That Summer: A Novel (3 page)

Impossible to think that only three weeks ago she’d had no idea such a man existed and he no notion of her. There they had been at opposite ends of the world until fate had brought them together.

Arthur, she repeated to herself. In public he could be Mr. Grantham, but she had the right to call him Arthur.

It was her father’s illness, ironically, that had brought her and Arthur together. As the winter had grown colder and her father had grown sicker, he had begun to fret about money. There had never been terribly much. What little they had her father spent on books. That hadn’t mattered, so long as he had his parish, but with his death Imogen would lose her home and what little income there was. There was nothing saved away, nothing salable, except for her father’s beloved fifteenth-century Book of Hours.

Against Imogen’s protests, he had put it about, through select channels, that his book, his precious book, might be available for sale.

She had expected the purchaser to be someone of her father’s age, another elderly antiquarian, with a lined face and thin hands, someone as pale and fragile as the old parchment he coveted.

Instead, it had been Arthur.

He came riding in, like his namesake, like a knight of old, albeit in a sensible traveling chaise rather than on a charging destrier. Imogen didn’t hold that against him. It would be rather hard to ride a galloping steed all the way from London, particularly given the state of the roads in winter.

He had appeared on a blustery February day, bringing with him the tang of the outside world, like the orange her father always gave her at Christmas, tart and sweet and strange. Arthur’s long ginger whiskers, the cut of his clothes, the shape of his hat, all spoke of a world well outside their cloistered village.

He was not a man of fashion, Arthur had told her apologetically, just a widower, a scholar, a man of quiet tastes and quiet habits.

He had found her in the garden that first day, on this very bench. Her father had fallen asleep over his papers, and Mr. Grantham didn’t like to wake him. Ought he to wait, or to return to the inn where he was putting up? He would, he said with a polite bow, enjoy more of her father’s conversation; it was a pity such a learned man was retired so far from his peers, from the men who might benefit from his knowledge. Arthur himself was engaged in attempting to create a comprehensive catalog of late-medieval devotional manuscript art.

Was he limiting himself to any geographical area? Imogen wanted to know. Or was it a comparative project?

He settled himself on the bench, his hat balanced on his knees, and began describing his work, the manuscripts he had seen, the ones he still hoped to find, his methods of classification and analysis, while Imogen asked questions and proposed refinements to the scheme.

Had he considered a comparative study of Northern and Southern European manuscript art?

The negotiations over the Book of Hours had stretched to two days, to a week. Imogen suspected both men were enjoying it. Every day, Mr. Grantham walked down the lane from the Cock and the Hen, the village inn. For an hour, he would sit with Imogen’s father in his study; through the window, Imogen could see them, heads bent over her father’s papers. Then, as her father dozed, Mr. Grantham would join her in the frost-crisp garden, on the bench, their cheeks red with cold, telling her tales of the places he had visited, the wonders he had seen. Venice, Florence, Bologna. Paris, Avignon, Tours. The very names sang.

“And did you see…?” Imogen would ask, and he would steadily, patiently paint pictures in words for her, of this painting or that statue or the particular fall of light on an autumn day behind the ruined towers of a Cathar castle.

Two weeks, then three. He had family waiting for him at home, he told her regretfully, family who would be expecting his return. A daughter, and his wife’s sister, who kept house for him. Since his wife’s death …

His wife was dead?

Yes, seven years ago, the same age as his little girl. Since his wife’s death, he had spent most of his time away from home, traveling the world, collecting treasures. But now that Evie was of an age to miss him, he owed it to her to return to his own hearth.

“Although,” he added in a low voice, “had I known what wonders awaited me in Cornwall, I should have journeyed this way long since.”

“You would have had little luck then persuading my father to relinquish his Book of Hours,” said Imogen practically. Her father’s real interest was in the secular literature of the High Middle Ages, the chansons de geste and courtly tales, but the Book of Hours had been a gift from her mother and was prized as such. “It is his greatest treasure.”

“It was not of the book I was thinking,” said Mr. Grantham.

