by Cindy Anstey
“You do not have to play the host to us, Jake. We will entertain ourselves as we usually do and then meet you at dinner.”
“Would that I could, Emily, old girl, but I’m afraid that I have been instructed to see you happy.”
“I would be happy to be left alone.”
“That won’t work. Perhaps I can take you on a tour of the Hall?”
“Why would you do that?”
“For some reason, Father thought you were interested in architecture.”
Imogene laughed and shared a significant look with Emily.
“I appreciate the offer, but no.” Emily pushed away from the table, glancing out the front window as she did.
Imogene followed her puzzled gaze down the long, tree-lined drive. Two riders were approaching, followed by a cart. They looked very familiar. Imogene gulped, her belly clenched with excitement, and she found it suddenly difficult to breathe. Could it be? No. They weren’t invited … were they?
“Hold on. What’s this?” Jake joined the stare out the window. “It looks like Ernest and Ben. What are they doing here?”
“Father invited them,” Percy said airily.
“Pardon?” Jake whirled around and faced his friend.
Percy shrugged. “Yes. I overheard him talking to Mother about it. He sent an invitation a few days ago. And…” He jerked his head toward the window. “Apparently they accepted.”
chapter 12
In which there are missteps, missed cues, muddles, and mayhem
Stormy skies and a chill breeze provided the appropriate backdrop to Ben and Ernest’s reception at Greytower Hall. It certainly did not compare favorably with that of Gracebridge or Shackleford. No members of the family waited by the front door, the grooms were slow to arrive, and a rather frosty butler ushered them into the entrance hall with a sniff of disapproval.
Ben had warned Ernest that the invitation to join the company at Greytower Hall had come from the wrong party—that Mr. Chively had overstepped when he extended an invitation to the Tabards’ manor. It was high-handed and suspect. The only motive could be that of allowing Ernest the opportunity to propose to Imogene. Mr. Chively was manipulating once again.
Ernest had countered that it was not uncommon for families as close as the Chivelys and Tabards to add other guests to a country visit without the host making a personal solicitation. And while true enough in general, Ben was fairly certain such was not the case here.
Ben had also argued against the idea of hopping into the saddle and heading west once again. He knew that Imogene had asked for a delay and thought it ill-advised for Ernest to hover at her elbow … waiting and watching. It was likely to make her nervous; it would make anyone nervous. And thereby do more damage. Ben thought a month or so of eloquent letters would have done his brother greater service—but Ernest would not listen. He had to see her, be with her, look into her lovely eyes, and bask in her smile.
It all made Ben quite green, and he refused to join Ernest in his folly.
There was nothing his brother could say that would entice Ben back into Imogene’s presence … though he had not worded it quite that way. Bored. Tired of gadding about. Needed to focus on his art. Spend more time at Musson House before returning to Canterbury. He thought up an overabundance of excuses. Ernest shot each and every one down. His brother’s ability to debate was remarkable—he should take up politics and stop coercing his younger brother. It was outside of enough!
Then Ernest simply said that he needed Ben’s support.
With a heavy sigh—very heavy—Ben relented. He could sustain no justification against that, short of the truth. And Ben had no intention of ever telling Ernest why he did not want to be around Imogene. There were not many secrets between them, but this confidence was for all time.
And so, here he was once again, smiling and laughing and acting the nonchalance he did not feel as the younger members of the company greeted him with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Parents were conspicuously absent. He was acutely aware of Imogene: her lovely, shy smile; her beguiling fragrance; her tinkling laughter; her intoxicating curves that took his breath away; her swaying walk that made his mouth dry; her enticing … With a shake of his head, Ben rubbed at his temple and then acknowledged Jake’s imperial greeting.
“Thank you, yes, the journey was not overly taxing. Though it does look like rain. Yes indeed, rain. Gray clouds … and all that.” Ben studiously ignored Imogene and his brother’s quizzical glance at his vacuous speech. He could hardly think straight standing in such close proximity to Imogene.
Returning his gaze to Jake, Ben frowned. There was something odd about him, something that did not quite fit with his character.… But Ben was hard-pressed to say exactly what it was. Had Jake styled his hair differently?
