Chapter Nineteen
“So, how’s the tall, dark, handsome stranger?” said Sally irrepressibly.
“What, you mean the lord of the manor, stomping about his domain shagging all the servant girls? Arrogant sod.”
“Ooh, really?” said Sally. “Droit du seigneur. How exciting. When are you going to succumb?”
“Never,” said Imogen, not prepared to confess she had basically succumbed already but that there was no future in it.
“You just don’t recognize class male totty when you see it,” replied Sally. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious, does
it? Why not just have a little fling? He’s just the type I’d love to find in my Christmas stocking. Talking of Christmas,
what are your plans?”
“Hadn’t thought,” lied Imogen, who had actually told her mother, just the day before, that she couldn’t join her and Gerald
in Surrey because she had already been invited to go to Sally and Alistair. It was a lie, but it got her off the hook, plus
she was half hoping for an invite.
“Well, normally we’d love to have you here, but work’s been such a ’mare we’ve decided to bog off to Austria for skiing.”
“Lovely!” said Imogen. her heart sinking. “You’ve earned a break.” That was that, then.
Putting down the phone felt like cutting off a lifeline. Imogen grabbed it back a split second before it hit the rest, suddenly
and irrationally panic-stricken, like she had stepped on the cracks in the pavement.
“Sal?” she gasped, but Sally had already disconnected. Imogen could picture her moving confidently on to the next task, chivvying
for homework to be done, checking her mobile for urgent work texts, dumping stuff on the worktop for supper... In Storybook
Cottage, though, Imogen’s ears rang with the silence. She replaced the receiver reluctantly and thought about calling her
back. But what would she say? I’m not ready to stop talking or, simply, I’m lonely ?
There was nothing to stop her calling her mother. Actually, Mum, I’m free after all—I’ll come up and stay, shall I? she could say, forcing herself to be jolly, to be fussed over and brought cups of tea in bed in deference to her condition.
But then she had lied to get out of it, so surely, she couldn’t want to go? She prodded her psyche experimentally. Nonsense,
she told herself. I’m a grown-up, sensible woman of resources—and grown-ups don’t mind being on their own.
“Not that I am on my own,” she said out loud, resting her hand on her now huge bump. The baby squirmed, pressing painfully
on her left hip for a moment and then settled, reluctantly it seemed, in her cramped quarters.
“Miaow,” came a cross voice.
“Of course,” sighed Imogen. “I’m never alone while I have you, Your Serene Majesty.”
Taking the key off the dresser to unlock the back door, she opened it with a sarcastic bow. Tango stalked in, giving her no more attention than an inanimate object such as—for example—the cat flap, which he studiously denied the existence of.
A sharp frost silvered the landscape when Imogen pulled back the curtains. She was due at the school later that morning to
see Genny about the nativity play props. She hoped Genny wasn’t expecting too much.
Anxious about finishing as much work as possible, before Christmas and before the baby came, she decided to set off early,
giving herself time to stop at the pond and make a start on one of her winter book pages. It was one she had planned where
Tango and Ruth were watching the ducks skating around on the ice. She wasn’t expecting the ducks to oblige her by walking
on water in the absence of a complete freeze, but she could get the basic composition down at least.
It was so pretty by the pond with the sun low in the sky and the usual bright colors bleached by the frost. Frozen dewdrops
hung like crystals on the bare branches of the willow overhanging the water, putting Imogen in mind of fairy lights. It would
be Christmas soon. Her first Christmas in Storybook Cottage. And probably her last.
The only strategy she had been able to find to cope with the stress of the issue with the house and Gabriel was to immerse
herself in work. When she was engrossed, she was content, and able to forget about her sorrows for ages. She was sketching
away happily when a shout sent her pencil skittering across the page.
“Imogen!” came an instantly recognizable voice.
Okay, so now she was thinking about losing the house again. She sighed.
“Hello, Gabriel, why are you shouting at me?” she said wearily, turning toward him as he came at her from the direction of
the village shop.
“Christ, can you just get away from the edge of the pond, woman?” he said, arriving beside her. “Don’t you know that bank
is unstable?”
“Actually, I didn’t, but what I do know is—if anything is going to make me fall in the pond, it’s people yelling my name when I’m least expecting it,” she reasoned.
“Anyhow, I saw you there as I drove past, and thought you needed warming up.” He handed her a paper cup with a lid. “Hot chocolate
from Paddy’s new drinks machine. It’s not the best, but at least it’s warm,” he explained, prising the lid off his own cup
and looking at the foamy contents suspiciously.
“That was actually quite kind,” said Imogen grudgingly, taking a sip. It was sweet, smooth, and—if she was honest—very welcome.
“Also,” he went on, still peering into his cup, “I was unforgivably rude when I saw you last. It’s not your fault you weren’t
insured against the Hall estate repairs claim. I was just—well—I’m angry at the situation. Not you. And I just wanted to say
I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”
“Apology duly noted,” said Imogen tightly. If only he would apologize for demanding practically everything she had and tell
her he didn’t mean that .
“I just wonder... well, I wonder if you appreciate that I’m just in the most appalling position.”
Tell me about it, thought Imogen, very much hoping he wouldn’t.
“So,” he continued relentlessly, “it’s a pressure, you know? Nine generations of Havenburys at Middlemass Hall. All those
fortunes lost and won. All those death duties paid for somehow, by hook or by crook. Hanging on to my inheritance like grim
death, just so I can shackle my own son to the responsibility one day—poor bastard—but, the truth is, I don’t want to be the one who bankrupts the estate. I can’t be the one, in such a long line, that fails in my duty, that’s
all.”
She could feel him looking at her anxiously, but Imogen was struck dumb. She had nothing.
“Anyhow, it’s... Well, it’s all a bit crap, isn’t it?”
She looked up at last, to see him smiling crookedly down at her. “Friends?” he proffered.
“Friends,” she replied, doing her best to smile back with trembling lips. She desperately wanted to reassure him—just to see
if she could iron out that furrow on his brow.
As if “friends” would ever be enough. As if “friends” was even remotely possible.
Because she loved him.
The realization in that moment was so ironic—and so utterly, utterly hopeless—it was all she could do to stifle a cry of pain.
“I must go,” she said, when she could trust herself to speak. She drained her cup and handed it back to him. “Genny’s expecting
me at the school.”