by Cindy Anstey
It was only fair to judge Ernest as a possible husband when they had more times like these. Sitting quietly together, watching Emily and Ben rock sedately in a lake boat while Percy and Jake swam on the far side and Father, Mr. Beeswanger, and Mr. Tabard stood by the boathouse chatting. Yes, the air fairly wafted with peace and companionship. Lazy summer days … relaxation and calm … days conducive to happy thoughts—
Ernest cleared his throat.
“Please,” Imogene said quickly. “Shall we talk of nonsense? I have just started reading a ghoulish book full of dire warnings and haunt—”
“Imogene, I would like—”
“To speak of other things. Let us not be serious”—she glanced at him under her lashes—“when family is about.”
“It is family that concerns me.… Ben has lost the charity of your father.”
“My father is in and out of charity regularly. That is certainly not cause for concern … or hurry.”
“Imogene—”
“Please,” she said, near to a whisper. But he heard.
“Of course, we will wait if you prefer to.”
Imogene sighed in great relief. “Is it too much to ask?”
Looking down at her, no longer gulping at the air, Ernest smiled. It was a kind, indulgent smile that reached his eyes, and they shone with caring. Her heart skipped a beat, and warmth, not born in embarrassment but something much more agreeable, spread throughout her body. It was a heady sensation, and Imogene grinned.
This was the very reason for delay. This sensation offered the possibility of a happy union: this, and the knowledge that Ernest Steeple was an honorable gentleman with a great capacity for compassion. What more could one need in a spouse?
A scream rent the air, and a great splash broke Imogene’s trancelike state. Jumping to her feet, she ran to the lake’s edge in time to see Emily’s head bob up out of the water. She took a deep breath, stood, and then screamed again, this time in rage.
“How could you? You know I can’t swim.” Charging through the water as best she could, encumbered by her skirts in the waist-deep water, Emily snatched at Jake and Percy—who easily swam to the far side of the overturned boat.
Ben, hatless and equally sodden, grabbed Emily’s arm and said something to her. She spun around. “But look! Just look what they have done!”
“Sorry, old girl. Meant you no harm. Got a burr in my breeches and had to lash out.” Jake’s smirk was not attractive.
If Imogene hadn’t known better, she would have thought Emily near tears.
And really, it was not to be wondered at. Emily’s beautiful white gown was ruined, covered in mud, reeds draped over shoulders, and a lily pad hung from her bonnet. Ben looked no better; though his dark coat hid the dirt, his shirt and cream pantaloons did not. Water dripped from his hair and down his face. He said something to Emily that gave her pause.… And she began to laugh.
Standing together, sharing a joke, ignoring the taunts of Jake and Percy, Ben and Emily rendered the prank toothless—childish and unworthy. Ben offered Emily his arm in an exaggerated gesture, as if they were standing in a ballroom and not in the middle of an artificial lake. With elbows hooked together, Emily removed the lily pad from her bonnet, took hold of her skirts, and sloshed to the water’s edge.
Ernest offered them a hand up the bank while Imogene returned to the blanket. She tossed books, hats, and parasol aside, then she pulled it up off the grass. It could be used as a wrap should Emily be cold. Before Imogene turned back to the lake, her gaze fell on the mothers, who were staring at the commotion.
Mrs. Beeswanger’s expression was excessively bland, while Mother was soundlessly chuckling. “These boys. What will they think of next?”
“That was an expensive gown, Olivia.”
“Oh dear. I do beg your pardon, Diane. I will send Gabriella to look at it—my French maid is a treasure. She will be able to set it to rights, I am certain.”
“Thank you for the offer, but if Kate is unable to recover that dreadful mess, then I will simply have another one made. It won’t be too much of an imposition.” Mrs. Beeswanger glanced at Imogene, winked, and then turned her face back to the lake. “It is such a shame that boys mature so slowly. They can try one’s patience.”