“Hospitable, yes, a gentleman is hospitable, right?” Jake turned to look at Emily, who nodded rather vigorously. “Fine. Let me see … ah. Well … please, join us in the morning room,” Jake suggested with a grand sweep of his arm. “I’ll ask Mrs. Thompson to make up a room while you wait. You were not expected, you see. Only just learned that Mr. Chively had taken it upon himself to extend an invitation. Well, this is not Gracebridge … nor is it Shackleford, for that matter. It is likely that you will have to double up. Best we can do under the circumstances. Puts the numbers off complete—”
“Ahem.” Emily cleared her throat, interrupting Jake. She shook her head as well.
Jake scowled. “Lawks, this is not as easy as it looks.” His words were thought to be quite humorous by the rest of those standing nearby.
There was no arguing that their arrival was untoward … and that this was not Shackleford. Greytower was much older and smaller—perhaps as much as a quarter the size. The entrance hall was dark, paneled, and only one story. Ben could see a dining hall off to his right, but it was near impossible to see into the rooms on either side of the large staircase to his left.
“You speak to Mrs. Thompson,” Emily instructed Jake. “We’ll return to the morning room.” At which point, she pivoted and led the way to the room to the left of the staircase.
Harriet and Pauline followed them in, but an echo reverberating down the staircase brought them to a halt just inside the door. “Girls? Where are you? Lesson time.”
Pauline curled up the corner of her mouth, Harriet huffed, and yet they both quickly marched out the door and up the stairs. Unfortunately, that left Percy, Emily, Imogene, Ernest, and Ben to attempt a civil conversation.
“You need not have come, you know.” Percy flopped into a chair, leaning back in an excessively casual manner that fooled no one. “Father might have invited you, but … well, you are not really welcome.”
Apparently civility was hard to come by for some.
“Percy!” Imogene and Emily expressed their horror in the same tone and wide eyes.
“Please ignore any unrefined attitudes that might be floating about.” Emily stepped to the sideboard, lifting a silver urn. “Chocolate?”
“Ben prefers coffee,” Imogene answered for him. “And I believe Ernest does as well.”
Emily nodded, switching pots and pouring. “I, for one, greatly appreciate Mr. Chively’s initiative.” She offered Ben a come-hither grin with his coffee. “And your perfectly timed arrival, for we were just at the point of deciding on our entertainment for the day.”
A loud clap of thunder shook the Hall. The patter of rain on the glass quickly changed from charming to alarming while a blustery wind rattled and pulled at the windows.
“Oh dear, a storm is truly upon us.” Emily moved to stare outside. “It’s a very good thing you are not still on the road. What a fine mess that would have been. Well, staying indoors seems to be the order of the day. Don’t you think, Imogene?”
Imogene nodded, sharing her smile equally among them.… Well, not Percy. Her brother received a grimace.
“All set,” Jake said from the doorway as he entered. “Mrs. Thompson is airing out the tower room. It�
�s rarely used, being that it is haunted, and you will have to share as I have already said.… But I’m sure you will be comfortable.” His tone implied that he hoped just the opposite. “I have sent your man up to unpack. He will have to stay above the stables.”
Ben sipped his coffee, glad of the excuse to delay his reaction. It gave him time to ease down his hackles—after all, Ben had known their welcome was not going to be generous. Mr. Chively had put his interests ahead of those of his friends.… And Ernest knew it. They were intruding.
A loud bang drew everyone’s attention toward the hall. Unseen, the front door had slammed open. While not visible from inside the morning room, the commotion of the older gentlemen rushing inside out of the rain was loud enough for all to hear.
“Blast the weather. Here, Radley. Take this brace. Better than nothing, I suppose. The hare were plentiful, and we would have had a week’s worth if not for the storm.” There was no mistaking Mr. Tabard’s slow delivery.
“They will wait for us, Tabard. Worry not, we can go out tomorrow,” Mr. Beeswanger said.
“It looks to storm a month of Sundays,” Mr. Chively said in his typically dreary tone.