It took Imogen a moment to catch his meaning. She looked at him in surprise, in confusion, doubting her own understanding. He was sitting where he always sat, beside her on the bench, but his eyes were steady on her face and there was a look she had never seen in them before.

“You look like a Madonna,” he said. “Wrapped in serenity.”

Imogen felt anything but serene. She could not think of anything to say, so she said foolishly, “I had thought the Madonna was meant to be blond.”

“Only in the common way,” said Mr. Grantham, with a connoisseur’s scorn for the common. “Some men cannot see past the glint of gold.”

Imogen touched a hand to her own dark hair. It was parted in the center, pulled smoothly back, not bunched and frizzed in the current fashion. There had never been any need to take pains with her dress; she was neat and tidy and that was all.

Mr. Grantham leaned back, studying her with an intensity that made her drop her eyes to her folded hands. “You remind me of a Madonna I saw in a little church outside of Florence. The painter was a man of no name, but his work has survived him. The Madonna’s hair was pulled back just as yours is, her hair as dark, her skin as fair. There was a haunting loveliness about her. I would have bought it,” he said, with a deprecatory smile, “had it not been fixed to the wall.”

“I can see,” said Imogen, speaking too high and too fast, “why they would not wish to part with their treasure. It should leave a rather large blank space on the wall.”

When she looked up, Mr. Grantham was still looking at her, steadily. His eyes were a cloudy blue, like the sea on an overcast day. “I should like to take you there. To see it.”

Her heart beating very fast, her fingers trembling in her lap, Imogen had said directly, honestly, “I should like to see it.”

It was then that he had kissed her for the first time.

He had been very apologetic afterwards, excoriating himself for abusing her father’s hospitality, for betraying her innocence, but Imogen had gone through the rest of the day in a cloud of wonder, touching a finger to her lips where his lips had touched. She had studied herself in the mirror trying to see what he had seen but saw only her own face, pale skin against dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, features too strong for fashion.

But if Arthur saw loveliness there …

“He is so much older,” murmured her father. “I should have liked someone younger for you, someone closer to your own age.”

Imogen squeezed her father’s hand, trying to ignore how it quivered in her grasp, how frail and thin his fingers had become. “What are a few years? You’ve always said I was an old soul.” She made a face. “I’ve certainly more to say to Ar—to Mr. Grantham than to anyone my own age.”

Not that she knew many people her own age. The boys in the village were shy in her presence; they pulled their caps and shuffled their feet. As for the Granvilles, who lived in the great house, they were seldom in Cornwall, spending most of their time in London. Their boys were six and ten, still in the frogs and stones stage.

“I have kept you too much secluded,” her father said, more to himself than her. “You ought to have had some exposure to society … to young people of your own kind.…”

“I have never missed it,” Imogen said truly.

“Your uncle…” her father said, half to himself. “He would take you in, at Hadley Hall. Even after— Your uncle wanted to marry your mother. Years and years ago, when we were all young. He was furious when she chose me, instead.”

“Yes, yes,” said Imogen. She had heard the story before. Right now, she had no interest in old scandals; it was the present that concerned her. Arthur had tactfully returned to the inn, leaving her to wrangle her father’s blessing. “But, Papa—”

Her father continued, “Even so, you are still a Hadley. And it has been so long.… I should have written to William months ago. I have been selfish, foolish.”

Imogen bristled. There was nothing that appealed to her less than the idea of being a pensioner in her uncle’s home. The idea of going from mistress in her father’s household to an oddity in her uncle’s was distinctly unpleasant.

“Uncle William wouldn’t know me from—from that rock in the garden. Why should I be bundled off to him like an unwanted parcel?” She added unhappily, “I thought you liked Arthur. I thought you would be happy for us.”

Her father roused in his seat, the blankets rustling. “I do. But it’s a very different thing to like a man over a glass of port than to wish him married to one’s only daughter.” His thin lips pressed together, wobbling at the edges. “I wish I had more time. I wish your mother were here.”

He had been speaking of Imogen’s mother more and more recently, speaking of her as though she were only a room away, near enough to call.

Fear made Imogen reckless. “Mama would have understood. She chose you over Uncle William, for all that you were a younger son. She chose you because she loved you.”

