Jane Feather (11 page)

He took a sip of brandy, smiling slightly. He had enjoyed that reputation, although it by no means represented the hardworking and ambitious student that he actually was. Quite a Goody Two-shoes, in fact. He had left Oxford with a double first, much to Sir Daniel’s gratification, and had been plunged instantly into the world of the bar. Connections helped, of course, and he received a few minor briefs quite quickly, and when he had won his first few trials his own reputation had grown and the briefs had come in in greater numbers and had been of greater importance. There had been little enough time for romantic dalliance in his life, and he’d had no interest in marriage at that point, which was why Dorothea Symonds had seemed the perfect solution to a young man’s lust and need for female companionship as a necessary leavening of the all-male world of chambers.

Dorothea was a widow, living on a small stipend from her late husband’s career in the army and what she could earn as a milliner’s assistant on Praed Street. Most important, she did not belong to the same social circles as the Riverdales, or frequent the small and exclusive area of town they inhabited. She was genteel, never vulgar or overly demanding, and he could go about town with her in areas where she was comfortable without any fear of drawing unwelcome attention to their liaison. He had set her up in a small cottage in Hampstead and visited her as it suited him. It had been the perfect arrangement for a man so wrapped up in his career that he had no time to play the field, or even to look about him seriously for a wife.

And then Imogen Carstairs had burst upon his consciousness one early summer evening at a soiree given by a friend of his parents. He had gone reluctantly, but at his father’s insistence. Sir Daniel was more interested in his son’s finding a suitable wife than was the son himself. And he’d been struck dumb the minute he’d walked into the room and seen her holding court among a group of young men and women in a window embrasure.

The late afternoon sun caught glints of liquid honey in her hair, a thick dark brown like molasses. She was tall, almost as tall as he, and slender as a willow, her bare sloping shoulders rising from the neckline of an elegant gown of pale green striped silk, with a dark green sash. Charles was not of a poetic nature, and yet the imagery came thick and fast that evening as he stood still, gazing at her. He remembered how his hostess had tried to hide her amusement when she’d come over to greet him, and even now he could remember his blush as he realized when she’d said, “Ah, my dear Charles, I see that you urgently require an introduction to the beautiful Miss Carstairs,” what his rapt gaze must have revealed to all and sundry.

He’d stammered a reply, and his hostess had taken his arm and led him across to the group. “Imogen, my dear, allow me to introduce Mr. Charles Riverdale. He is most anxious to make your acquaintance.”

He remembered that Imogen had turned to him with a smile that even now could take his breath away, it was so dazzlingly intense when she gave someone her full attention. Her eyes were wide, clear, and gray, sparkling with wit and humor.

But he’d also seen them dark as a storm-ridden sky, he reflected, taking another sip of brandy. And it didn’t take much for the mercurial Miss Carstairs to turn from sunshine to storm when her most deeply held convictions were challenged. But he loved that in her. She was not changeable or unpredictable in the general way of things, and she was more than capable of rational discussion and analysis of opposing opinions—except in one area: the social and legal inequality of women.

He sighed. It wasn’t that he was unsympathetic to her position, or to her fervent support for women’s suffrage. But he worked within the law and had little interest in changing it. He took briefs that were offered to him, and won them as he knew best how to do. He thought of one particular fight they’d had when she’d called him a legal whore, willing to spread his legs for whoever was paying him.

Now that had really made him angry, even as he had the uncomfortable realization that she had a point, however insultingly expressed. She had apologized readily enough for the language she’d used. Imogen was always quick to acknowledge her faults, but she had not taken back the sentiment.

And yet throughout all the tumult of their relationship, it had never occurred to him, or, he believed, to Imogen, that they were not somehow a match pair. Without her, he felt as if he’d lost an essential part of himself. She was the white to his black, or vice versa.

And when he had tried to bring a gentlemanly close to the liaison with Dorothea, she had told him she was carrying his child. He had thought he had done everything possible to avoid pregnancy, but somehow it had happened anyway. He’d told himself there were ways to manage the situation, to fulfill his responsibilities to child and mother, and yet separate himself from Dorothea and live the married life that was his destiny . . . until Jamie had been born. Even as he’d held the baby for the first time, he’d been swept by a totally unexpected hurricane of adoration for his son. He had been fool enough to imagine that he could keep that side of his life away from Imogen . . . that somehow he could visit Dorothea as a concerned friend, see Jamie regularly, take care of his schooling. The house was in Dorothea’s name: She would be taken care of financially, but there would be no personal relationship with her, particularly after his marriage. His lawyer and accountant would take care of everything. He would more than honor his obligations, and it would be of no concern to Imogen at all.

