by Cindy Anstey
Pursing his lips for a moment, Ben huffed a sigh and then stilled. “Thank you,” he said finally. “You jumped into the water with no thought of your own safety.”
“It was but a moment.” Imogene laughed. “I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
“Imogene?” Ernest’s voice was clipped. “What are you doing?”
Imogene blinked, realizing that her hand was still on Ben’s shoulder and that she had been staring at him overlong. She pulled her hand away and sat back.
Ernest stood at the water’s edge, dripping, holding Ben’s errant boot. His head was tipped slightly, as if he was trying to see her from a different angle, and his brow was furrowed very deeply.
Lifting her cheeks into the semblance of a smile, Imogene met his gaze. “Agreeing that this was no accident.” She could see Ben bobbing his head in front of her.
“Yes, I think we will have to come to terms with the fact that someone has ill-intent, Ernest. I think Imogene has had the right of it all along.”
“I have been saying much the same,” Emily added, her voice having gained strength. Her pallor was going.
“Yes.” Ernest continued to frown, staring at Imogene for a long minute and then turning to Ben. “Your boot,” he said, coming forward. He dropped it at his brother’s feet, looked meaningfully at Imogene, and turned away, stalking down the shore toward the point.
Imogene stilled; she hardly drew a breath. And yet her mind roared. He knew! Ernest had seen something in her expression. Something that had told him Ben had won her heart. Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. She gulped silently and closed her eyes for a moment before rising. She had to talk to him. This was not going to be an easy conversation.
Glancing at Emily, Imogene gestured toward the point. “I think I’ll join Ernest.”
Emily’s understanding smile almost undid her.
* * *
IT TOOK SOME effort to catch up to Ernest. He had made good time … rushing to nowhere. Imogene had lifted her wet skirts above her ankles, trotting after him. He must have heard her pursuit, but he did not slow down until she called his name.
Even then, he stood where he was, not turning around. Motionless, looking out at the channel. Had he gone another thirty feet or so, he would have been forced to halt. He had reached the end of the point.
“Ernest, we have to talk,” she said to his back. He neither turned nor answered. She circled around, standing in front of him.
With a clenched jaw, Ernest stared over Imogene’s right shoulder. She had never seen a living, breathing human being look more like a statue. A cold, lifeless statue. Not made of stone—but glass. Fragile. Ready to shatter. Even before she spoke, Imogene felt the trickle of a tear on her cheek.
“I am so sorry, Ernest.”
“You are in love. But not with me.”
“I am so very sorry,” she said again.
“When were you going to tell me? Going to keep stringing me along—spending time with Ben? Asking me to wait. Bah! There was no chance, was there?”
“I didn’t know for certain. I have never been in love before—”
“It’s hard to mistake.”
“Perhaps for you. I wasn’t sure if what I felt for Ben was fleeting. My experience is small, Ernest. I hold you in great affection. Admire you. Respect you and enjoy your company. I thought these, too, could be the beginnings of love. I asked you to wait because I didn’t want to make a mistake.” Imogene swallowed with difficulty. “I tried to say something at Greytower, but you were rushing Ben off—bringing him to Musson.”
“Six days before you got here. You could have written.”
“That would have been cold and cruel—”
“Crueler than keeping me hoping … planning a future for us? All the while you were pining for my brother. There is no hope for you there, you know. He has no thoughts of marriage. He will be apprenticing for another two or three years … at least!”
“I know, Ernest. I don’t expect my feelings to be reciprocated, and please…” She reached out and touched his arm. At last he turned his chiseled face toward her. “Please, you must promise not to say anything. He would feel terrible.”
Ernest leaned in closer. “And so he should,” he barked.
Without flinching, Imogene smiled. “Should he? Ben did no wrong. He is who he is.”
“He stole you from me.”
“I was never yours to steal.”
Ernest shifted so that he could see beyond her again. “You have to go. I don’t want you at Musson. Don’t want you charming Grandmother anymore. Don’t want your scent greeting me in every room. You have to go.”
“I will speak to Father as soon as we get back. We will leave tomorrow.”
