Suitors and Sabotage(16)
“I see. A bone hanging from the rafters. It has been removed?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Excellent. Tell me, Greg, have the Tabards arrived?”
“Yes, miss. They arrived late last evening.”
“Of course. Thank you.” Imogene nodded, and the footman placed the urns on the sideboard and then took a position between the windows, standing stiff and ready to serve if need be. Imogene scrubbed at her forehead.
“Tabards?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” She pulled her hand from her face to reveal a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Yes, the Tabards are the other family that we visit with over the summer. Cousin Clara is no longer with us, but Mr. Tabard and his son, Jake, have arrived. I imagine you will meet them this evening.”
Ben could see she was hesitant to say more. “And…? Does this have something to do with the hounds?”
Imogene shrugged—rather prettily. If Ben hadn’t seen her bite at the corner of her lip just before lifting her shoulders, he would have been convinced of her nonchalance.
“Whenever Jake and Percy get together, they have a tendency to get into mischief. Tying a bone above the heads of the dogs is just the sort of lark they would get up to.”
“Pranks? Always in the suds?”
“Yes, indeed. They make a mull of everything!”
“Hard on a younger sister.”
Imogene’s smile broadened, and it not only reached her eyes but shone through. The transformation was astounding.… And Ben swallowed, entranced.
“I have learned,” she said, “to stay out of the way.”
“A very good strategy.”
“I believe so.”
They stared at each other for several minutes—it was a natural break in the discourse—until Imogene looked to the mantel clock. “Oh my, where has the time gone? I want to get my studio ready before Harriet gets there. I had better put a little hustle on.” The footman was behind her, pulling out her chair, before Ben could even acknowledge the statement. And then she paused. “Are you off to see to the old castle?”
“No, I was there earlier. Mr. Opine had it well in hand and required little of me.” Ben stood, without the footman’s help, and followed her to the hallway. “I thought I might take a closer look at the chimneypieces in the grand saloon; they were impressive. In the classical style—”
“Well, actually, they are reproductions added only five or so years ago. In fact, well … if you are interested … then you might. Yes, a better example you will never find … I think … perhaps.”
She stopped in her tracks, turned, and waited expectantly. Ben puzzled for a moment, reran the dialogue back in his head, and decided that it really didn’t make sense. “I apologize, Miss Imogene, but I am not entirely sure of what you are speaking.”
“Oh … oh. I beg your pardon. We were talking of chimneypieces, and my mind jumped ahead. Dear, dear.” She leaned back momentarily, then lifted her chin and nodded to some unasked question. “Yes. Perhaps the better chimneypiece to see is the one in my studio. It came from the old castle. It is a fine example of typical Elizabethan craftsmanship: embellished columns, pilasters, and engravings. It’s almost a shame that it is hidden away in my studio.”
“Except that you appreciate it—I can see that—and you have the opportunity to show any of us who are greatly interested.”
“Are you?”
Ben stared again—no longer sure if Imogene was being enigmatic or if he was having a problem thinking. His brain seemed to have lost its train of thought. “Am I what?”
Imogene laughed. “Greatly interested?”
Ben stared at pretty Miss Imogene Chively in her soft blue dress that accented her lovely blue eyes and agreed readily. “Most definitely,” he said, no longer sure of the topic. “Very interested.”
*
AS THEY MADE their way to the attic level of Gracebridge Manor, Ben made a concerted effort to clear his thoughts and regulate his breathing. He talked of Ernest. There was no sequence to his soliloquy; he began with an anecdote about Ernest’s first pony, threw in a story about a winning hand at a London card party last week, and then mentioned Ernest’s cataloguing abilities whenever their parents sent newly purchased art from Italy. He thought of mentioning Ernest’s interest in Turner but changed his mind—he would let his brother enthrall Imogene with his Turner knowledge—whenever Ernest returned from the lake.
Imogene, not surprisingly, contributed little to the conversation, but when she did, her subject was Emily: her love of dance, her interest in horses, and her affable character. Even the discussion about Italy brought with it a reminder of her best friend, as Imogene’s only comment was that Emily had always wanted to go to Florence.
The stairs narrowed with each ascending staircase as they headed toward the pinnacle of the manor. However, when they entered the room that Imogene called her studio, he was surprised. It was cavernous, in length and height—made all the more impressive by the windows at either end and the skylights worked into the peaks of the dormers at the back of the manor.
This was not the dusty garret he had expected but a wonderful room full of the natural light needed for rendering true color. There were two easels under the skylights, an ornate desk between them, and a scratched table with two spindle-legged chairs in the center. Other than a couple of covered chairs ruined by shattered silk, the room was full of canvases. Some sat on the floor, and many hung in a crowded hodgepodge on the rough walls.