And what kind of midsummer night’s dream had he been living in? Charles thought with disgust.

He drained his goblet and went to refill it. A tap at the door brought in the parlormaid to draw the curtains, turn up the gas, and see to the fire. Charles stood by the sideboard holding his goblet, gazing reflectively into its amber depths as he swirled the liquid against the sides of the goblet.

The girl finished her work, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried away. Charles sipped his brandy. What was his next step? His reflections had led him to one conclusion. Bringing the lawyerly detachment of the courtroom to this situation would be futile. So what alternative? And then it came to him. A smile spread slowly over his lean countenance. He had had the right idea last night. Imogen was a citadel, to be taken by storm. Forget the niceties, the elegant courtroom moves—surprise in a full frontal attack was the only way forward.

Chapter 11

Daisy was draping a paisley shawl over Imogen’s shoulders when a knock at the bedroom door brought Esther, already dressed for dinner in a gown of blue velvet. “This came for you by the second post, Gen. It looks like Kate Sutton’s handwriting.” She held up the envelope in her hand. “Sharpton apologized for not getting it to you earlier, but the postman was late, apparently.”

“Oh, news at last,” Imogen said eagerly as she took the letter. “I have been starved of all the news and gossip from society since the New Year. Kate is a shocking correspondent. . . . Oh, thank you, Daisy. That’ll be all for now.” She threw an absent smile at her maid, who dropped a curtsy and hurried down to the servants’ hall for her own hasty dinner before the family sat down to theirs.

“I’ve always liked that Indian muslin,” Esther observed, regarding her sister’s dress with approval. “Won’t it be a bit chilly though? It’s drafty in the dining room.”

“Hence the shawl,” her sister responded, slitting the envelope with the tip of her manicure scissors. She unfolded the tightly written sheet. Lady Katharine Sutton was a good friend and a fellow member of the committee of the Westminster branch of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies.

“What does Kate have to say?” Esther prompted, when it seemed her sister was not about to share the contents of her letter spontaneously.

“Mostly she wants to know how soon we’ll be back in town,” Imogen said without lifting her eyes from the letter. “Some poor soul has been thrown out of her house by her husband, who’s denying her access to her children, and the Westminster branch is gathering together as much support for her as we can.”

“Divorce?” Esther inquired, coming to read over her sister’s shoulder.

“Looks like it . . . but the woman . . . Emily, her name is . . . is still frightened about taking such a step. She won’t even use her husband’s name in case he finds out where she is. Here, read it for yourself.” Imogen handed the sheet of vellum to her sister. “Kate’s taken her in for the moment, but obviously that’s no permanent solution.”

“No,” Esther agreed, reading to the end. “But women are so powerless in the courts. No wonder she’s frightened. He’ll have the upper hand without even proving anything.”

“He already has the upper hand,” Imogen pointed out with a grimace. “According to Kate, Emily has no access to money—she’s completely dependent on her husband.” She took back the letter and folded it carefully. “We have to get back to London, Essie. There’s nothing like a good cause to get the blood moving, and I’ve been sitting on the back burner far too long.”

“Sounds very uncomfortable,” Esther said with a quirk of a smile. “But I take your point. Next week we’ll be back in Stanhope Terrace and pick up the reins again.”

They went down to the drawing room together as the clock struck six, just as Duncan and his friends returned from Beringer Manor. They were noisy, stamping their feet as they came into the hall, laughing and talking, cheeks reddened with the cold night air, but warm inside from the afternoon’s drinking.

“Ah, there you are, Imogen. Why did you run off so early?” Duncan asked his sister. “It was hardly polite for you and Esther to disappear so soon after luncheon.”

“It was a great deal politer than overstaying our welcome,” Imogen retorted. “It’s six o’clock. The customary hour for leaving a luncheon party is four.”

“Oh, in the country, maybe,” Duncan declared, “but Charles is accustomed to town customs, my dear girl.” He took in his sister’s evening dress. “Lord, you’re dressed for dinner already. You may be sure Charles isn’t intending to dine much before eight.”

“Charles may do as he sees fit,” Imogen retorted. “He’s not invited for dinner. Mrs. Windsor, however, expects to put dinner on the table at seven when we’re here.” She gave her brother’s guests an apologetic smile. “You must forgive us our country ways, gentlemen. But the staff like to keep country hours unless we have a full house party. Of course, we could ask Sharpton to send a message to the kitchens to put dinner back for you if that would suit you better. I’m sure something could be arranged.” She sent Duncan a significant glance and saw to her satisfaction that he had taken the point. He knew from childhood that Mrs. Windsor was not to be trifled with.