“What’s that?” The floor squeaked as if Mr. Tabard had turned on a wet tile floor. “Speak up, I can hardly hear you. Who?”
There was an indiscernible mumble through which Jake half smiled at Ernest and Ben and then rolled his eyes for Percy’s benefit. They all waited for the inevitable burst of indignation. While Ernest looked uncomfortable, Ben was ambivalent; if they were sent packing, he would not have to suffer the agonies of unrequited lo … No, he would not finish that thought.
The reaction, when it came, was not of disgust, nor did it originate from Mr. Tabard.
“Excellent. Yes, indeed. Pardon? Oh, I asked him myself. I knew you would not mind, old man. Shall we do the proper?”
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed even before Mr. Chively had finished his sentence. The thoroughly damp gentleman entered the morning room with great verve and affability. Ben hardly recognized him.
“Ernest, my fine young man. So good that you could make it to Dowersham. I hope you had a pleasant journey despite the weather.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. The storm began just after we arrived.”
Mr. Chively’s face was suddenly excessively still. “We?” He turned to look across his shoulder to where Ben was standing next to the window. “Oh.” He scowled and returned his decidedly piqued expression back on Ernest. “It would seem that you did not receive all my letter. I believe I explained that Greytower Hall was a small manor with far fewer rooms. That it suited an intimate gathering.”
Mr. Tabard, chuntering in the background, momentarily drew the attention from Mr. Chively.
“No insult intended, Tabard. You run a fine establishment. A very pretty estate … on a sunny day. I merely wish to help Ben, here, understand why he will be required to take a room at the inn.”
“Oh, that’s all settled, Mr. Chively,” Jake piped in. “I had Mrs. Thompson air out the tower room.”
“The tower … But Jake, my boy, it’s in a deplorable state.” Mr. Tabard was horrified. “Not used in years. Your mother quite despaired of that room.”
“Yes,” Jake said with more glee than was seemly in a proper gentleman. “Because it is haunted.”
“Really, Jake,” Imogene huffed. “There are times that I quite despair of you. Everyone knows that the ghost gossip is two centuries old. Besides, I don’t believe the Steeple brothers are easily dissuaded or liver-hearted.” She smiled broadly to Ernest and then winked in Ben’s direction.
Ben felt his heart accelerate and decided to label his reaction fear of spirits, not joy at Imogene’s attention. The idea of ghosts was far, far more acceptable in his eyes.
Emily, watching the exchange, put paid to the whole episode by offering to show the boys to the tower. There was great consternation that a young lady would suggest such a thing. The footman was quickly called to be their guide. As they were heading out the door, Ben glanced over his shoulder in time to see Emily and Imogene share a look of satisfaction. The outrageous offer had done the trick—circumvented the arguing and established that Ernest and Ben were here for the stay.
Ben followed on Ernest’s heels, not entirely certain why he was so pleased. Hadn’t he wanted to return to Musson House?
* * *
“YOU KNOW, OF COURSE, that Jake is up to mischief. That he made mention of the haunting with purpose.” Sitting on the brocade settee nestled in the oriel window, Emily straightened her skirts and curled up the corner of her mouth in disgust.
They had adjourned to the drawing room upon the arrival of their mothers, ready to break their fast. The morning room was too small a space to accommodate everyone, so Emily and Imogene had slipped across the threshold while the news of the Steeples’ arrival was discussed in both enthusiastic and lifeless tones.
Imogene nodded, looking out the window to the slanting sheets of rain, sighed, and sat beside her friend. “After a lull of two centuries, the ghost of … who is it that is supposed to haunt the tower again?”
“Lady Ester—I believe. Jilted by a lover and all that. Threw herself from the window. I believe that’s the story.”
“Yes, I think you might have the right of it. Though Cousin Clara never believed the drivel. She left the room unused because it is drafty and cramped—no other reason. Still, I am fairly certain there will be a visit from the netherworld tonight.”
“Rattling chains?”
“And howls, I would suspect. Jake couldn’t have given up mischief entirely—Percy won’t let him. They both have much to learn about being true gentlemen.”
