Suitors and Sabotage(36)



*

WHILE IT WOULD seem the day started out poorly, it did not progress in the same manner. The morning was spent as Imogene preferred: art lessons for Ben, art lessons for Harriet. Both were coming along, though not with any speed. It was a pace that Ben found frustrating no matter how much Imogene repeated that practice and time were the only roads to success.

After luncheon, a walk in the park was suggested. Emily wanted to show off the extensive grounds of Shackleford, which included an artificial lake. Imogene had made the mistake of calling it a pond one time and had been rather firmly corrected. Surprising vistas and delightful alcoves had been planned to offer a changing tableau for those wandering the acreage, as well as a boathouse and a folly for exploration. It would take many hours to meander through the wondrous creation in the tradition of Capability Brown—landscape designer extraordinaire.

The weather was obligingly benign—no oppressive heat, no dark clouds, and no howling wind—only a gentle breeze fluttering everyone’s hair while starlings wheeled overhead. Quite romantic, in a crowded sort of way. The entire younger generation, all eight, had decided the excursion worthy of their time … even, to Imogene’s great displeasure, Percy and Jake.

“Look at the ducks,” Pauline called loudly, as if she had not seen ducks before. Watching Ben, she gestured, somewhat needlessly, at the lake.

They were wandering as a collective—no couples, just an ever-changing arrangement, stopping and starting and surging as they circled the lake, climbing over hill and dale with delicate steps. The only constant was the twirling of lacy parasols protecting the young ladies from the sun.

Although Jake borrowed Emily’s parasol briefly so that he might sashay across their path, simpering and squealing in a scornful parody of womanhood. Ben retrieved it for her with a polite but stern request. Jake had not appreciated his tone and said as much, but he relinquished the parasol nonetheless.

Imogene hid her smile with a quick glance to her right, only to encounter Ernest’s steady gaze. They grinned at each other with approval and camaraderie—aware of the true nature of Ben’s derisive tone.

Jake, in his frustration, grabbed a stick from the ground and swung it fiercely at the grass. Seeing him as an immature pup and not a young gentleman of nineteen, Imogene shook her head at his behavior and then blinked. For a moment, only a moment, Jake’s face had gone into repose, and a terrible sorrow had sculpted his features. It was so profound that she had to swallow against the sudden tightness in her throat.

It was a reminder. Jake’s need to hurt others was brought on by his own ache—his own pain. No excuse, but an explanation. Poor Jake. This was his first summer without the calming presence of his mother. How terribly he must miss her; they all did, but none more so than Jake and Mr. Tabard.

Glancing again at Ernest, she saw him frown. He was aware that something had changed but knew not what or why. Imogene shook her head ever so slightly. “Later,” she said quietly. She was no longer angry.

The rest of the outing might have been a pleasant but unremarkable affair had the conversation not veered toward horses—in particular the ones on which the Steeples had arrived. Harriet had been very impressed with Ben’s black thoroughbred.

“Lancelot, a noble name for a noble beast,” Ben said with no little pride. “A steadier ride you will not find, or a better jumper.” By now they had circled the lake, and he paused to look up at the manor from a distance.

“Except, perhaps, Arthur,” Ernest added, stopping beside him, “who is from the same mare. They look alike but for the star.”

The company joined the brothers staring across the lawn, though Imogene was fairly certain that the girls had no idea why the procession had come to a standstill.

“Not a match for Honor,” Percy argued, citing his chestnut Oldenburg with white socks.

“Shall we test it?” Jake asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief again. “A race. A country race.”

“No, I don’t think that is—” Imogene started to say, but her protest was lost in the enthusiasm of the moment as all four young men decided it was just the thing. Even Hardly Harriet was excited, not realizing—one would hope—the dangers of riding pell-mell over gates, stiles, and hedge groves.

Within moments, Imogene and Emily were left alone, staring not at the manor but at the backs of the young gentlemen rushing up the hill toward the stables, and two young girls trailing after them.

“This does not seem wise,” Emily said with a sigh.

“Certainly not when Ernest and Ben are on edge with Percy and Jake as it is. I expect some posturing and a fair amount of one-upmanship.”

“Indeed.” Emily sighed again. “A recipe for disaster.”

Fortunately, the Beeswangers got wind of the young men’s intent and suggested a delay. After all, it was too close to dinner, and Cook could not hold off the buttered crab, which was always a favorite; the race was postponed. Stomachs trumped sport … but only until the next afternoon.

*

BEN ENJOYED RACING. And in this case, there was no doubt of a win. Ben merely needed to decide by what degree he should trounce Percy and Jake. If he had any competition in this race, it would be his brother.… For in truth, Lancelot and Arthur were not only from the same stock but also the same trainer. There was little between them—and Ernest had as good a seat as he.

Cindy Anstey's Books