“No . . . no, of course that won’t be necessary . . . wouldn’t put out Mrs. Windsor for the world. We’ll dress at once, eh, chaps?” He glanced at his friends, who, apart from Harry Graham, looked as if they were ready for an extended nap.

Murmurs of agreement accompanied the young men across the hall and up the stairs, and Imogen, exchanging a quick smile with her sister, followed Esther into the drawing room. She was about to sit by the fire when Sharpton, looking apologetic, came in with a small package. “This arrived by the afternoon carrier, Miss Imogen. Quite slipped my mind when I gave Miss Esther the afternoon post.” He handed her a slim packet that bore the postmark of Leonard Smithers, a London publisher with whom she maintained an account.

Imogen opened the packet with scissors from Esther’s sewing basket. As she expected, a pristine copy of
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
. She had ordered it late the previous year, but her abrupt departure to Hampshire and the upheavals of Christmas and New Year had caused a delay in its arrival.

It was the seventh printing of the poem but the first that bore the author’s name.
Oscar Wilde.
She sat down to open the book. Wilde had been in exile since his release from gaol in May 1897 and, according to rumor, was living in poverty in Paris.

“New book?” Esther inquired from the sideboard, where she was pouring sherry.

“Yes, just arrived this afternoon.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
” Imogen closed the book as she spoke, holding out the slim vellum-bound volume to her sister, taking the proffered sherry glass in exchange.

“Oh, it’s the one with Wilde’s name on it.” Esther leafed through it with a gentle fingertip. “You did well to order it, although I know we have another copy somewhere in the library in town.”

“Yes, the one accredited to C.3.3.” Imogen leaned back in her chair. “It’s just appalling what happened to Wilde. Such a brilliant man, just thrown away like that. ‘Hard labor, hard fare, and a hard bed,’ isn’t that what he was sentenced to?”

“As I remember.” Esther set the book down. “And for a man who had lived such a soft and indulgent existence, it must have been horrendous. It’s no wonder his health was broken.”

“No wonder at all.” Imogen rose from her chair, glancing at her image in the mirror above the fireplace, tucking an errant strand of hair into one of the pins that kept her chignon in order. “Of course, if he hadn’t insisted on suing Queensbury for libel, the whole business would have stayed undercover.” She returned to her seat. “Such a waste of a brilliant mind, all for the sake of some misplaced vanity.”

“Who are you talking about?” Duncan came into the drawing room, Harry Graham at his side. “You sound uncommon serious.”

“Oh, we were talking about Oscar Wilde.” Imogen gestured to the volume on the side table. “I just received the copy of
Reading Gaol
that bears his name. His plays are so witty, so pointed. I remember thinking how
Lady Windermere’s Fan
showed up the whole hypocrisy of this society.” She glanced at Harry Graham, who had taken up the volume. “Did you see it, Harry?”

He looked at her briefly. “Yes, and I agree. A dreadful waste of a brilliant mind.” He set the book down again.

“Help yourself to a drink, Harry?” Esther gestured to the sideboard. “Duncan seems to be off in a world of his own.”

Her brother looked up hastily from his intent perusal of the fireplace. “Oh, yes . . . yes, of course. Forgive me, Harry. Whiskey all right?” He went to the sideboard as he spoke. “I really don’t think we should have that man’s books in the house, Gen. He’s persona non grata in society—many people won’t speak his name, particularly in front of women.”

“Well, that’s just nonsense,” Imogen declared robustly. “That’s as good as saying one shouldn’t go and see
The Importance of Being Earnest,
for instance, for fear of contamination by . . . oh, how did Wilde describe it?”

“‘The love that dare not speak its name,’” Harry said quietly, taking a cut-glass tumbler from Duncan with a nod of thanks. “Is that the quote you’re referring to, Imogen?”

“Yes, exactly that,” she agreed, sipping her sherry. “What possible harm can a man’s private life do to the rest of the world?”

Duncan’s complexion changed rapidly from red to white. “Not even a married woman would dare say such a thing, Imogen . . . and certainly not a single lady of breeding. You’ll never find a husband if you go around saying such things in public.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was looking for a husband just at present,” his sister retorted.

“I’m sure Charles wouldn’t approve,” Duncan persisted.

“In the circumstances, Charles’s approval or disapproval are moot, I would have said.” Imogen rose to refill her sherry glass. “But as it happens, Duncan dear, you’d be wrong. Charles was a supporter of Wilde, believe it or not. If he’d been asked to defend him, he would have done. He said so himself.”

