Suitors and Sabotage

by Cindy Anstey

  Waiting.

  Still waiting.

  Why did an upsweep take so long!

  Imogene smiled and thanked Kate for her hard work. She really had done a wonderful—

  There, the door was closed.

  Imogene paced around the room—briefly. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she swallowed several times, breathing deeply. After a moment of trying to steady her nerves, she gave up and flipped the note open, reading it quickly.

  My dearest, dearest Imogene,

  Now that we are reunited, I find it impossible not to express my true feelings. We are so often together, but while walking with Emily, my thoughts are of you—you alone. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

  Benjamin

  Gasping, Imogene hugged the note to her bodice. She stared across the room, not seeing the far wall but his face. Her beloved! Tears of joy threatened to spill, and she swallowed against the excess emotion—exhilarated beyond reason. She could hardly think straight. She wanted to run from the room, shout his name, and fling herself into his arms. The thought sent her heart racing and her knees shaking.

  Giving the note an extra squeeze, Imogene held it up to read again. This time she whispered his beautiful declaration. By the third reading, she grew bold and spoke the words aloud.

  And then she stopped … frowned and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

  Imogene reread the note a fourth time but not out loud, not even a whisper. And as she did, her heart stopped pounding. She no longer gasped for air, and her exhilaration faded into weariness.

  This was not what it seemed; this was not a love note from Ben—or Benjamin. She had seen his distinctive scrawl on the bottom of her letter from Ernest; this handwriting was not in the least similar. There was no sketch anywhere on the paper, and the prose was awkward, as if being made to fit the context. In fact, the words were familiar. And the more Imogene thought about it the more she was incensed; this passage was from Pride and Prejudice—one of her favorite Jane Austen novels.

  How could they? Imogene knew the villains of this horseplay: Percy and Jake, without a doubt. They likely thought this funny. Imagined Imogene running to Ben agog, only to be rebuffed and made ridiculous. Would they watch, waiting to laugh, waiting to mock, waiting to see her brought low?

  Had Percy recognized the expression in her eyes when they had greeted the new arrivals? It mattered not; she would give no satisfaction.

  Folding the note, Imogene tore it in half, then quarters, then eighths. She continued to shred the paper until it was a littered mess at her feet. And then she turned to the looking glass and practiced smiling. But as much as she might try, the anger stayed in her eyes.

  chapter 9

  In which an unremarkable excursion is interrupted by a challenge

  The atmosphere of Shackleford Park was remarkably different from that of Gracebridge Manor. Considering it was merely a backdrop change—like a stage play—and the actors were the same, the change was indeed … um, remarkable.

  Perhaps when Mr. Chively was no longer called upon to impress, to be the best of all possible hosts, he found the ability to put a smile on his face. Or was it the news that Lord Penton was indeed interested in seeing the old castle’s stonework? Mrs. Chively’s affable expression hinted that she preferred playing the cherished guest to that of hostess. Her biting asides to Imogene were fewer and not as sharp.

  Still, if Ben were to note the most significant difference in the transplanting of the company to another country estate, it would be Imogene’s behavior. She was acting rather oddly. It was as if she were angry, seething, in fact, and yet he had not witnessed anything untoward. It was a puzzle. Something must have occurred between their arrival and dinner as she seemed to be just fine—quite pleased, actually—a few hours earlier. Yes, odd.

  Doing his best to stay out of trouble—not too charming with Emily, pleasant to the governess, and engaging with the young gentlemen—Ben found his eyes settling on Imogene, finding her behind every chair, within any group, or imitating a statue by the window. And every time their eyes met, they blazed, as if he had caused the affront.… And he was fairly certain that he had not. It was rather disquieting.

  When the party finally went in to dinner—and what a spectacular dining room it was—Imogene was seated far enough away that Ben could ignore his concern and dedicate his conversation to Pauline and Mrs. Chively. It was not stunning dialogue. Something about shoe roses preoccupied Pauline, and Mrs. Chively thought the Jessons might visit Gracebridge in the autumn … whoever they might be.