“Today. There is half the day left.”
“Yes, but Ernest, we are marooned on an island. I can hardly walk across the water because you no longer wish my company.”
He blinked, as if weighing the veracity of her words—as if there was anything to weigh. Without speaking, he pivoted and stalked back down the shore, marching past Emily and Ben. They watched him go and then stared at Imogene with open curiosity. They would not have heard the conversation, but there was no mistaking Ernest’s thunderous expression.
Imogene closed her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. She was not ready to answer questions—not Emily’s, not Ben’s. She, too, needed to be alone. Opening her eyes, she glanced around and saw what she was looking for. The path up to the tower ruins. There would be shade and privacy … and better yet, somewhere to sit and cry.
* * *
EMILY FOUND HER not a half hour later, leaning against the outer wall of the medieval tower. She had meant to go through the doorway, find a hidden corner, and sob to her heart’s content; the building was roofless, but three walls still stood … of a sort. Crumbled and cracked by vegetation, a musty smell in the air, the ruin offered the perfect backdrop for abject misery.
As she had approached the tower, Imogene had observed the many aspects worthy of sketching. It was a habit and her solace. Unfortunately, those thoughts had led her to recollections of drawing with Ben, and quickly on their heels, Imogene lost the ability to hold herself upright. Her knees buckled, and she would have tumbled into an undignified sprawl had the wall not been near enough to grab.
And so she stayed. Using the hem of her soiled gown to wipe her nose and cheeks. She didn’t care if the algae-covered muslin left streaks of green and brown down the side of her face. She didn’t care about much. She wasn’t sure which component of her conversation with Ernest distressed her the most—it was irrelevant. It was all a terrible mess.
Ernest was in pain—pain that she had caused. She hadn’t handled it well, not well at all. There should have been a way to temper the hurt—remain friends, still enjoy each other’s company. But no, she had bungled it completely. Ernest did not want to be anywhere near her now. She had lost the good opinion of a very kind young man. He hadn’t deserved her rejection—if Ernest had not had a charming, handsome, devil-may-care brother, Imogene might have succumbed to his quiet, easy manners. She might have found excitement in his dance steps and poetry. Might. Might. It was all moot.
Ernest did have a brother—a like-minded brother who would want to see the back of her, too. Yes, as soon as Ben learned that Imogene had not accepted Ernest’s offer, he would not give her the time of day. Once through the Musson House gates, Imogene would never see Ben again—ever. The looming moors of Devon seemed appealing—the idea of not ever encountering Ben or Ernest again was relieving.
“How are you?” Emily asked.
Imogene didn’t look up. Miserable was on the tip of her tongue, but civility won the day. “I’m not really in the mood for company, Emily.”
“I know that might be true, dearest friend, but, unfortunately, company has found us. Well, actually, in my eyes, it is fortunate. We are about to be rescued.”
Imogene lifted her gaze. “Rescued? So soon?”
Emily nodded and then opened her arms, offering Imogene a comforting embrace. “There is a boat nearing the island. Something called a dory, I believe Ben said. Lots of space. Better yet, it floats.”
Imogene muffled a chuckle into Emily’s shoulder. “Floating is good.”
“Ben has gone to find Ernest; I came for you. And the boat is coming round the point to land in the cove. It will be here soon.” Emily lifted the hem of her gown, picked the cleanest spot, and used it to wipe away Imogene’s newly formed tears.
“Oh, Emily, I have made a mess of everything.”
“Perhaps not everything. But I think we need to talk about it later—after we have survived this next ocean voyage.”
“Hardly an ocean voyage.” Imogene laughed, somewhat weakly, and then she saw Emily’s grimace. “A short trip, Emily. And once we are back, you can stay on terra firma.”
“Permanently!”
“Indeed,” Imogene said. “Here, take my arm.” She offered Emily her elbow. “I’ll steady you; you steady me.”
“Always,” Emily said as she swallowed visibly before setting a slow gait back to the cove. While it was evident she wanted off the island, it was equally evident Emily did not want to get on another boat.
