Chapter Twenty-Nine
Imogen was treated like a hero by Sophie and Harry, Fiona, and especially Lucy.
‘You got him!’ She wrapped her arms around Felix’s neck, just like Imogen had done, then held Artichoke up so the puppy could greet her favourite friend.
They were standing outside, the snow still falling, because – although Birdie loved Felix – she refused to have him actually inside her house.
And Sophie and Harry needed to get him back to the manor, because they were in the middle of preparing it for the final rehearsal, which was happening the following day.
‘Goodbye, you mischievous little whatsit.’ Fiona ruffled Felix’s ears.
‘Now Dad can get back to his mince pies,’ Lucy said.
Dexter closed his eyes. ‘Crap.’
‘Where are the mince pies?’ Fiona asked. ‘They’ve not gone missing too, have they?’
‘They’re at the bakery. I trialled a new batch this morning, traditional but with a hot custard top, and if Mandy got snowed under with customers – pun not intended – they’ll be burned to a crisp.’
‘Come on, I’ll walk you back.’ Fiona pulled Lucy into a hug and tickled Artichoke under the chin. Dexter went with them, glancing back at Imogen, giving her a quick, secret smile.
‘You deserve some figgy pudding,’ Birdie said. ‘I made three, so it makes sense to start one now – especially for the woman who found Felix in a snowstorm and must be frozen to the bone.’
‘Could we do a jigsaw, too?’ Imogen asked. Maybe if she stopped thinking for a bit, the answer to her dilemma would land, like a snowball plopping into a snowdrift, right in the centre of her brain.
‘Jigsaw and figgy pudding it is. Come on, I’ll light a fire.’
The following day, Sunday, was the final rehearsal for the Snow Show. It was four days before Christmas, almost two months after Imogen had run away from her wedding, and for the first time waking up in her bedroom in the eaves, she knew what she wanted her future to look like.
She dressed in a swishy red skirt and black blouse, courtesy of her online shopping orders, and she wore her nervousness on her sleeve, even though she would have preferred to hide it under layers of confidence.
The snow had stopped late the night before.
It was around the same time she had closed her copy of Northanger Abbey, only a few chapters from the end, and lowered it to her bedside table, her thoughts no longer churning, but sharp with clarity.
She knew what she was going to do. It was for the best; the only thing that made sense.
Her mind had settled, like the snow over Mistingham.
Outside, everything was covered in white and the ground was lost, but she wasn’t lost any more: she’d found herself, found the answers that had been eluding her for so long.
Unfortunately, this certainty added to her nerves, rather than lessening them.
‘Good luck, darling.’ Birdie came to the door to see her off.
‘This isn’t the final thing.’ She pulled on two pairs of socks and her walking boots, the ballet pumps she had bought at Hartley Country Apparel in her bag for when she got there.
‘You’re coming to that, aren’t you? It’s not like school, when I was a sheep in the nativity and Mum couldn’t make it, so she came to the dress rehearsal instead and it was chaos. ’
‘Of course I’m coming to the Snow Show! I wouldn’t miss it. And at least now it’s living up to its name, you don’t have to worry about someone from London coming to drag you home.’
‘I hadn’t thought …’ Except now of course she was thinking about that.
Edmund would probably hire a snowmobile if it could prevent him from being long-term embarrassed.
She put on her green coat – which had become something of a talisman – then her hat, scarf and gloves, and stepped into the whiteout.
The roads, roofs and cars, every vaguely flat surface, had a layer of snow at least three inches thick. She had never seen so much of it. Even the sky was bleached of colour, apart from a vague amber hue, as if the clouds were preparing for round two.
Imogen picked up Jazz and Mary on her walk, everyone suitably bundled up against the cold.
‘It’s going to be a white Christmas,’ Mary said, by way of a greeting.
‘A grey-sludge Christmas if there’s no more snow between now and the big day,’ Jazz said. ‘Are you ready for your star turn with Dexter?’
‘Of course.’ Imogen was too nervous to acknowledge Jazz’s cheeky grin or have another conversation about how they would definitely be keeping their clothes on.
It all felt so precarious, because even though she was sure of her decision, she couldn’t predict how everyone else would react. She didn’t even know who to tell first.
Mistingham Manor looked extra forbidding, the grey stone standing out against the white landscape, the trees surrounding the property laden with snow.
‘Woah,’ Jazz said, as they all paused in front of it.
‘It couldn’t look any more gothic.’ Imogen thought of the book she’d been given, which had set so many wheels in motion.
‘Come in!’ Sophie called from the doorway. ‘We’ve got tea, mulled wine and warm mince pies from Dexter, so we’re all set up.’ She looked like someone who had recently returned from a magnificent honeymoon, who had a future with the love of their life stretching out in front of them.
Imogen followed Jazz and Mary through the hall, towards the room where Harry and Sophie had been married, and where she and Dexter had practised their lines in front of the fireplace.
