by Cindy Anstey
“I don’t understand.” Emily frowned and blinked and turned a flaming shade of crimson. “Jake and I have never meant anything to each other. There have been summers that we have not even exchanged a single word. How could Mr. Tabard possibly believe that we would make a match? How could Cousin Clara?” She looked past Imogene. “I apologize, Benjamin. I had no idea that our friendship was the cause of all your trials … perils. All those incidents that we knew were not accidents. Mr. Tabard put you in danger, no matter his intent.”
“I am sorry, too, if I have given the impression of a greater regard than is seemly.”
Emily blanched.
“You haven’t, my boy.” Mr. Beeswanger came forward and clapped Ben on the back. “You have had no hand in Mr. Tabard’s delusion. I’m afraid it was all in the mind of a grieving husband.” He turned with Ben and Ernest, and the three headed toward the path off the beach, talking quietly. Mr. Beeswanger’s reassuring tone dominated.
Emily stared at Imogene in terrible distress—tears on the verge of spilling.
What a ghastly, dreadful day. In his attempt to clarify, Ben had made it all too clear that he did not favor Emily—that the special relationship that she thought was seeded and beginning to bloom was no more real than the one Mr. Tabard had imagined between her and Jake. Ben Steeple was not in love with Emily.
Imogene reached for Emily’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Wordless, but in sympathy, they followed Mrs. Beeswanger up the slope toward Musson House, where the fun of the day would continue. She was now about to face her father, and not only tell him that Ernest Steeple was not to be her husband, but that they were to leave immediately.
Yes, a lovely day.
chapter 19
In which Imogene’s world tips on its axis
Sound didn’t usually carry through the halls of Musson House, but the raised voice in the library was so loud that the echo made its way up to the third floor, where Ben finally found Ernest.
Ignoring Mr. Chively’s shouting, Ben sighed with relief. “There you are.” He had been fairly certain that his brother would not do himself an injury in his melancholy—but a niggling doubt had eaten at Ben while he changed and then searched the manor.
Standing before the windows at the far end of the gallery, clothed impeccably once again, Ernest stared at the sky as if unaware of his brother’s presence.
“I am here to offer what solace I can. Ask anything of me. I will fetch your favorite book, discuss Byron’s poetry, or let you borrow my black hessians. Anything, anything at all.”
Ernest had said little when Ben had caught up to him on the island other than to state that Imogene had declined his offer to make an offer.
“She might change her mind, you know. It was a harrowing day, and it might have affected her more than it appeared.” Ben didn’t believe his own words, but he was desperate to see his brother’s heartache expunged—even at his own expense.
Ben was confused, very confused. On one hand, he wanted to shake Imogene for not seeing the value of Ernest’s love.… And on the other hand, he was relieved beyond measure. And the guilt that came with that thought was extreme. It was made worse by the next thought. Could he and Imogene now have a future together? She had broken with Ernest. Where did they go from there?
“I’m fine,” Ernest said in a voice that made a lie of his words.
Ben came to stand beside Ernest. “Her father is wringing a fine peal over her even as we speak.… There is still hope.”
“I think not.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“You have done enough.” Ernest’s tone was razor sharp.
“I beg your pardon?”
A heavy silence engulfed them for several minutes. The longer it lasted the more difficult it was to break. Ben turned his frown toward his brother.
“You have done enough,” Ernest eventually repeated. This time his tone was softer, but his words were still enigmatic.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, I know.” Ernest shifted, just slightly, but he made a wall with his shoulder. “Could you say my farewells? I’m not up to it right now.”
“Farewells? Is Imogene going somewhere?” Ben’s belly roiled. He needed time, needed the next few days to allow things to settle.… Then he could see how the wind blew. Then he could see if Imogene might be interested in the heart of another Steeple.
“I asked her to go.”
Ben straightened, surprised. It was unlike his brother. Ernest might not be an affable host, but this bordered on boorish—no, in truth, this stepped right past it. “When is she leaving?”