Imogene’s eyes grew wide, expecting her mother to take umbrage in defense of her son, but she said nothing. Imogene turned back to the sodden couple and pretended she had not overheard the caustic remarks.
Emily survived her soaking with little repercussion. Most important, she did not sneeze upon her arrival at the manor and, therefore, was not sent to while away the rest of the day in bed. Percy and Jake, however, did miss the duckling braised in sherry, and Miss Watson’s stirring rendition of Bach’s piano concerto in D Minor that evening. Nothing was said of their absence, and there were no empty place settings at the table. However, there was a slight chill in the air whenever Father addressed Ben … or Mr. Beeswanger, though it was not overt.
* * *
“I APOLOGIZE FOR my father, Ben. Since the burr incident, he has been rather beastly to you. The cold shoulder and all that…”
Ben and Imogene had set up their art lesson in the conservatory the next morning, not to sketch the beautiful calla lilies but the ironwork holding up the glass roof. A table had been repositioned with chairs pulled next to it, and they had set about their sketching with great concentration—well, Ben concentrated; Imogene was as unperturbed as ever when attending her art.
“Father has never been a warm or amenable person. Grandfather Chively was much the same.”
“It is no never mind to me,” Ben said, glancing up at the ceiling and then back to his paper. “The Beeswangers are quite the opposite, going out of their way to make me feel welcome. It is a shame that your father does not enjoy my company when it seems likely that we will be relate—” Ben grimaced at his very near faux pas and redirected the conversation.
He made a slight growl in his throat as the rod he was drawing looked anything but straight. Iron was not known to be inconstant or malleable. Imogene leaned over his shoulder—smelling of roses—and, using her own graphite pencil, redrew the lines in two quick strokes. She made it look so easy. “Thank you,” he grumbled as she sat back. Scratching above his ear in frustration, Ben sighed, and then he traced her lines, trying to understand where he had gone wrong.
“You are doing very well, Ben. Making great progress.”
“That is very kind of you to say so, but the evidence”—he waved at his paper—“says otherwise.”
“Practice makes—”
“Yes, I know. You have said as much before, again and again. I will do as you suggest.… But I wonder if I will ever be good enough—soon enough.”
Silence emanated from the other chair, and Ben looked up to see Imogene shaking her head at him. “Yes?” he asked.
“You must throw away all these doubts; they do not help in the least. You have such an affable manner about you until you start to sketch. Can you not throw away your expectations and simply enjoy the process?”
“Enjoy?”
“Please do not tell me that you have an aversion to drawing.”
Ben shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course not.” When was the last time he actually appreciated this necessity? “Merely an aversion to inept drawing.”
“I would rather you squander paper than have your vexation affect your work. Perhaps it would be best to start again.”
Ben quickly turned his paper over. Recalling Imogene’s lesson on how to measure using the long edge of the graphite pencil, he closed one eye and stared at the ceiling for some minutes. When he began this time, he did so from the center, working his way out.
They sketched in silence, companionable silence, for a quarter hour or so, with Imogene casually looking over to his progress but saying nothing. This time the iron rod looked like the support it was meant to be, and the ridge didn’t veer off in the wrong direction. Another quarter hour and B
en lifted the paper to view it at arm’s length.
“Well. That is nearly, if I do say so myself, nearly recognizable.” He turned for Imogene’s reaction, pleased to see her grin. It was only a small sketch, five or six inches in diameter, but it illustrated the two most important aspects of the ironwork to his way of thinking—the supports and how they were joined. He would worry about the useless curling embellishments later.
“Might your enthusiasm for drawing be returning?”
“I believe it has.” To prove his words true, Ben looked around for another subject. Should he sketch the vent? Perhaps the transom? He decided on the door and set to work. “You have a gift for teaching, my dear Miss Imogene.” His words were imparted with far more warmth than he had intended. Shifting, not so much to see the transom above the door better but to avoid looking at his brother’s ladylove, Ben imagined Imogene to be flying her colors. He regretted bringing her to blush.