By the time Imogene and Emily emerged from the shrubbery, the dory had landed. Ernest and Ben greeted the four men who jumped onshore wearing jerseys and grins. All were lean and muscled, with the sun-darkened skin of outdoorsmen.
“Heard you got yerselves in a bit a trouble,” the shortest and oldest man said with a snicker.
“Yes, I would say a swamped boat would fall into that category.” Ernest’s voice was unnaturally raspy. “Good to see you, Thirsty. How have you been?”
“Dicked in the nob, young sir, as always. Haven’t seen you in a month a Sundays.” The older man produced a harsh and phlegmy laugh, this time openmouthed, showing a maw of rotting teeth.
“Been busy,” Ernest said simply.
“So I heard. So I heard.” Thirsty’s gaze lifted, fixing on Imogene and Emily.
Imogene squirmed … until Emily squeezed her arm.
“How did you know to come looking for us?” Ben asked.
“All a bit of a rush, young sir. Got word from the big house. Feller came riding down to the port all in a lather. Seems someone saw yer boat go down. Thought we might be too late.” Then he laughed again. “Kinda glad we weren’t.”
Ben laughed, too. “So are we.”
* * *
THE JOURNEY BACK to the mainland was blissfully uneventful. Emily and Ernest sat with their eyes closed the entire trip—though for very different reasons. Were Imogene to guess: Emily was holding on to every ounce of willpower needed to see her across the water, and Ernest did not wish to inadvertently look at Imogene.
Uneventful, yes, but also uncomfortable.
Ben glanced her way several times, but when she met his gaze, he looked away immediately. Yes, very uncomfortable.
Thirsty and his crew deposited them and their goods back on the beach where they had departed just an hour and a quarter earlier. It had been the longest hour and a quarter of Imogene’s life—Emily might have said the same if Imogene had asked … which she didn’t.
A crowd met them—the Beeswangers, Mr. Tabard, Jake, and Percy. They clapped and grinned and generally acted as if a miracle had occurred. Or a party was required. When Imogene considered the condition of the skiff, it probably was.
A hatless Mr. Tabard rushed into the water as they approached, his hair wild and flying about in the breeze. His gaze was fixed on Emily. “Oh, my dear, my dear. Are you all right?” Grabbing the side of the boat, he helped haul it farther onto the beach, with Jake and Percy opposite. The crew seemed somewhat amused by the attention.
Lifting Emily over the gunwales, Mr. Tabard tried to carry her up the beach, but Jake had to come to his father’s aid. They shared Emily’s weight, making a chair, of sorts, joining their hands. All rather pointless, because Emily was still wet from slogging through the water at the island, but it was meant as a kindness.
Mr. Beeswanger did the same for Imogene, lifting her from the boat and, without any help, set her beside Emily, away from the water. Tut-tutting, but looking pleased, Mrs. Beeswanger declared their gowns only worthy of the dustheap. She pushed the hair off Emily’s face and tucked Imogene’s behind her ears in signs of affection and relief.
After expressions of gratitude were doled out liberally to Thirsty and his crew, the company headed down the beach. Jake and Percy led the way, carrying the skiff’s oars.
“You gave us quite the scare,” Mrs. Beeswanger said with a broad grin as she walked between her daughter and Imogene. “You have Mr. Tabard to thank for your rescue. He was watching through a spyglass and saw your boat get lower and lower in the water.”
Looking over her shoulder toward Mr. Tabard, Imogene saw that the old gentleman was frowning and shaking his head while staring at Emily as they walked. And he seemed to be muttering. He did not look jubilant, like a man proud of his role in their rescue; he looked haggard. “Are you well, Mr. Tabard?” Imogene asked.
“So very sorry, my dear.” Mr. Tabard was still watching Emily.
Emily shook her head, looking so much more herself now that they were back on dry land. “It is not your doing, Mr. Tabard. You did not swamp our boat. In fact, you saved us from many cold, damp hours of waiting.”
