Suitors and Sabotage(40)
“Which is?”
“That Ben was a poor sport, a cad; that it was the height of rudeness to accuse Jake and Percy of cheating. I thought I might talk to your coachman and see if it was even possible that the burr was picked up from the grass, as my father asserts.”
“You know it’s not.”
“Indeed. The pad would have been brushed before being used.”
“More to the point: Were the boys in the stable as Lancelot was being saddled? And if so, would they have known which horse was Ben’s?”
“They would have known. Most definitely. Lancelot is quite distinct, and all saw Ben arrive.”
“This was not an accident.”
“Indeed not.”
It took little effort to run everyone down that had been in the stable earlier in the day, preparing for the race. Imogene had cause to appreciate Emily’s presence for more than her companionship; the men did not hesitate to tell the daughter of the house how they felt about the dustup.
Mr. Fowler was deeply offended. The insult, of course, being that anyone—namely, Father—could suggest that his grooms had been so lax or inept or foolish as to saddle a horse with a burr. Mr. Fowler went on at length until his ire was fully spent and he returned to his duties. The grooms were a little more prudent in their language, but there was no doubt of their pique, too. As to the question of who was around during the saddling, it would seem that all the gentlemen of the house were in and out of the stables at some point, laughing and chatting and milling about—including Percy and Jake. No one had seen anything suspicious.
“Doesn’t help in the least, does it?” Imogene asked as they walked back to the house. They were taking the longer route to the front door to allow time to discuss their complete lack of knowledge. It mostly involved chuntering.
“Skulking about?” a voice asked as they passed through the portico and into the vestibule.
Imogene turned with a smile, recognizing the voice. “Oh, Mrs. Beeswanger, you gave us such a start.” Like mother, like daughter.
“I beg your pardon,” came the jovial reply. “I thought to add some levity—your countenances were decidedly sour. Is something amiss?”
“No, Mama. Not really. We were just to the stable, hoping to understand…”
“Ah yes. The burr. Such a to-do. Let me guess. Mr. Fowler has assured you that the burr was not placed under the saddle pad, in carelessness or intent, by him or any of his grooms.”
“As you say.” Imogene nodded several times. She looked over to see Emily doing likewise and Imogene continued for a few more bobs.
“That was expected. The man knows what he is about—been a coachman for decades. Don’t trouble yourself, girls. Put your pretty smiles back on your faces. Mr. Beeswanger is ready to ring a fine peal over those boys.… As it would seem that no one else is about to call them to order.” Mrs. Beeswanger sighed—rather heavily. “There is no excuse for such behavior at their age. Clara would be horrified.” Reaching out, she squeezed their hands reassuringly. “Now, off you go. Time to dress for dinner. I have a special treat for our entertainment tonight. I have hired a string quartet to play Haydn. It will be a lovely evening—little fodder for the boys to cause mischief.”
As Mrs. Beeswanger had predicted, the evening was indeed lovely and mischief-free, lulling the company into complacency until the next afternoon.
*
IMOGENE LOOKED DOWN at her soft lilac skirts and lifted a lady beetle onto her palm, blowing softly so that it would take wing. Ernest sat on the blanket beside her, saying little and yet breathing in a very controlled manner … as one does when one is trying to build up courage to ask a question.
The inability to speak his mind was not, in fact, Ernest’s fault. Imogene had deliberately requested that the blanket be placed in the shade of the willow near the shore of the pond … lake. The proximity to dearest Mama and Mrs. Beeswanger, lounging nearby in chairs brought down from the manor, was not a coincidence. Imogene was well aware of the older ladies’ preferred resting place, and she had used that knowledge to her advantage. The advantage of preventing Ernest from offering her his hand—something he was unlikely to do with others listening.
Imogene was desperately afraid that Ernest would rush his proposal, ask her too soon. She was not ready to say yes … but neither was she ready to say no. She was in a quandary.
Despite Ben’s lack of appreciation for green beans, Imogene had yet to discover a horrible trait of his that would usurp his charm and make all his actions suspect. In fact, she had found no reason to not be in love with him—knowing that Emily wanted to call Ben her own should have been enough for her heart to cede victory and look to greener pastures. But her heart, apparently, had a mind of its own.
It was a confused metaphor, and yet it spoke to the essence of her indecision.
Imogene had to turn her thoughts once and for all from Ben and decide on Ernest by his own merit. She should not favor his suit simply because he was Ben’s brother or that he could take her away from the intolerable control of her father; that would not be fair to a gentleman who saw more in her than she did in herself. She would not use him to continue her art studies. Nor would she accept him in the fear that there might never be another suitor.
It was only fair to judge Ernest as a possible husband when they had more times like these. Sitting quietly together, watching Emily and Ben rock sedately in a lake boat while Percy and Jake swam on the far side and Father, Mr. Beeswanger, and Mr. Tabard stood by the boathouse chatting. Yes, the air fairly wafted with peace and companionship. Lazy summer days … relaxation and calm … days conducive to happy thoughts—