There were deep furrows between her father’s eyes. “Your mother and I had grown up together; we had known each other from childhood. This Grantham—”

“I love Arthur, Papa,” said Imogen boldly. “Truly, I do. What does three weeks or three years or three decades matter? Would it have taken you that long to know that you loved Mama?”

Her father’s hands trembled against the rough wool of the blankets. “I had not thought,” he said heavily, “that when I offered up one of my treasures, I should find myself losing the other as well.”

Imogen scented triumph. She asked eagerly, “Does that mean you give us your blessing?”

She wished he looked happier about it. “I haven’t much choice in the matter, have I? The thought of leaving you, all alone in the world … I have left you so ill prepared.”

“You have given me everything I ever wanted,” said Imogen passionately.

“No,” said her father. “I have given you everything
I
ever wanted. It is not the same thing.”

Imogen brushed that aside. “You will come to London with us, won’t you?” she said. “Arthur has a little house, he says, outside the city. There is a garden and almond trees.…”

And a seven-year-old daughter. The thought gave Imogen a moment’s unease. She brushed it determinedly aside. This would be her family now, her daughter, her husband. It might be a bit strange at first, but surely the little girl would come to be used to Imogen in time, and she would have Arthur, Arthur there by her side.

She could imagine them in the years to come, in the library he had described to her so vividly, surrounded by rich, leather-bound volumes, a fire crackling on the hearth, working together on his grand compendium in perfect companionship. Charitably she sketched Arthur’s little girl into the picture, lying on the hearthrug with an illustrated book of fairy stories. And, perhaps, a baby, too, a baby in a cradle by the hearth.

“Yes,” her father began. “But—”

“And the books, Papa!” Imogen added quickly before her father could think to raise other objections. “A whole library full of treasures. Just think of the
books
. Why, you could spend years just on a shelf of it!”

Fondness and concern warred in her father’s face. “There is more to marriage than books,” he said.

Stolen kisses in the garden, eyes full of admiration, professions of love. “Yes, manuscripts, too, and quartos and folios,” Imogen said. “We’ll be as happy as two birds on a bough. What does age matter to that?”

It still amazed her that out of all the women in the world, all the women Arthur must have met, older women, fashionable London women, he had chosen her. He made her feel special, treasured, rare.

“Rare.” That was a word he used frequently to describe her.
Have you any idea how rare you are?
he would say, and Imogen would shake her head and demur, hoping that “rare” wasn’t really just another term for “odd.”

Her father coughed, a horrible hacking cough that wracked his whole body. When he put his handkerchief away from his mouth, the white linen was stained with red.

“I don’t have the strength to argue with you,” he said unevenly. “All I want is your happiness. If Arthur Grantham will make you happy…”

Imogen remembered the expression on Arthur’s face, the reverence in his voice.
You look like a Madonna.
The memory warmed her like sunshine, pushing away all doubts and fears.

“He will,” Imogen said with all the assurance of sixteen. “You’ll see.”

She pushed aside the image of the rust-stained handkerchief. Surely a change of air … Her father was old, it was true, but he had been old for as long as she could remember. She had been a last-chance child, born long after her parents had given up all hope. Her father was susceptible to colds and fevers. Admittedly, never one as bad as this before, but … No. Nothing bad could happen now.

Standing in a rustle of petticoats, she lifted her face to the watery spring sun, breathing deep of the familiar salt-stained air. Soon she would have a new home, a new garden, a new family.

“Come with us to Herne Hill,” she said, holding out her hands to her father, “and you’ll see how happy we can be.”

Herne Hill, 2009

Herne Hill, it turned out, was indeed a hill. A very steep one.

Julia lugged her bags from the train station, sweating in the June heat. Too much to hope that Aunt Regina’s house would have air-conditioning? Probably. The wheels of Julia’s suitcase scraped against the pavement, and the strap of her computer bag dug into her shoulder. She could feel the sweat creeping down under her shirt, long sleeved, button-down. Heat rose off the red and black graveled road in waves, adding the stench of tar to the strong scent of overripe foliage.