  However, despite being two seats down on the other side of the table, Imogene mentioned him several times in her conversation with Ernest. Ben couldn’t help but notice … his ears perking up like a dog’s whenever she named him.

  “Really? Ben doesn’t like green beans? How odd. Who doesn’t like green beans?” she said as Ben pushed the limp green vegetable to the side of his plate. “But I suppose he could be forgiven; it is an inconsequential flaw.” She sounded almost disappointed.

  Several minutes later, Ben’s name entered the discussion again.

  “So Ben has never read Jane Austen. Excellent. Very good to know. I thought as much.” Ernest assured her that though his brother was practically illiterate, Ernest had enjoyed every word of … some novel Ben had never heard of.

  And then later: “Wednesday. That’s a shame; Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” Imogene had said when Ernest had laughingly declared what day of the week Ben had been born on. Ben had been chuckling with Pauline at the time.

  Yes, it was all rather … odd.

  Ben would get to the bottom of this in the morning. While naught had been said—too many ears, listeners, people about—there was an unexpressed agreement that the two couples would meet to break their fast and begin the art lessons anew.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY saw Ben and Ernest lingering in the morning room, coffee cooling at their elbows. By the time all the gentlemen—except Mr. Tabard—had set off on their various pursuits, Emily and Imogene entered the room ahead of the other ladies, who were still keeping town hours. Breakfast was a quiet meal, as all four were exceptionally aware of Mr. Tabard.

  Looking over his paper, Mr. Tabard appeared to be well aware of them, too, and the studied silence. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked with a slight frown. “I assure you it was quite unintentional. Clara was always getting after me for my absentminded ways.… What did I do?”

  “No, no, Mr. Tabard. All is well,” Imogene said.

  “I will admit to finishing the last of the toast.… But I’m sure you can ring for more.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Emily nodded and then lapsed into silence again.

  Mr. Tabard looked from one face to another. “I can vacate the room if you like?” he said eventually. He tucked a long strand of gray hair behind his ear and returned his eyes to his newspaper. Clearly, the offer was not heartfelt.

  “No, no, Mr. Tabard.” Emily chuckled without humor. “We are all but done. And I wish to show Benjamin the cornice in the dining room.”

  “Didn’t he see it yesterday?” he asked without looking up.

  “Indeed,” Ben interjected. “I need a closer look.”

  They left the old gentleman lost in the latest issue of The London Times.

  Closing the tall door to the dining room, art supplies waiting on the corner of the table, Ben rounded on Imogene.

  But Emily was faster. “What is amiss, Imogene?”

  Imogene lifted her brows and stared wide-eyed from Emily to Ben to Ernest and returned to Emily. All stared back. Slowly a flush crawled up her cheeks until Imogene’s entire face resembled a beet. “Naught. Why do you ask?” She swallowed with some difficulty and turned her eyes to the window.

  “You are not acting yourself, Imogene.” Emily approached, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “You would no
t say last night, and it kept me awake a full five minutes, tossing and turning. Has something happened?”

  Imogene tittered awkwardly, turning back to the company. There was a sharp edge to the sound, but the storm in her eyes had disappeared. She offered Emily a weak smile, the blush fading. “I apologize. I was the brunt of more buffoonery, and it took longer for me to calm down than it ought to have.”

  “Percy and Jake?” Emily asked.

  Imogene nodded.

  “What did they do?” Ernest looked as angry as Ben had ever seen him.

  Imogene shook her head. “Nothing damaging. Mockery. The folly is now mine, for holding on to the annoyance for so long. I am certain they are off on another lark, having forgotten all about it. I have long since learned not to react; it only urges them on.”

  “You did react,” Emily said, correcting.

  “Not to Percy and Jake. They enjoy melodrama. They were likely hoping for a scene.” Again, she looked from face to face, this time with a bashful smile. “Only my nearest and dearest noticed.”

