Chapter Thirty-Three
The twenty-third of December dawned, the day of the Snow Show, and Imogen couldn’t help remembering the creeping death of their last, interrupted rehearsal, because she still hadn’t had a chance to speak to Dexter.
They had exchanged a series of messages the day before, where Imogen had asked to see him and he kept saying he’d have a spare moment soon, but then never did. At the end of the day he’d sent one saying: So sorry, but we’ll see each other tomorrow for Northanger Abbey. x
It was near impossible to determine someone’s state of mind from a WhatsApp, but Imogen decided he sounded exhausted. Or maybe as if he’d had enough – of snow, mince pies and broken ovens; being busy. Enough of her. She thought of her conversation with Harry, and her stomach squeezed unpleasantly.
‘More snow forecast,’ Birdie said, while Imogen made pancakes at the stove. It was a displacement activity, but she wasn’t managing a whole lot of displacing. ‘I hope everyone can make it to the manor tonight.’
‘Would the Oak Fest still have gone ahead, if you hadn’t planned something else? The ice rink is popular.’
‘Having an ice rink is a very different business from open mics, stalls and arcade games. None of those would have worked well in this weather. The Snow Show is a great idea; I’m looking forward to the whole evening.’
‘Me too,’ Imogen said, though the thought of it made her palms go clammy.
‘You know, in Northanger Abbey, Henry Tilney comes to propose to Catherine Morland after she’s been completely disgraced in the eyes of his father.
He goes against convention and stands up for her.
He accepts estrangement from his family so he can be with her. ’
‘It is a lovely ending.’ Birdie sounded baffled at the non sequitur.
‘I have disgraced my father, sort of,’ Imogen said.
‘But it was my misunderstanding of the situation, not his. And then, when Edmund turned up, Dexter tried to stand up for me, but … Anyway. It shows that love conquers all, doesn’t it?
If you love someone, you can forgive them.
Catherine is ridiculous sometimes, and Henry is always steadfast. He teases her, but it’s such a kind, affectionate sort of teasing, and—’
‘Is this your introduction for tonight?’ Birdie interjected. ‘Because if so, it might need some work.’
‘Gran!’ Imogen threw a cranberry at her. It landed on the table in front of Birdie’s mug of tea. ‘Sorry. It’s not my introduction. It’s me, thinking.’
‘Goodness. Is it always so chaotic inside your brain?’
Imogen turned, outraged, but Birdie was grinning. She lobbed another cranberry at her, and Birdie caught it.
‘Is this about Dexter? Because he knew that you’d run away from your wedding the day you two met, and he didn’t ignore you or avoid you, did he?’
‘No,’ Imogen said. ‘The opposite.’
‘Exactly. The fact that you haven’t seen him since Edmund appeared is unfortunate, but it doesn’t mean all is lost. Christmas is a hectic time.
You’re not hightailing it back to London, so you can afford to wait.
And, knowing Dexter, a quiet chat after tonight’s show will suit him more than some grand, romantic gesture that has the potential to embarrass both of you. You’re doing the right thing, Imogen.’
‘Good,’ Imogen said, but it came out as a scratch, and she wondered if she could go up to her room and hide under the duvet until Christmas morning.
‘You look wonderful,’ Birdie said, when Imogen came down the stairs later that afternoon.
‘Not too over the top?’ She smoothed down the dress, which was a dark navy shot through with silver threads in a swirling, wind-like pattern.
The sleeves were puffed, the hem halfway up her calves, and a silver sash added extra shimmer around her waist. Her dark hair was loose; she’d let it dry naturally so it had some waves in it, and the colour of the dress picked out the blue of her eyes.
The only thing that would ruin the effect on the way there was her wellies.
The green coat, she wouldn’t be without.
‘Not at all,’ Birdie said. ‘Very Jane Austen heroine with added Christmas sparkle. You’re beautiful, do you know that?’
‘Gran.’ Imogen looked away, embarrassed.
‘I mean it. You’re more rosy-cheeked and less rabbit-eyed than when you turned up on Halloween.’
‘From the corpse bride to the Christmas fairy.’
‘Exactly. Dexter will swoon.’
‘Dexter might be mad at me.’
‘Tush. Now, are you going to wear a woolly hat on the way there, or is vanity ruling the day?’
‘Vanity, but I’ll take it for the walk home.’
‘Sensible.’ Birdie chucked her cheek. ‘My granddaughter,’ she said, and her eyes were bright in the dim light of the hall.
‘My granny,’ Imogen said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you for coming here.’ Birdie wrapped her own scarf around her neck. ‘For trusting me.’
Imogen squeezed her arm, and together they stepped out into the wintry dusk.
