Suitors and Sabotage(19)
Standing awkwardly beside Ernest, Imogene tried to keep her eyes on Miss Watson but found they kept wandering toward Ben … and Emily. She watched Emily practicing her fan flirting but looked away when he laughed and asked her for a dance. Imogene stared at the floor for some minutes, until she realized that a pair of well-shone hessians was in her field of vision. When she looked up, Ernest smiled.
“Would you care to dance, Imogene?”
Though his words were few, his expression was kind and patient, encouraging a welcome sense of enthusiasm in Imogene. She laid her hand on Ernest’s arm, and he led her to the center of the room. It was just as well that there were only four gamboling couples, as the space would not have accommodated more. Country dances involved skipping the length of the room, switching partners, hopping, and leaping. As it was, there was much bumping and hilarity. Most contact was accidental—though Jake’s tripping over Percy’s foot might have been intentional.
Throughout the evening they changed partners. Ernest proved to be a good dancer, considerate of her toes and not overly chatty as they passed each other. Imogene found this informal manner of dancing far more to her taste than the elegant balls of London, where every move and every partner was scrutinized by the tittle-tattle Ton. Here, those watching wore indulgent expressions and participated in the levity, if at a distance.
It was good to see Mr. Tabard smile, a rarity since the passing of Cousin Clara. Tonight the old gentleman grinned broadly as Jake danced in circles around Emily—perhaps he was remembering the days when Cousin Clara teased about Jake and Emily making a match of it. He clapped out of rhythm, stomping his foot one minute, slapping the other gentlemen on the shoulder the next. His loud guffaw echoed throughout the room.
It was good to hear.
In appearance, Jake favored his mother. Mr. Tabard was a reedy figure with an abundance of shoulder-length hair—gray, of course—and a slight stoop. While his son was short and stocky, with an appealing grin—complete with dimples—and mischief in his eyes. Only when their faces were in repose did the similarities of the two gentlemen emerge: the narrow shape of their faces, large noses, thin lips, and the aspect of melancholy.
Partway through the evening Harriet was sent to bed, with protest, leaving an odd number of dancers. The extra gentleman should have waited until the end of each set to take up a partner, but when his turn came, Percy would have none of that. Cutting across the lines, and generally making a nuisance of himself, Percy managed to tangle the company up so thoroughly that the steps were completely confused, and the parents called for a break.
“For Miss Watson’s sake, if none other,” Mrs. Beeswanger said with a smile. “Perhaps refreshments are a good idea.”
Collapsing into a chair, Imogene was quite glad of the rest; while not particularly tired, she was very thirsty. Not surprisingly, Ernest took the seat next to her. Across the room, Emily joined Ben, with Pauline on his other side. Percy and Jake headed out of doors for a breath of fresh air. Imogene thought their departure had more to do with Percy’s newly acquired tobacco pipe and Mama’s dislike of smoking.
“The country suits you, Miss … Imogene.” Ernest smiled down at her.
Feeling her comfort slip away, Imogene straightened, shifted to the edge of her chair, and stared at a painting on the far wall. “Thank you.” Would that she could think of something further to say … but her tongue did not cooperate.
“Do you enjoy the paintings of Turner?”
“Most certainly.” Imogene nodded.
She could hear a tap-tap sound and turned to see Ernest’s toe bouncing on the floor … as if he was nervous. Looking up, she met his gaze, briefly, and then she dropped her eyes to his waistcoat—a very nice shade of red with crested buttons … dapper. But why was he not talking?
The silence between them continued for some minutes. In the background, Imogene could hear a smattering of Emily’s discussion with Ben and parental murmurs from the far end of the room. However, the lack of conversation with Ernest was proceeding to uncomfortable.
Finally, he spoke.
“I would like to apologize, Imogene. I am a fraud.”
He sounded so serious, and upset, that Imogene lifted her face to puzzle the matter out. “Whatever do you mean? I … beg your pardon … but…”
“I am not who you think me to be.”
Glancing around the room, Imogene met Ben’s gaze; he smiled, nodded, and then returned to his conversation with Emily. She turned back to Ernest. “So you are not Ernest Steeple of Musson House, grandson of Sir Andrew Steeple?” When his expression did not change, she added. “I see. You are, in fact, a vagabond wandering the country—impersonating young gentlemen in order to secure lodging … and a dance.” This time, Imogene was rewarded for her levity.
Ernest Steeple burst into a loud, rich laugh that brought a smile to everyone in the room—curious looks, as well, but she ignored those.
“No, indeed,” Ernest said, catching his breath. “I have been trying so hard to find a subject in which we share an interest that I have represented myself as a gentleman of the arts.”
“But you are not?”
“No, in fact, I am. But not painting. I have little to no knowledge of fine art.… Ben has been trying to educate me ever since I met you.” He took a quick breath. “However, I am interested in literature.”