“But I did, I did. I am so sorry. I thought it would sink right away. As soon as it was put in the water. Boom, gone. You’re wading back up the beach. Disgruntled but fine. I didn’t think you would be able to get into it and row to the island. Most of the way, that is. I didn’t know. I’m not a sailor. I know nothing of boats. So you see, it is mostly my fault, but not entirely.”
Imogene started. Did she hear correctly? She stopped in her tracks, Ben bumping into her as he, too, stared at Mr. Tabard with a slack jaw. “What are you saying? Did you put a hole in the skiff?”
Putting his hand to his temple, Mr. Tabard finally looked at Imogene. “A hole? No, of course not. What kind of monster would put a hole in a boat? That would be dangerous. No, indeed, not a hole.… I chipped out some of the caulking.”
“What?” Imogene grabbed Ben’s arm as he lunged at Mr. Tabard. “You tried to kill us!” he shouted.
Mr. Tabard looked stupefied. “No need to be rude, young man,” he said, looking affronted. “After all, if it weren’t for you, none of this would have happened!” Shaking his head vehemently, he took several backward steps until Ernest blocked his retreat. “Clara would be most insulted by your accusation. Really. Tried to kill you … No, indeed! I tried to get you away from Emily is what I did. But you are a leech … a leech, I say.” He curled his mouth in disgust and shook his head.
By this time the company had halted. Percy and Jake, after having dropped the oars, had run back to investigate the commotion and joined the circle around Mr. Tabard. Pivoting, his gaze going from person to person, Mr. Tabard looked disoriented. Finally, his eyes lit on Jake, now standing between Ben and Ernest.
“How could you expect to secure Emily with one such as him around?” Mr. Tabard said heatedly, jerking his head in Ben’s direction. “You couldn’t. He is winning the war. Battle after battle, Emily is being charmed. He is nothing if not persistent. He will not stop enchanting her!”
“Emily?” Jake looked perplexed. “Why would it matter?”
“Jake, Jake, my son, it was your mother’s dearest wish to see you and Emily united. She could talk of little else as she lay dying. Imagining your children. Seeing them running down the halls of Greytower—a happy place. It was a wonderful vision.”
“It was a fiction, Father, a lovely apparition, but no more than that. Emily is a sister to me. I have no more intention of asking her to marry me than I have of asking Imogene.” Jake glanced at Percy and then back to his father. “Please tell me you did not nearly drown four people in an effort to prevent Ben and Emily from spending time together. It is not yo
ur affair.”
“No, it is yours. You have done nothing toward securing her favor—”
“Nor will I. Father, listen and listen well. I am not going to marry Emily.”
“Please, Jake—”
“No. I will hear no more.” Jake lifted his chin and glanced at those around him until his eyes settled on Ben. “I humbly beg your pardon,” he said, looking more the gentleman than Imogene had ever seen him before. “It would seem that my father, in misapprehension, has done you great wrong. There is little restitution that I can offer. But perhaps you will know that I feel the weight of it by saying that I can do nothing else other than break with him—”
“No, Jake.” Mr. Tabard reached out toward his son, even as those around him gasped.
“It is not necessary,” Ben said, looking vastly uncomfortable. “No true harm was done. What is a skiff, after all?”
“Or being stung by bees, or thrown from your horse…” Jake turned back to his father. “Father? Should I continue?”
“No. I … I was not thinking clearly.” Mr. Tabard stared at his son with welling eyes. “I could hear Clara … your mother … lamenting. She wants to see you happy.”
“And I will be happy. But not with Emily at my side.” He glanced at her. “No insult intended.”
“None taken,” Emily said quietly.
“I will make amends.” Mr. Tabard started to shake; he turned toward Ben, weeping openly. “Ask anything, anything.”
“It is not necessary,” Ben said again.
“But I will. I will. There, see, Jake. All is well, my boy. Where are you going? No. Jake? Jake!”
As a flailing Mr. Tabard ran up the beach after his son, those that remained stood in shocked silence for some moments. Eventually, Percy cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me. I believe I have to see to Jake.” He bowed formally and followed at a sedate and dignified pace.
“Well,” Mr. Beeswanger said, staring at the ground.
“Well,” Mrs. Beeswanger said, staring at Emily.