It felt like a mass exodus, except that everyone was walking in the direction of Mistingham Manor, not escaping the village for good.
Families and couples trudged through the snow, impromptu snowball fights broke out, a couple of younger children were on a sled, being pulled by their parents.
The ice rink was open but mostly deserted, because it was going to be there until the New Year, and who didn’t want a chance to nosy inside Harry Anderly’s manor, especially when it also came with an evening of Christmassy entertainment?
Imogen and Birdie walked arm in arm, picking up their wellie-clad feet in the thick snow, waving to people they knew. They reached the long, tree-lined driveway, and the fairy lights were aglow, a magical tunnel lighting the way.
‘Oh look,’ Birdie said, when they were halfway along it. ‘Mistletoe.’
Imogen looked, and saw that there was a bright-berried sprig tied to every tree with shimmering red ribbon, even though the bunches that had been up for Harry and Sophie’s wedding had long-since faded. ‘Did Harry do another mammoth order, do you think?’
‘No idea,’ Birdie chuckled. ‘There’ll be lots of kisses happening along here tonight.’
Imogen thought of Dexter’s promise, her own sprig of mistletoe still on her bedside table but looking decidedly forlorn, now. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
Sophie and Harry were waiting at the front door, Sophie in a beautiful maroon dress, the bodice partly sheer, her hair tied up elegantly. Harry was in a grey suit, white shirt and no tie.
‘Hello!’ Sophie’s eyes sparkled as she kissed Imogen, then Birdie, on the cheek. ‘You look wonderful. Are you excited?’
‘Terrified beyond measure,’ Imogen said truthfully, and Sophie laughed.
‘You’ll be brilliant.’
‘You will.’ Harry caught her eye and gave her an almost imperceptible wink.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Imogen smoothed her hands down her coat.
‘Come along Catherine,’ Birdie said. ‘Let’s start getting into character. No swears for Jane Austen heroines.’
They walked into the hall where the fire was crackling, a couple of children playing in front of it, well back from the fire guard that Sophie and Harry had installed.
The tree shimmered in the corner, and the soft, soothing tones of ‘Silent Night’ seemed to come from all around them, played through hidden speakers.
Imogen took off her wellies and put on her ballet pumps, her toes starting to thaw out immediately.
In the lounge, the chairs were all set up, and a holly garland ran along the front of the low stage.
Tables were laid out down the side of the room, plates piled high with mince pies and brandy snap biscuits, individual yule logs that looked like little bonbons with their snowy dusting of sugar, sausage rolls and pigs in blankets.
Natasha, the landlady of the Blossom Bough, was serving mulled wine, lemonade and hot chocolate.
Imogen asked for a lemonade. She couldn’t face the mulled wine or hot chocolate until afterwards.
‘Here you are.’ Natasha handed her a glass. ‘I’d much rather be doing this than getting up there. I couldn’t perform in a million years.’ Imogen wanted to agree with her, but it was far too late to back out: she couldn’t betray Dexter again.
‘Tried a battered Brussels sprout?’ Jazz asked from behind her.
Imogen jumped. ‘No. What?’
‘They’re crispy and delicious and wonderful.’ She held one up, then popped it in her mouth.
‘Later.’
Jazz narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not nervous, are you? You’re brilliant at our storytelling sessions. You never get stage fright.’
‘This is different.’ Imogen gestured to the room, already filling up with people. ‘And Dexter and I are so …’
‘Crap?’ Jazz suggested.
Imogen glared at her. ‘Very helpful. Thank you so much.’
‘You’re not,’ Jazz said, laughing. ‘And you’re the sexiest couple up there, so people probably won’t be listening anyway. They’ll be too distracted by the smoulder.’
‘Jazz!’
‘You love me really.’
‘I do not!’ Imogen tried to sound cross, but her lips twitched traitorously.
‘Anyway, Mistingham events wouldn’t be Mistingham events without a bit of chaos thrown in for good measure.’
‘That’s so reassuring,’ Imogen murmured, as she scanned the crowd. She saw Lucy sitting next to Birdie, Artichoke in her arms, the puppy wearing a red velvet bow on her collar. Her stomach somersaulted.
‘Come on,’ Jazz said. ‘Everyone’s sitting down, and we’re at the front because we have to get to the stage.’
Imogen trailed Jazz to the front of the room, saw two seats free at the end of a row and then, her heart sinking, realized Dexter was at the opposite end, next to the aisle, and that there were no spaces near him.
It would seem churlish to ask people to move just because they were performing together.
She was about to sit down when he looked her way.
He was in a navy suit and black shirt, his silver tie shimmering under the lights in the opulent lounge. Somehow, they had dressed to match.