Almost everyone was there, the space full of chatter and the spicy scent of mulled wine, the fire blazing and five dogs in front of it – Darkness, Terror, Clifton, Poppet and Artichoke.
Seeing the scruffy brown puppy made Imogen look for Dexter, and when she saw him standing with Ermin, she realized his eyes were already on her.
She waved, her heart pounding double-time.
‘Here we are, then,’ Fiona said loudly, getting everyone’s attention.
‘Well done for battling through the snow. I never thought I’d see Mistingham under so much of it, and I’m incredibly relieved that we listened to the forecast and decided on our Snow Show instead of the traditional Oak Fest. All things considered, it’s a treat. ’
‘An inconvenience more like,’ grumbled Valerie. ‘It took me twice as long as it should have done to get here.’
‘You had Frank’s arm, though,’ Ermin said with a smile.
‘It’s not as wonderful as it sounds,’ Valerie said darkly.
‘An inconsistent walk, that’s what you have, Frank.’
‘On account of my hip op several years ago,’ Frank said cheerfully. ‘Never been the same.’
Fiona clapped. ‘On that note. Get yourself a mulled wine and mince pie, kindly supplied by Sophie and Dexter respectively, and when you’re fortified, we’ll start.’
Imogen did as she was told, biting into the buttery, crumbly pastry, the thick, spicy fruit filling. She was looking around for a napkin when Dexter said, ‘Ready for today?’ Imogen almost dropped what was left of her mince pie.
‘As ready as I can be. We’ll be all right, won’t we?’
‘Of course.’ He brushed his fingers over her chin. ‘Crumbs.’
‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘Playdate with Amber. Her dad’s allergic to dogs, so I’ve got Artichoke.’
‘She looks like she’s having fun with the other dogs.’
‘She’s a sociable puppy,’ Dexter said affectionately.
‘Places everyone,’ Fiona called, and Imogen wondered if she should have used her few minutes with Dexter to have a serious conversation with him. Would there be time after the rehearsal? She needed to tell him what she had decided.
He took her hand and led her to the back row. They sat next to each other, and Dexter laid his arm along the back of her chair.
‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned in, his voice low and rumbly. ‘The last couple of days have been manic, what with goat rescues and bakery orders.’
‘That’s OK.’ Imogen kept her eyes on Fiona in case they were called out for being naughty kids at the back. ‘There has been a lot going on. But maybe after this—’
‘When we’ve done our bit—’
‘We can catch up.’
They smiled at each other, and Imogen felt a bit more settled. Fiona called Valerie and Frank first, then May with her poem, and every time one group finished and Fiona got to her feet, Imogen sat up like a meerkat, waiting for their names to be called.
‘It’s creeping death,’ she whispered to Dexter.
‘What’s that?’
‘On training days, or when you have to do big group meetings, there’s usually some hideous ice-breaker activity, where everyone has to introduce themselves in a funny way, or say two truths and a lie, and if you’re left until last, the dread grows and grows until it’s unbearable.’
‘Sounds hideous.’
‘That’s what this is! Don’t you hate being at the end?’
Dexter shrugged. ‘Whenever we go, we’re either going to be great or terrible, but people will be entertained and we’ll have been part of Mistingham’s Christmas celebrations.’
‘You’re so laid-back,’ Imogen said. ‘I need to borrow some of it.’
‘My laid-back-ness?’
‘Exactly. And the thing is, it might actually be possible because—’
‘Dexter and Imogen!’ Fiona called.
‘Shit.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Busted.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Dexter stood and held out his hand.
Imogen stared at it, uncomprehending.
‘It’s our go,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Come on.’
‘Oh!’
She let him pull her to her feet, and they walked up the aisle together, everyone watching them.
Behind the stage, the large windows looked out on trees, stark charcoal branches topped with thick snow, like a child’s drawing.
It felt to Imogen as if they were another audience, crowding in to watch them from outside, a mirror of the other performers.
They climbed up the steps and positioned themselves in the middle of the stage, facing each other.
Imogen thought that Catherine Morland would approve of the location, the place they were in to perform one of her most memorable scenes.
Should she do it now? Tell him, right here in front of everyone, instead of reciting her lines?
‘Ready?’ Dexter whispered, his dark eyes warm and encouraging.
‘Ready?’ Fiona called, from the side of the stage.
Imogen was about to reply, when another voice took her place.
‘Imogen! I found you – at bloody last!’
Her brain couldn’t reconcile the voice with the surroundings, because it didn’t belong here.
She turned, slowly, looking at the neatly laid-out chairs and the aisle, and the man who was striding up it, dressed in a long wool coat and wearing leather gloves, pink-cheeked and wild-eyed. Her ex-fiancé.
Edmund was here; he’d tracked her down, and not even the snow had come to her rescue.