He stole a peek, apology on his tongue.… But there it stayed.
There was no doubt of Imogene’s discomfort—she was busy pulling at the leaves of the Ficus benjamina beside her, staring at nothing—but her complexion was not ruddy; her expression was pensive, not embarrassed.
“Imogene?”
“Hmm?”
“Is all well?”
“Yes, indeed. I am merely thinking.”
“I believe that to be evident. Might those thoughts be of a disturbing nature?”
For several minutes the only sounds in the brightly lit conservatory were the scratches of his graphite pencil, birds twittering from nests in the iron rafters, and the wind whistling under the door to the garden—and the rustle of leaves being yanked free and shredded.
“No. Not really. Why do you ask?”
“You are decimating that poor plant.”
“Pardon? I’m…” Looking down, she laughed and shook the detritus from her skirts. “I will blame you if Mrs. Beeswanger complains.”
“Me?”
“Yes, indeed. If you had not complimented me on my teaching ability, I would not have been distracted.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. I am making no sense.”
She turned back to her drawing—a large, beautiful rendering of the conservatory, which included foliage, ironwork, and glass—so well depicted it seemed possible to walk forward into the picture despite the fact that it was black and white—
“I have a most impractical dream.”
“Ah … yes, having to do with your art. A showing in London perhaps? Acclaim? Not to be wondered at, really. You have an amazing talent. Perhaps we can find you a patron. I could speak to Lord Penton.”
Imogene laughed in true amusement; it was a pretty carillon. “Thank you, no. A great fuss would be mortifying. Acclaim? No, indeed. A showing? No, and no again.”
“I am getting the impression that you are less than enthused with the idea of renown. I’m rather astute in these matters. I understand small nuances … such as the word no.”
“Very perceptive.”
“Indeed. So if a showing is not to your taste, what has caused your consternation?”
“Foolishness. A flight of fantasy that is part ridiculous, part delusion, and entirely impossible.”
“All the best dreams are.”
“Oh, Ben, is there no seriousness to you?”
“Absolutely. I seriously dislike green beans.”
Imogene chuckled and shook her head, finding more amusement in the comment than Ben thought warranted. She finally calmed, blinked, and then spoke in a rush. “I dream of having a school one day—an art academy for drawing and painting. I know I am young, inexperienced, and without funds, but dreams are, by their very nature, unattainable. Yes, there, you may laugh now.”
Ben looked up from his sketch with no inclination to comply. “That is a most exemplary dream, Imogene.”
It was … without a doubt. But where did Ernest fit within this dream? Was his brother waiting in the wings for nothing?
chapter 11
In which Ben is inundated with sentiment and doubt
With a deep sigh, Imogene stared at Ben as if trying to read his expression, as if trying to find the barb in his words. They stared at each other for quite some time, until Imogene’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. Then her eyes widened, she blinked again, and she leaned back.
“Please ignore my ramblings. I don’t know why I spoke. Only Emily is aware of this idiocy.” A sudden flush colored her cheeks with crimson, and she looked vastly uncomfortable. “I spoke out of turn. A bad habit of mine.”
With a laugh, edged with resignation, Ben shook his head. “I would never accuse you of speaking out of turn.”
“Be that as it may, I would prefer it not to be bandied about.”
“No bandying, I swear.”
“Not even Ernest.”
Ben’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then he nodded. “As you wish.”
Looking relieved, Imogene smiled her appreciation. “And you? Do you have some terrible secret that should never be exposed?”
About to argue over her definition of a terrible secret, Ben swallowed his retort and followed, instead, down the frivolous path she had taken. “Besides my dislike of green beans? Ah yes, I must confess to a decided lack of appreciation for the latest statue my parents sent from Italy. Carved by a great artist, or so I am told—but the boy is naked, with odd little wings sprouting from his back and a quiver full of arrows. Now really, what is that about?”
A giggle drew their attention to the door leading into the manor. “Cupid. That sounds like Cupid, Mr. Ben.”
