time. Harriet, I believe you have grown.”
“Silly. It’s been only a fortnight.” Harriet grinned her reply. “I haven’t grown a bit.”
“Welcome to Shackleford Park,” a voice drifted from above.
Ben lifted his eyes to find Emily standing regally on the top step, resplendent in a pastel green gown with frilly things along her hem. On her right was an equally lovely Imogene, in mauve, with lace covering her … above her bodice. Both young ladies looked the epitome of sedate modesty, both smiled benignly. Imogene’s smile hinted of reserve, while Emily’s hinted of mischief.
“Thank you,” Ben and Ernest said at the same time, and they all laughed.
Ben turned briefly to see Mr. Tabard looking at him with curiosity, while Percy and Jake simply nodded and took themselves off.
“Come inside,” Emily said grandly. “All has been prepared.” She gestured first to Mr. Tabard and then to Ernest, allowing his brother to follow Imogene. The girls ignored protocol and pushed ahead, giggling all the while.
Ben watched the company enter the manor from where he stood. Just before stepping across the threshold, Imogene turned to look over her shoulder, and she smiled. This was a true smile, an unselfconscious smile—one that offered a continued friendship. One that Ben was very glad to see.
“Benjamin?” Emily queried, likely puzzled by his inattention and lack of movement.
Glancing toward her, Ben realized that he was rather pleased to see Emily, too … and that the use of his full name did not rankle as it had at Gracebridge. And while he was not aware of any acceleration of his heart, Ben thought that his keenness deserved a little exploration. In deference to Ernest, he would not flirt.… But that did not mean he had to ignore Emily’s company. They might suit just fine—and then wouldn’t that be a happy situation? Yes, suddenly Christmases and baptisms held much more appeal.
“Might I stand back for a moment or two? I would like to take in the entire facade of Shackleford Park before entering,” Ben called over his shoulder, even as he stepped around the departing carriage and horses and onto the lawn.
He turned to see that Emily’s smile no longer reached her eyes; the mischief had faded. “Yes, of course,” she said. Grabbing a handful of skirts, she moved toward the front door.
“Would you care to join me?”
Emily’s head snapped around. She paused as if considering and then hopped down the stairs, walking out to where he now stood facing the manor. “Yes, of course,” she repeated quietly. She stared up at him for a moment and then turned toward the manor.
Shackleford Park was without a doubt a beautiful building, and though Ben knew it to be at least a decade in age, the manor could have been mistaken for new. No wear on the stone, no rot in the sills, and no mold on the lower floor. The blue mansard roof sparkled in the sun, and tower caps pointed straight to the sky. The architect had done a masterful job. The effect was understated elegance.
“So…” He waved his hands in the general direction of the east wing—and then the west.
“So?”
“Tell me about Shackleford.” A quick side glance to Emily allowed Ben to offer her encouragement—in the way of a saucy grin. He couldn’t help it; that was the way he grinned. If Ernest had a problem with it, then …
“As you likely know, the manor was built in 1807 by Lord Harold Lestor,” Emily began, and proceeded to explain the ins and outs of Shackleford, adding a few anecdotes from her own childhood memories.
They stayed out of doors, slowly strolling across the front of the building, for some time—at least a quarter hour or so. Emily used words such as gable and pediment to describe the windows and various embellishments. Ben wondered if Emily had known the meaning of those words a fortnight ago, but he was rather flattered that she might have gone to the trouble of studying up on his favorite subject.
It was a very pleasant interlude that did bode well for the visit. And Ben found himself not only anticipating exploring Shackleford but getting to know its occupants as well.
* * *
LOOKING OVER HER SHOULDER, Imogene squinted at the looking glass, trying to see the pearl buttons running down the length of her back. She had managed all but the last few. Now she could neither reach the rest nor see them. Cream on cream. Who thought that a brilliant idea?
“Mama,” she said with a snort into the empty bedroom. And then she huffed, pulled out the vanity chair, and flopped elegantly onto the edge of the seat. It was a beautiful silk gown, with tucks and ribbons, one made for her Season in London and far too grandiose for the country. Still, Mama had insisted. Imogene had to make the right impression.
She could have argued that if she had not already made that impression, Ernest would not be back in their company. Imogene sighed instead.
Mama did not realize that they—she and Ernest—were trying to get to know each other, assessing character, not affluence. Mama thought it the same thing, but it most certainly was not. Imogene wanted to know Ernest’s interests, his pursuits, not how to lead him around on a short leash—whatever that meant.
With another huff, Imogene rested her elbow on the small table and then her head in her hand … and huffed a third time. She could huff as much as she wanted without reproach or queries. She was alone. There was no need to double up in Shackleford Park; there were plenty of rooms, enough to accommodate all the guests and then some. Imogene was installed in a room that had been hers to use every summer for almost ten years—a room that seldom heard huffing. This was a change.
This was a new Imogene, waiting for Kate to help with her dress and put up her hair. This was not the Imogene of a few hours ago, looking forward to an idyllic stay at a country estate, a relaxing visit that included getting to know Ernest Steeple. No. This was a foolish girl, a befogged girl. A young lady with a noodle for a brain. A ninny. A dunderhead. A …
She could call herself names all evening, but nothing could alter the unalterable.
It took a moment—a mere moment—for Imogene to look down on the Steeple brothers and realize that while she thought very highly of Ernest, her foolish, foolish heart had practically thrummed out of her chest when Ben had looked her way.
Ben, not Ernest, had stolen her heart, and she had to get it back. Whether she gave it to Ernest upon its return remained to be seen. First things first: purging Ben.
Could she speak to Mama? Never. Cousin Clara would have known what to do. But … Imogene huffed again. Mrs. Beeswanger … no, Emily’s mother might not be pleased, either.
“That was a big sigh, miss,” Kate said as she closed the door behind her. “I hope it weren’t ’cause I were a bit longer than expected.” She handed Imogene a piece of folded paper. “I’m putting curls around Miss Emily’s face. It’s a little fussy.”
Imogene sat up straight, meeting Kate’s eyes in the mirror. “No. No, indeed.” For a moment, she considered asking Kate, but that would put the maid in an untenable position. Even without using names, it would be obvious to whom she was referring. No, Imogene would have to do this on her own. “I was deep in thought, is all.”
Kate smiled.
It was a knowing smile that made Imogene grit her teeth and look downward for a moment. She focused on the paper in her hand.
“What’s this?” Imogene lifted it so that Kate could see it in the mirror while she finished doing up the buttons.
“Don’t know, miss,” she said, glancing at the paper and then back down at the gown. “Found it under your door. A love note, mayhap?”
Imogene scoffed, flipped it open, saw Ben’s name, and flipped it closed. “Hardly,” she said as casually as one could when one was suddenly out of breath.
Watching Kate’s head nod without looking up, Imogene struggled for calm. Not only had Ben’s name jumped to the fore but also the word love. She would wait to read the note, wait until Kate finished her hair and left to check on Emily’s curls.
