Suitors and Sabotage(46)
Mr. Tabard sighed. Shifting his balance from one leg to the other, he squinted toward the drive and the diminishing figures. “There is always a great deal of fuss when strangers are about. Perhaps now the stay will return to ordinary days. More comfort, as Clara used to say, in familiarity.”
“You are off on the morrow, Mr. Tabard,” Emily reminded him.
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, then perhaps when you come to visit at Greytower. Yes, things will be as they always were at the Hall. Except that Clara … of course.”
Imogene swallowed against the tightening of her throat and joined Mr. Tabard at the door. “It will not be quite the same, but I’m sure…” Her words petered off. It wouldn’t be the same without Cousin Clara at all, and to pretend otherwise almost felt disrespectful to her memory.
“Might I ask”—Mr. Tabard turned his watery eyes to Emily—“that you include Jake in your company at Greytower? I know you to have a calming influence on him.”
Emily’s frown came and went quickly; it was unlikely that Mr. Tabard saw it. But Imogene knew the frown’s source. Any influence Emily had on Jake lived solely in the imagination of poor Mr. Tabard. “Of course,” Emily said easily. “Though I’m not sure he or Percy will be interested in the same pursuits. They have a tendency toward more energetic jaunts.”
Mr. Tabard nodded, but Imogene was fairly certain that though he had heard, he would not heed. Percy and Jake had always treated Imogene and Emily as pestering little sisters with no wit. There was hardly any chance of that changing in the near future.
Looking back over her shoulder, Imogene sighed silently. The drive was empty, the Steeples were gone, and she did not know when she might see them again. The prospect of returning to ordinary days, as Mr. Tabard had called them, held little appeal.
*
GREYTOWER HALL, DOWERSHAM, KENT—
EARLY AUGUST 1817
EMILY’S BAROUCHE WAS an ideal carriage for a summer drive through the countryside. It provided unobstructed views when the hood was pushed back, and it seated four. There was plenty of room for a close friend and two sisters, but not their governess. Miss Watson complained bitterly; the girls did not.
As they were traveling to Dowersham en masse, the Beeswangers arrived from Tishdale in their travel coach, Emily’s barouche, and a luggage cart. They added the Chively coach, Percy on horseback, and, of course, their own luggage cart to the convoy. It was just as well that the journey would take only an hour.… Perhaps an hour and a half, since there was negligible wind and the pace was slow.
With little privacy, deep matters—such as whether or not any letters had been received in the past fortnight—were not discussed. Instead, the discourse seemed to center on a new milliner in Tishdale, the Beeswanger cook’s attempt at French cuisine, and the spot on Harriet’s pretty gown—which may or may not be ruined. Imogene paid scant attention.
For the first time ever, Imogene found that she was not interested in yet another stay. Too much gadding about in her mind, though it was not dissimilar from every other summer of her life. Still, this time the families had spent the spring in London. Perhaps it was the combination of constant upheaval for the better part of two seasons that had given her the unsettled feel.… Or it could have something to do with the Steeple brothers and indecision. It would be most inconvenient if that were the case; it would mean her lackluster humor could be laid only at her own door.
Emily said nothing—nor could she with younger ears seated so close—and yet she tossed a fair number of frowning glances her friend’s way. Imogene shrugged and smiled, in a most convincing act of nonchalance that didn’t fool Emily one iota. They were barely out of the carriage—the girls bounding toward the front door of Greytower while their parents stretched and laughed together as they stepped down onto the gravel—when Emily pulled Imogene aside.
“Has Ernest not written?” Emily asked in a voice ready to be outraged.
“Yes. Yes, indeed,” Imogene said quickly, divesting her friend of the idea that Ernest was an inconstant suitor. “Nearly every day. And you? Did Ben write?”
“No, goose. He did not have Papa’s permission.” She winked. “Though I would not have sent any missives away had he done so.… But it is irrelevant as—”
A shout of amusement cut through the air and the company’s conversations.
“Jake!” Percy laughed loudly. “What are you about?”
The Tabards had come to greet their guests and stood waiting by the door. With the antiquity of Greytower Hall in the background—its ivy-covered tower entrance with a steep roof and rows of chimney pots peeking over the ridge—the tableau was dramatic and unexpected. Mr. Tabard and Jake were dressed in London fashion. Gone were the country brown coats, plain waistcoats, and buckskins. In their place were black tailcoats, richly patterned waistcoats, pantaloons, and hessians. With shoulders back and chin lifted, Jake looked entirely unlike himself. He bowed to the parents, nodded to Emily and Imogene, called “hullo” to the girls, and then ruined the effect by grinning—and hooting—with Percy.
Imogene had to admit that Jake was imposing; though not handsome in the classic sense, as the glint of mischief in his eyes was still too pronounced by her way of thinking, his toothy grin was infectious—and he was well turned out. It was somewhat of a surprise, as Imogene did not recall Jake being as well attired in London.