  Simple words, but they did the job, for Ben was fairly certain they were meant to ease the tension in the room. Ernest grinned, Emily nodded, and Ben … well, he was a little too pleased to be included in this select group. He also tried not to notice that Imogene had given two young men of a short acquaintance—not her parents—that distinction.

  * * *

  WHILE IT WOULD seem the day started out poorly, it did not progress in the same manner. The morning was spent as Imogene preferred: art lessons for Ben, art lessons for Harriet. Both were coming along, though not with any speed. It was a pace that Ben found frustrating no matter how much Imogene repeated that practice and time were the only roads to success.

  After luncheon, a walk in the park was suggested. Emily wanted to show off the extensive grounds of Shackleford, which included an artificial lake. Imogene had made the mistake of calling it a pond one time and had been rather firmly corrected. Surprising vistas and delightful alcoves had been planned to offer a changing tableau for those wandering the acreage, as well as a boathouse and a folly for exploration. It would take many hours to meander through the wondrous creation in the tradition of Capability Brown—landscape designer extraordinaire.

  The weather was obligingly benign—no oppressive heat, no dark clouds, and no howling wind—only a gentle breeze fluttering everyone’s hair while starlings wheeled overhead. Quite romantic, in a crowded sort of way. The entire younger generation, all eight, had decided the excursion worthy of their time … even, to Imogene’s great displeasure, Percy and Jake.

  “Look at the ducks,” Pauline called loudly, as if she had not seen ducks before. Watching Ben, she gestured, somewhat needlessly, at the lake.

  They were wandering as a collective—no couples, just an ever-changing arrangement, stopping and starting and surging as they circled the lake, climbing over hill and dale with delicate steps. The only constant was the twirling of lacy parasols protecting the young ladies from the sun.

  Although Jake borrowed Emily’s parasol briefly so that he might sashay across their path, simpering and squealing in a scornful parody of womanhood. Ben retrieved it for her with a polite but stern request. Jake had not appreciated his tone and said as much, but he relinquished the parasol nonetheless.

  Imogene hid her smile with a quick glance to her right, only to encounter Ernest’s steady gaze. They grinned at each other with approval and camaraderie—aware of the true nature of Ben’s derisive tone.

  Jake, in his frustration, grabbed a stick from the ground and swung it fiercely at the grass. Seeing him as an immature pup and not a young gentleman of nineteen, Imogene shook her head at his behavior and then blinked. For a moment, only a moment, Jake’s face had gone into repose, and a terrible sorrow had sculpted his features. It was so profound that she had to swallow against the sudden tightness in her throat.

  It was a reminder. Jake’s need to hurt others was brought on by his own ache—his own pain. No excuse, but an explanation. Poor Jake. This was his first summer without the calming presence of his mother. How terribly he must miss her; they all did, but none more so than Jake and Mr. Tabard.

  Glancing again at Ernest, she saw him frown. He was aware that something had changed but knew not what or why. Imogene shook her head ever so slightly. “Later,” she said quietly. She was no longer angry.

  The rest of the outing might have been a pleasant but unremarkable affair had the conversation not veered toward horses—in particular the ones on which the Steeples had arrived. Harriet had been very impressed with Ben’s black thoroughbred.

  “Lancelot, a noble name for a noble beast,” Ben said with no little pride. “A steadier ride you will not find, or a better jumper.” By now they had circled the lake, and he paused to look up at the manor from a distance.

  “Except, perhaps, Arthur,” Ernest added, stopping beside him, “who is from the same mare. They look alike but for the star.”

  The company joined the brothers staring across the lawn, though Imogene was fairly certain that the girls had no idea why the procession had come to a standstill.

  “Not a match for Honor,” Percy argued, citing his chestnut Oldenburg with white socks.

  “Shall we test it?” Jake asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief again. “A race. A country race.”

  “No, I don’t think that is—” Imogene started to say, but her protest was lost in the enthusiasm of the moment as all four young men decided it was just the thing. Even Hardly Harriet was excited, not realizing—one would hope—the dangers of riding pell-mell over gates, stiles, and hedge groves.