“Immediately—well, as soon as they are packed.”
It took great quantities of resolve and clenched muscles for Ben not to rush from the gallery, calling Imogene’s name. He needed to see her. He needed permission to write. He needed leave from her father to visit Gracebridge Manor. Without establishing some sort of connection, her family could keep her from him. He might never see her again. Never.
A shout formed in his throat, but he swallowed against it. Immediately was not immediate. Preparing the horses would take time, not to mention the process of gathering belongings and persons. And Imogene would not be going alone. All the Chivelys had to be organized. He had time.… He could appear nonchalant.
“Tabard will be off as well, I imagine,” Ben said, taking a deep breath. Trying to calm his racing heart.
“Yes.”
“To think that it was he all along—”
“Perhaps we might discuss our villain some other time. At least you need not be leery anymore.”
“I was never leery.”
“Indeed.”
Ernest lapsed into silence again, and after staring out at the sky with his brother for several minutes more without additional discourse, Ben quietly slipped back down the stairs.
He had to find Imogene … immediately.
* * *
IMOGENE WAS IN the library. She, too, was staring at nothing. With her eyes turned toward the unlit fireplace, she sat on the edge of the wingback chair as if about to rise—which she did when Ben entered the room.
“Ah, there you are,” she said, as if it had been she who had been searching. Now clothed in a soft teal traveling dress, with a freshly scrubbed face and neatly coifed hair, Imogene’s skin was still pasty white. “I have made my apologies to your grandparents about our hasty departure. They quite understand and are the kindest of souls. You have truly been blessed with your family, Ben.”
The implication, of course, was that hers were far less obliging.
“Ernest wishes us away as soon as possible, and I have set everything onto that path. Mr. Tabard has already departed—without Jake, who refuses to talk to him.” She shook her head. “I am still in shock … never would have imagined that such a quiet man could be so wrongheaded. I am very sorry that we brought danger to your door. One can never tell about people, can one?”
Ben opened his mouth to agree with this rather ambiguous statement, but she carried on.
“I don’t know if you have heard; the Beeswangers will be leaving as well. So in one fell swoop, your company will be gone. They have agreed to take me with them to Shackleford Park as my parents’ carriage will be full, what with Jake joining them to stay at Gracebridge for a time, and there was only room for me beside the driver, and Mrs. Beeswanger thought I need not ride so rough, and Mother thought it best if I visited Shackleford anyway for a few days … weeks … or perhaps longer.” She stopped and gulped at the air, her nervousness clearly running away with her tongue.
“Oh, Imogene, has your father broken with you … over your refusal to entertain an offer from Ernest?”
“Well, yes, actually—” She swallowed. “He feels I am ungrateful and not worthy of time, money, or effort. I am very lucky to have such good friends in the Beeswangers. They have made me feel quite welcome, and Emily thinks I will be a great distraction.” She cleared her throat as if halting a thought and setting her mind in
a different direction. “Thank you, Ben. I greatly enjoyed getting to know you, teaching you where your artistic talent lies, and, as much as he might not like to hear it now, spending time with your brother. It is a summer that I will always remember fondly.”
“That sounds like good-bye.”
Imogene laughed lightly, but there was no humor in her eyes. “It is good-bye, Ben.”
“Could I not come to visit you? At Shackleford Park?”
Smiling sadly, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.… You are soon to Canterbury. Your mind will be full of rococo ceilings and stonework,” she said with a forced laugh. “It is as it should be.”
“But—”
“Good luck with your studies.… And if ever you need any assistance of an artistic nature, I would be happy to help.”
There. Ben let go of the breath he had been holding. Yes, there was his opening—his way back into Imogene’s company. He didn’t know if she meant to provide the means of rekindling their friendship or not, but he had every intention of using her invitation in such a manner.
* * *
“STRANGE,” EMILY SAID after several hours of riding in silence. “I am starting to feel much more myself the closer we get to Shackleford Park. I don’t believe ocean air is as beneficial for the health as it is touted.”
