Suitors and Sabotage(44)
This was terrible!
*
IMOGENE WAS QUIET most of that afternoon and well into the evening. No one noticed. Not even Emily—she was too busy staring at Ben.
Perhaps Ben was aware, but he stayed away from Imogene and rarely looked in her direction. If Ernest was puzzled by her lackluster conversation, he said nothing to that effect. Instead, he filled in their discourse with recitations of various poems, snippets of several books he had enjoyed, and descriptions of Musson Hall that he recalled with great affection.
Far from being unwelcome, it was the salve Imogene needed. Not only distracting, but also little effort was required of her. It gave her time to find a pigeonhole in her mind into which she could stuff her confused and confusing feelings about Ben. It gave her time to assess the strange expression she had seen on his face.
It was the face of realization.… But of what? Had it anything to do with her? While it made sense—he was staring at her at the time—his thoughts could have gone wandering and hit upon something unsavory. The thought was definitely not of a pleasant nature; Ben had gone rather gray.
The best indication that it might in some way be associated with her was Ben’s unexpected new manner. He no longer looked her in the eye, not even in her direction. Whenever they inadvertently stood near each other, Ben moved away. Twice he made as if to pass her something—her fan when it dropped and then a letter that was being shared with the company—changed his mind, and allowed Ernest to do the job in one instance and Emily in the other.
Imogene was terribly confused and, without a doubt, hurt. She had no contagion. Had her father’s aversion finally affected Ben’s opinion? Did he, too, now find her annoying—like a pestering insect? She thought their rapport had progressed beyond friendship, more like comrades in art, and there was a chance that she would be his sister-in-law one day. And yet, suddenly—for it was very sudden—Ben no longer valued her company. It was devastating, for all that Imogene could ever have of Ben Steeple would be his wit and laughter and his company. The thought of losing even that small allotment was close to tragic.
She didn’t know what to do.… Well, she did, but she was loath to do it.
They had to talk.
*
TIRED AND NERVOUS after a sleepless night, Imogene met Ben in the cellars for their next art lesson—where he could learn how to draw supports, foundations, keystones, and such. Emily had suggested it, and Ben had agreed, though reluctantly.
Emily walked with Imogene into the depths of the manor as the wine cellars formed a complicated labyrinth.
“Just around the corner and then … Well, look who is already here.” Emily’s tone took on a cooing quality.
Imogene could easily guess but didn’t bother.
“Oh, the extra candles are a vast improvement. Excellent idea. What do you think, Imogene?”
“Yes indeed, excellent.” Imogene avoided meeting Ben’s eye. She placed her supplies on the table that had been brought down for them to use and made a great chore out of arranging the materials. She glanced around for something that might be of interest for her to sketch while Ben was busy with his bricks and mortar.
Bottles … hmm, more bottles and bottles in a rack. She decided to sketch the chair.
Emily stayed for a quarter hour, trying to engage Ben in conversation, but he kept lapsing into silent concentration. She finally shrugged and headed back upstairs into the warmer environs of the manor. Imogene had brought a serviceable shawl, knowing that it would be cool belowground and not feeling a need to impress with a pretty, summery gown.
The silence of the cellar continued for some moments until Imogene saw an excuse to break into the stifling atmosphere, which had nothing to do with the airless room. “I’m afraid the proportions are off between these two stones. Perhaps if you make this one smaller, then you will … Yes, there. I think that works better.… Don’t you?”
Ben nodded, head still down, graphite pencil still scratching across the surface of the rough paper. “Yes. Indeed.”
“Excellent.” Imogene took a deep breath, swallowed, and cleared her throat. “And, perhaps, while I have your attention, I might ask what it is that I have done to put you so out of charity?”
Finally, Ben lifted his handsome head, frowning. “Out of charity?”
“You have been behaving in a peculiar manner since yesterday. As if I had been inflicted with smallpox and you were afraid of the contagion.”
Ben laughed, but not in his usual casual manner. It was staccato and forced. “Smallpox, indeed. What an idea.” He dropped his eyes back to his paper and lifted his stick, focusing on the sketch once again. His easy charm was on hiatus.
Imogene rubbed at her forehead, sighed—as quietly as she could—and settled her nerves again. “Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Ben, please look at me. Thank you. Something is wrong, but I can’t repair the damage if I know not what has caused the rift. Yes, I know that is a terrible metaphor, but I am vastly uncomfortable, and it’s getting worse the longer you stare at me without saying anything, without explaining why I am no longer your friend. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying you have no idea of what I speak. You can tell me that my sense of guilt is misplaced, that you are upset about something else, that I am not the cause of your discomfort but merely the beneficiary. That I would consider. But an out-and-out denial that anything is wrong … well, it will only serve to make me more uncomfortable and not resolve the situation at all.”