Suitors and Sabotage(67)
Emily shared a look with Imogene that spoke of excitement and anticipation as she joined Ben near the ornate chimneypiece on the opposite side of the sizable room. They would have to catch up later.
Imogene turned back to the window. A light rain drizzled against the glass panes, trickling down to the sill in long streaks; they put her in mind of tears.
*
“WHAT HAS HAPPENED?” Emily whispered a few hours later as they climbed the stairs to the third-floor gallery. They were about to tour the collection of marvels that Ben and Ernest’s parents had sent back from Italy. It had been Sir Steeple’s suggestion; Ben had argued that the viewing could be saved for another day, but Ernest had sided with his grandfather, and up they had gone. Ben, despite his initial disagreement, had led the way, followed by Ernest, allowing Emily and Imogene to slow their steps for a private, though brief, conversation.
“Ben was not at all pleased when I asked him about Ernest in regard to the incidents. In fact, he was furious.”
“Oh dear.”
“He was so affronted that he gave me no time to explain that it was only speculation. And now he will not talk to me at all. I am miserable, Emily. I do not want to be here. If I could, I would pack up immediately and head home. Please give me leave to talk to Ernest. As soon as I have broken his heart, I can rush home to be harangued by my family.”
Emily frowned. “Gracious, I don’t believe I have ever seen you this distraught before.”
“It is likely a first. I am as wretched a creature as can walk this earth. I am about to break the heart of a fine young man—who, in fact, I don’t believe had anything to do with these incidents. And now his brother thinks very, very poorly of me because I suggested something I don’t credit.”
“It is my mistake, Imogene. I was the one to speculate that Ernest might be involved. Dear, dear. I have made a mull of everything.”
“No, Emily. It is not—”
“I hope you will agree that the collection is worth the effort,” Ernest said with a smile, watching Imogene and Emily climb to the top stair. The excitement in his voice was a clear indication that he expected no argument.
“I’m sure we will. Though, for the record, a flight of steps is hardly an effort.”
While Imogene could hear a hint of irritation in Emily’s rejoinder, she hoped that Ernest could not. It stemmed from their broken conversation, not Ernest’s comment. Really! There were times the idea of living atop a mountain with no one around for miles was quite appealing.
And then Imogene lifted her eyes and tripped to a standstill. She ceased moving, thinking, and breathing. She merely absorbed the glory, the mastery, the beauty that was this room. For an eon of minutes, Imogene beheld a sight that she had not expected.
The Musson House gallery was a wonder of wonders. Stretching the length of the manor, with large, arched windows at either end, the walls had been painted an unobtrusive green, the planked floor was stained pale gray. They were a quiet background for the riot within the room; the wall space was entirely covered in gold-framed masterpieces: still lifes, landscapes, seascapes, triptychs, portraits, and mythic representations. Some were hung in stacks of three; the larger paintings stood alone.
Running down the center, on white pedestals, were marble statues of such artistry they made Imogene want to bow in awe at the sculptor’s talent. Separate and yet part of the whole, carved stone in stark white, they were a perfect antithesis to the burst of color on the walls. Here was a place she could stay forever. Stare and absorb and try to understand how such marvels were achieved, day after day, month after month … yes, forever. This was a haven far better than a mountaintop.
Without thought, Imogene turned to the one person who would recognize her stupor. The one who would know that bliss had escaped her heart and was racing through her veins. She turned to Ben.
He was watching. He knew; he understood. His mouth quirked up into a one-sided smile. They stood by the stairs, locked in each other’s gaze for what seemed like hours until something moved behind her and Ben blinked. His eyes clouded, his smile disappeared, and indifference replaced it. Bliss slowed to a trot. When he turned, bliss walked away with him.
“This is beautiful, Benjamin,” Emily said in a bright voice, clearly enthralled. “Are they all Italian?”
“No, not all. My parents began their Grand Tour in the Low Countries. These two are Van Eyck and this is a Rubens. When they passed through France on their way to Italy, they sent home a Chardin still life.”
Rather than follow Emily as she wandered down the length of the gallery, Imogene stopped in front of one particularly poignant painting. It was of a young girl in what seemed to be a Bavarian costume; her mother, behind her, was placing a wreath of flowers on her head. A Maypole and dancers could be seen in the background. A rite of spring. A jubilant painting, one of revelry and merriment.
Imogene tried to let it seep into her listless heart.
“I knew you would like it,” Ernest said, coming to stand next to her. It was likely a reference to the gallery in its entirety rather than this one painting. “It is a shame that my parents cannot be here to enjoy their own collection.”
Imogene nodded. “Still searching for more? Looking to expand the gallery?”
“Always.”
Perpetually composed, Ernest said the word in a tone that Imogene could have mistaken for resentment had she thought about it overly, which she chose not to do. There was a possibility of invading his privacy had she done so—Ernest might not have realized how much his voice had revealed.