Imogene pulled her gaze from the coach window, catching Mrs. Beeswanger’s nod as Imogene turned toward Emily. She reached out and patted her friend on the knee. “Very glad to hear it. I am certain that you will be feeling quite the thing within a week.”
“You think so?” Emily sounded wistful.
“Yes, absolutely. Time will be your comrade.” They both knew they were not talking about health.
“Perhaps the seaside is not for you, dearest Emily,” Mrs. Beeswanger joined the conversation. “But there are some that benefited from the salt breezes. Some that will be harder hit by its absence.”
A frown flashed across Imogene’s brow, and she turned to see Mrs. Beeswanger pointedly staring at her with an expression of deep sympathy. Imogene swallowed and would have burst into tears had she not glanced at Mr. Beeswanger. He was watching as well, but where Mrs. Beeswanger’s compassion threatened to break her resolve, Mr. Beeswanger’s buck-up-all-will-be-well look served to strengthen it.
“Yes.” Imogene offered a weak smile as a thank-you to them both. “But there is nothing to be done.” Not in regard to Ben. Not in regard to her father.
Still … all was not lost. In fact, might this be the moment to step onto a different path? Seize the day, as the Romans said. Could the rending from her family—and Ben—have purpose? Could she forge her own future, one that might be difficult but bring with it a different sort of contentment? Yes, indeed, might she now find the means to fulfill a dream?
“Mr. Beeswanger, could I meet with you sometime soon to discuss a business possibility?”
“Of course, my dear.” His countenance was suffused with curiosity, but he said nothing more.
Imogene nodded as much to herself as to anyone in the carriage. Her rebellion, as her father had termed her refusal of Ernest, had brought with it irrevocable changes—changes that she had both feared and anticipated. She could now step away from convention—the expectations of society—and champion her own wants and needs. But security was no longer certain; she would need advice—good, solid business advice. Mr. Beeswanger was an amply suitable gentleman for the job. He might even be interested in being a mentor, better yet a patron, of a teaching art studio.
A pervasive calm suddenly blanketed Imogene, and she smiled. It was no longer a weak imitation of cheerfulness but a true display of serenity. The future had changed, but it was not bleak. She would forge her own path.… And eventually she would no longer wish that Ben walked beside her.
* * *
SHACKLEFORD PARK WAS such a familiar environment that Imogene felt at home almost immediately. Well, perhaps not quite like home. There was no tippy-toeing around the manor while trying to judge the mood of the master of the house. There was no haranguing brother, indifferent mother, and snide remarks from all the above.
Still, Imogene was rather dismayed when a fortnight or so after joining the Beeswanger family in Tishdale, a cart arrived with an excited dog, clothes, painting supplies, and a note in her mother’s hand.
Dear Imogene,
I thought Mrs. Beeswanger was not mistaken in her suggestion that a few of your warmer gowns would be of use for the cooler nights that are now threatening. I have taken the liberty of including all your autumn accessories—shawls, coats, bonnets, and such. One never knows how quickly the cooler weather will descend, nor do we know how long your father will remain out of sorts in your regard. If need be, I will send over your winter clothes. Mrs. Beeswanger assures me that she quite thinks of you as one of her own and is more than happy to have you there.
I have also included your art supplies, which I am sure you sorely miss. Percy and Jake took a liking to your grandmother’s studio, setting it up as a theater. Costumes and props at one end, a stage of sorts at the other. They have even hung up a curtain and invited several other young gentlemen in the area to join their Thespian Society. They are entertaining themselves nicely. We have already had a scene from Much Ado About Nothing. Quite hilarious. Jake is fitting in nicely.
Kind Regards,
Mother
PS: Jasper is being a nuisance; he got into the henhouse yesterday. I’m sure he will be happier with you.
When Imogene rushed to the stables, Jasper’s happiness was not in doubt. As soon as he saw Imogene, he put on such a display of enthusiasm that it outshone all his other greetings. Never had she seen him jump so high or wag his tail with such abandon. Eventually he calmed … until he saw Emily and repeated his demonstration of undying affection.