  Within moments, Imogene and Emily were left alone, staring not at the manor but at the backs of the young gentlemen rushing up the hill toward the stables, and two young girls trailing after them.

  “This does not seem wise,” Emily said with a sigh.

  “Certainly not when Ernest and Ben are on edge with Percy and Jake as it is. I expect some posturing and a fair amount of one-upmanship.”

  “Indeed.” Emily sighed again. “A recipe for disaster.”

  Fortunately, the Beeswangers got wind of the young men’s intent and suggested a delay. After all, it was too close to dinner, and Cook could not hold off the buttered crab, which was always a favorite; the race was postponed. Stomachs trumped sport … but only until the next afternoon.

  * * *

  BEN ENJOYED RACING. And in this case, there was no doubt of a win. Ben merely needed to decide by what degree he should trounce Percy and Jake. If he had any competition in this race, it would be his brother.… For in truth, Lancelot and Arthur were not only from the same stock but also the same trainer. There was little between them—and Ernest had as good a seat as he.

  While itching to prove his prowess and start the day with a healthy workout, there was a delay … again. Imogene and Emily had to set a course. There was no need for their fussing. It wasn’t as if Ben and Ernest were wet behind the ears—country races were part and parcel to a proper gentleman’s upbringing—but Ernest was courting and trying to impress. So they acquiesced.

  As Ben sketched a corner of the library’s chimneypiece, Imogene and Emily discussed the race route. And then, while Imogene was giving Harriet her lessons, Emily took Ernest and Ben around in her barouche, showing them the ins and outs and roundabouts of the chosen route. It was tedium in the extreme.… But he smiled, and Ernest smiled. Percy and Jake shook their heads and declared they knew the route, which they probably did—giving them the advantage.

  At last, when Imogene and Emily could interfere no more, the four excited horses were brought out of the stables and walked to the edge of the cobblestones. The Chivelys, Beeswangers, and Mr. Tabard had taken up position in the west wing conservatory, whence they could see the side of the stables. Harriet had a red flag in hand; she would shout the start.

  The first part of the course would take them down the hill toward the lake, veering off at the bottom onto a country lane, across a
narrow bridge, then curve to the left, over a gate … sharp turn to the right, or was it left, too … hmm. It was a little hard to recall the middle of the race, but Ben was certain he would recognize it when he got there. Fairly certain. Perhaps the markers hadn’t been a waste of time after all.

  Ben pulled himself atop Lancelot as the horse danced away from the groom, affected by the high spirits of those around him. The atmosphere was carnivalesque and Ben thought that the habit of country visits was not such a mundane enterprise after all.

  And then Harriet dropped her flag. “Go!” she shouted.

  All four riders heeled their horses into a gallop. All four surged forward, finding purchase on the edge of the cobbled yard. In a clump, they raced for the bottom of the hill—Jake and Ernest between Ben and Percy.

  Caught up in the excitement, the horses, like their riders, reveled in the speed—the exhilaration of competition. As they turned onto the smaller lane, Ben pushed ahead with Percy, squeezing the other two behind—but only by a length.

  Thundering toward the bridge, Ben realized that Percy was trying to force Lancelot into the water. With a laugh, Ben took Lancelot splashing through the brook and up the bank. He had almost caught back up when Ernest barreled past him.

  Ben was incensed; he was in third place!

  Up and over the first gate, he watched Ernest catch and then pass Percy. As the lane widened, Ben was hard on Percy’s heels, and from the sounds of it, Jake was hard on Ben’s heels. It was still anyone’s race.

  In a burst of speed, Ben took the next gate ahead of Percy and Ernest, placing him in front. He patted Lancelot’s broad neck and stared down the lane, looking for the markers. Sure enough, there was one on the right. He would have to slow down to make the sharp turn.

  Percy had a different strategy. Racing past—too fast to make the upcoming turn—he left the road early. Percy took Honor over the hedge at a full gallop, raced across the field and then up and over the hedge on the other side. Cutting the corner. A country race was about finishing, not the exact route.