“Ah, I think you might be right, Hardly Harriet.” Ben smiled at the young girl and then turned to greet Emily.
“Are you ready?” Emily asked, staying at the door while Harriet skipped over to the table.
“I believe so.” Ben collected his sketches and dropped them into his string-tie folder, pushing them to the center of the table, out of the way. They were not ready for the scrutiny of a twelve-year-old. He glanced at Imogene; she watched him with a half smile and a rather enigmatic expression.
“Scout out our location for tomorrow’s lesson,” she said, lifting her cheeks. Ben could have been mistaken, but it seemed as if her tone had a forlorn quality to it, though he did not know why.
“Yes, indeed. I am sure there will be plenty of choices.”
Emily had promised Ben a lengthy tour of the manor, top to bottom. He was quite looking forward to it. Turning toward Emily, he paused to admire her generous smile and pretty curls. Indeed, there was much to appreciate at Shackleford Park; he would have to thank his brother for the introduction some time. He was beginning to realize that young ladies and an architectural apprentice were not as mutually exclusive as he had once believed.
As he was just about to step across the threshold, Ben looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the charming tableau of two heads together as Imogene started Harriet’s lesson. However, Imogene was not looking at her next student, she was looking at her last.
She was staring at Ben.
Their eyes met and held. The rest of the room, the rest of the world, fell away, and there was nothing and no one to consider—just the two of them staring at each other for an eternity or two. Was it forever or a moment? And then Imogene frowned, breaking the spell.
Ben turned away. Listening to the pounding of his heart, he tried to breathe again and swallowed against the pain in his gut. He gestured Emily ahead because he could find no words to speak. He was a raw bundle of sentiment and doubt.
“Do you want to start in the attics or the cellars?” Emily asked in a perfectly normal tone, as if the world were the same as it had always been.
“Let us start in the cellars,” Ben said in much the same tone, even adding a smile and a wave for her to take the lead.
No one could know. No one could see the horror that crawled underneath his skin, the shout that was building in his chest. Why h
ad this happened?
Ben felt sick as he skipped down the stairs after Emily. He placed her arm in the crook of his elbow, and they started down the hallway. As Emily pointed to this and that, he used a smile and a chuckle to hide his dreadful discovery.
Locked in Imogene’s gaze, Ben had wanted nothing more than to rush across the room, take her into his arms, kiss her until their knees gave way and they tumbled into a pile, and … He could take his thoughts no further in that direction—should take them no further.
Ben had always appreciated young ladies, been drawn to them, and greatly enjoyed their company. But never had he felt such a mixture of euphoria, excitement, and awe. Never before had he wanted to stay in any one person’s company … forever.
This was terrible!
* * *
IMOGENE WAS QUIET most of that afternoon and well into the evening. No one noticed. Not even Emily—she was too busy staring at Ben.
Perhaps Ben was aware, but he stayed away from Imogene and rarely looked in her direction. If Ernest was puzzled by her lackluster conversation, he said nothing to that effect. Instead, he filled in their discourse with recitations of various poems, snippets of several books he had enjoyed, and descriptions of Musson Hall that he recalled with great affection.
Far from being unwelcome, it was the salve Imogene needed. Not only distracting, but also little effort was required of her. It gave her time to find a pigeonhole in her mind into which she could stuff her confused and confusing feelings about Ben. It gave her time to assess the strange expression she had seen on his face.
It was the face of realization.… But of what? Had it anything to do with her? While it made sense—he was staring at her at the time—his thoughts could have gone wandering and hit upon something unsavory. The thought was definitely not of a pleasant nature; Ben had gone rather gray.
The best indication that it might in some way be associated with her was Ben’s unexpected new manner. He no longer looked her in the eye, not even in her direction. Whenever they inadvertently stood near each other, Ben moved away. Twice he made as if to pass her something—her fan when it dropped and then a letter that was being shared with the company—changed his mind, and allowed Ernest to do the job in one instance and Emily in the other.