Esther shot her sister a warning look as Imogen returned to her seat. Duncan was visibly upset, and Imogen was making things worse. Imogen caught the look and gave an infinitesimal nod of understanding. “We thought it felt like snow when we rode home.” She turned the subject onto an unimpeachable topic.

“Yes, we thought so too.” Harry promptly picked up the cue. “It’ll put a damper on tomorrow’s shooting, I fear.”

“Oh, it won’t be more than a dusting.” Duncan seemed to have returned to himself. He refilled Harry’s tumbler. “So what has Mrs. Windsor prepared for our delectation this evening?” He sat down, crossing his ankles, sipping his whiskey. The smile he cast generally around the small circle seemed strangely unmoored to Imogen.

“I’m not sure, but I think in your honor she’s prepared her crown roast of lamb as the centerpiece. And I know there’s blackberry and apple pie somewhere on the menu.”

“Excellent.” Duncan rubbed his hands together. “A veritable feast . . . just wait until you taste Mrs. Windsor’s blackberry and apple pie, Harry.”

Imogen cast a quick look at Esther. Did she too think there was something odd about their brother’s manner? But Esther appeared oblivious. The arrival of the rest of Duncan’s guests put a stop to speculation. The young men seemed to have recovered from the afternoon’s excesses—they drank liberally from the whiskey decanter and kept up a level of social gossip and small talk quite clearly intended to provide diversion for their host’s sisters. Imogen and Esther did their best to reciprocate, showing appreciation of the effort, but the summons to the dinner table was something of a relief.

Imogen thought Duncan rather abstracted throughout dinner. He seemed a little slow to respond to questions, or to jocular comments from his friends, and the level in his wineglass was consistently low. She wondered again if Esther noticed too, but her sister was cheerfully maintaining her role as friend and surrogate hostess and gave no sign of being aware of any abstraction on Duncan’s part.

They were reaching the end of dessert, the last crumb of blackberry and apple pie demolished, when Sharpton entered the dining room. He looked affronted, a most unusual expression for the normally impassive butler.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Beaufort, Miss Imogen, but Mr. Riverdale is insisting upon seeing Miss Imogen immediately.”

“What?”
Imogen dropped her napkin to the table. “What do you mean, Sharpton?
Insists?
”

“Yes, ma’am. He is in the hall. I asked him to wait in the drawing room, but he refused. He insists on seeing you.” Sharpton’s voice was a monotone; only his rigid expression gave away the outrage he was concealing.

“Well, bring him in, man,” Duncan declared. “Bring him in at once. I’m sure he’ll be glad of a glass of port and some of that excellent Stilton. What d’you mean, keeping the man waiting in the hall?” Duncan was on his feet, napkin clutched in his fist, with every intention of heading for the hall.

Sharpton coughed. “With your permission, my lord, I did invite Mr. Riverdale to join you but he refused. His business, he says, lies with Miss Imogen . . . and no one else.”

A momentary stunned silence fell over the table and all eyes turned to Imogen, who was very pale, but remained at her seat. “Would you show Mr. Riverdale into the library, Sharpton? I will join him there when I have finished dinner.”

Sharpton bowed. “Yes, of course, ma’am.” He slipped away noiselessly.

The silence around the table was profound. Esther looked at her sister, who calmly spooned Stilton from the round in front of her and placed it carefully onto her plate. Equally calmly, she took the scissors and clipped a bunch from the hothouse grapes on the plate in front of her. She began to eat.

Esther smiled to herself and followed suit. There were going to be fireworks. As far as she was concerned, it was high time the artificial tranquility of the last few months was shattered. The coming confrontation was long overdue, however it ended. Imogen had broken the engagement too quickly to be at peace with her decision.

The door opened abruptly and they all looked up. Charles Riverdale stood there, pulling off his gloves, snow clinging to the shoulders of his caped greatcoat, flakes glistening in his dark hair. “Esther . . . Imogen . . . gentlemen.” He nodded amiably to the diners. “As you haven’t quite finished your dinner, Imogen, then I’ll take a glass of port with you all.” A footman hastily pulled out a chair for him, and Charles calmly took off his overcoat, handing it with his gloves to the footman before taking the proffered chair.

He nodded his thanks as William Markham slid the port decanter towards him. He filled the glass that had appeared beside him and took an appreciative sip. “Very fine, Duncan. Part of your father’s cellars, I assume. He was always very fond of his port, as I recall.”

“Yes . . . yes, he was,” Duncan mumbled, glancing anxiously towards his eldest sister, who was continuing to eat Stilton and grapes as if nothing could disturb her composure.