After much laughter and excitement, the practicalities of their reunion had to be addressed—the most significant being the question of where Jasper was to be housed. The stable hands were quite taken with him and allowed that they could keep an eye on the dog if need be, but Mrs. Beeswanger had another suggestion.
“There is no need to relegate your companion to the outdoors. Bring him inside. I’m sure he will be more content following you around the manor.”
“Pardon? Inside? You will allow Jasper to stay with me?” Imogene could hardly believe her ears. Her mother would never consider such a thing.
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Beeswanger said with a gasp as two proper young ladies threw themselves into her arms. “All I ask is that he not be underfoot in the dining room.”
Of course Imogene readily agreed.
* * *
SITTING ON THE side of the bed only half listening to Kate exclaim about this item or that as she pulled them out of the trunk and put them in the wardrobe, Imogene stared out the window, distracted by thoughts that had nothing to do with her self-absorbed family. She missed Ben terribly.
She reached down to the floor where Jasper had curled up at … well, actually, on … her feet. Scratching him behind his ears in an absentminded fashion, she sighed.
Scene after scene ran through her mind: snippets of conversations, recrimination, and self-castigation followed quickly and then a sense of embarrassment. There was much she wished she had said, and much she wished she could unsay. Should she have been brazen and told him that she held him in great affection, or had she saved herself from mortification by offering a casual good-bye? How much of his interest had been in her imagination? How much had been real? Queries … many queries, but there would be no answers … just time to help her forget.
“Good news, Imogene,” Emily said, bursting into the room. “There are two spaces that Mama and Papa think might suit for your temporary studio. Both are in the attics just like the one you had at Gracebridge. One is a tad small, next to the female staff bedrooms, but it does have good light and is easily accessed from the main staircase. The other is on the opposite side—Imogene? Are you not pleased?”
Imogene blinked, realizing that she was still staring at Jasper. She lifted her eyes and then her cheeks. “Oh yes. Certainly. That is wonderful. Your parents are most generous.”
Generous was such a mild description of the Beeswangers’ support. They were unreservedly behind Imogene’s enterprise—the eventual forming of an art academy. They had discussed the project every which way to Sunday. It had been her salvation—her distraction from the pain of losing Ben.
It was not going to be the work of a minute; it would take years of careful, patient labor. She would start with a teaching studio at Shackleford while they sought out a more strategic location. The funds from her grandmother would help defray supply costs, but were it not for Mr. Beeswanger’s agreement to act as an advisor and patron, Imogene’s dreams would not be realized until far in the future. Yes, generous was too small a word.
Emily joined her on the bed, bouncing Imogene gently as she sat down. “Oh, Imogene, I am so sorry about your family—they are the ones to miss out … being without your company. You know that Mama and Papa would be quite pleased to have you stay indefinitely.”
Nodding, Imogene patted Emily’s lower limb. “Yes. They have said as much, and I believe they mean it.” She smiled but, unfortunately, sighed at the same time.
“Then what is wrong? What can I do? Say? I am desperate to see you happy.”
“Broken hearts take time to heal, Miss Emily,” Kate said as she folded a cream-and-apricot scarf. “Everyone is different.”
“Mine mended easily enough. I can only think I wasn’t as deeply in love as I thought. I am quite up to scratch again. And yours will…? No, that’s not it. You turned down Ernest.”
“Not Mr. Ernest, miss.” Kate glanced over her shoulder. “Mr. Ben. Though, being that he was over the moon about you, Miss Imogene, I don’t understand why it didn’t work out … if you’ll excuse me for saying so.”
Imogene stilled. She lifted her chin and offered a frown to Emily before addressing Kate. “What do you mean, Kate? Why would you say that about Ben?”
“At Musson, Matt told me he were certain Mr. Ben cared for you, Miss Imogene. Had Mr. Ernest not been so distracted, he woulda seen it, too.”