“Not like Ernest and Ben. They are well versed in the state.”
Smiling to herself, Imogene agreed.
“Ah, there you are,” Jake interrupted, calling from the doorway as he advanced on them. “Wondered where you had run off to. I have a plan, a great plan. Actually, it was my father’s suggestion, but I think it a splendid way to spend a rainy day.” He waved a book and several pieces of paper through the air.
“Oh?” Imogene looked up suspiciously. Percy and Jake seemed determined to interrupt their affairs for the purpose of keeping Emily and her occupied. While the concept was gallant, the execution was not. They had never required such attentions before, and they certainly did not now. It was more overbearing than anything else.
“Thank you, no,” Emily said, and then turned back to Imogene. “I have a book you might be interested in, called The Confessional of the Black Penitents—”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream is much more exciting,” Jake interrupted yet again.
“So kind of you. But I have already read it.” Emily’s diction was exceedingly correct, though it was doubtful Jake was aware that he had stepped onto thin ice.
“Yes, but have you performed it?” He passed her a piece of paper. “You would make a most excellent fairy queen.”
That caught Emily’s attention. “Titania? What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?”
“Exactly. We could perform it for the parents.”
“Not the entire play, surely. That would take a fortnight of rehearsals.”
“No, indeed. What would be the fun in that? No, just the scene where Puck puts the flower juice in Titania’s eyes and she awakes to fall in love with Bottom—and his ass’s head. Comedy at its finest.”
“Let me guess, you would play Bottom. Prancing around, playing the fool.”
“I think it appropriate, don’t you?”
Emily laughed as she tilted her head to look around Jake. “And you? What part would you choose, Percy?”
“An attendant,” he grumbled. “Mustardseed … or Cobweb. It matters not, as long as I have little to say.”
“Easily done.” Jake’s voice grew louder with his enthusiasm. “Father chose Puck for you, Percy, but now that Ernest is here, he can play Robin Goodfellow.”
“Ernest to play a mischievou
s fairy? I think that should be Ben’s role, don’t you, Imogene?” Emily questioned.
“Mayhap a better fit.” Imogene grinned; she thought it most appropriate. Warming to this idea of hilarity and high jinks, she sat forward. “Perhaps Quince for Ernest? And me? What role for me?”
“Not to worry, Imogene, we would not ask you to stand in front of company and spout Shakespeare. It would be unkind,” Jake said magnanimously.
“Well, no, I think it would be fine.” Imogene’s sudden enthusiasm ebbed. “A small role?”
Jake shook his head, patted Imogene on the shoulder, and shoved the book in her face. “We need you to give us our lines.”
Imogene lifted her cheeks, took the book, and opened it to the marked page. “Act three, scene one,” she began, and then looked up. “The wood. Titania lying asleep.”
Emily closed her eyes and gracefully collapsed against the back of the settee.
Jake pulled a chair closer, and Percy harrumphed as he dropped into a chair on the other side of the room.
“Speak up,” he admonished as he turned his head to stare at the unlit fireplace.
By the time Ben and Ernest returned to their company, the younger generation had removed to the music room for their rehearsal. The parents had come into the drawing room and proceeded to complain of the hubbub. It was too much for those wishing to have a little peace and quiet on a miserable day. Mr. Tabard grinned to see them all so well occupied, taking up his suggestion with great eagerness.
Not surprisingly, Ben was pleased with the idea of putting on a play—even if not thrilled with those in the company. Ernest was less so. As time went on, Imogene became happier with her duties. Rarely did she have the opportunity to tell everyone what to say and do and correct them when they got it wrong—which was fairly often.
Perhaps the most satisfying aspect of directing for Imogene was the ability to stare at Ben without censure or notice. She could watch as he flailed about, attempting to emulate a fairy … until Emily suggested swooping gestures were more dignified. She could enjoy his figure and form as he pranced from one side of the room to the other. And she could observe how he avoided speaking directly to Jake—and Percy—until he shook his head at some inner thought and then made an effort to ignore their mockery and jibes.
