Chapter Thirty-Four
It was almost quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
Why was her and Dexter’s scene so much more anticipated than anyone else’s?
Was it because she was new in the village?
Because of the rumours that had circulated about them?
News of Edmund’s appearance the other day must have spread like wildfire.
Had the audience been as hushed for the other scenes, and she was only noticing it now because it was her turn?
She took a couple more steps onto the stage. Dexter dropped her hand and turned to face her.
She faced him, too.
He nodded, gave her a small, encouraging smile, and it might have been Imogen’s imagination, but did the lights overhead dim a little bit, the LED candles flicker more brightly to life?
She took a deep breath, her catalogue of acting tricks playing on a speedy slideshow inside her head, about how best to perform, to project her voice and smile, to get into character.
In her shimmery, floaty dress, with the manor’s high ceiling and original features, the mistletoe (so much mistletoe!), it wasn’t as hard as she had imagined.
It was a funny scene. Funny and sad, but with an undercurrent of the romance, the affection, that was growing between Catherine and Henry. It was full of promise.
She said her first line: ‘“Mr Tilney! … Good God! … How came you here? – How came you up that staircase?”’
Dexter replied: ‘“How came I up that staircase! … Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?”’
He had done a better job than her, projecting his voice towards the audience, half-angled towards them, while still looking at her.
She stole a glimmer of his confidence for her next line, which was direction, describing Catherine’s mortification at the situation.
‘Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for that explanation which her lips did not afford.’ Imogen said it wryly, gentle laughter from the audience spurring her on.
Dexter’s smile widened a fraction, and she thought maybe he was enjoying it, that maybe he wasn’t mad with her after all: that he understood why she’d needed to speak to Edmund, to close that chapter of her life before she could start a new one.
They kept going, increasing in enthusiasm and speed. It was only a short scene, they were nearing the end, and then – shit, then – her surprise would be revealed, and she would find out whether she’d pitched it right or got it completely wrong. Again.
She said her next line, the question Catherine asked Henry, waiting for his answer with bated breath: ‘“But your father, … was he afflicted?”’
Dexter was supposed to say: ‘“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to.”’ But he didn’t.
Instead, he stared at her, a slight frown on his face, and Imogen wondered if he’d glitched, if there was a break in the space–time continuum.
Or was there something else she was supposed to say and she’d forgotten it, or …
She glanced at the audience. Everyone was watching them, waiting for what came next.
‘Imogen.’ Dexter’s voice was deep and slightly rough.
‘Catherine,’ she prompted, with a smile.
‘Imogen,’ Dexter said again, and cleared his throat.
She sucked in a breath. What had she done? ‘Dexter, I—’
‘The first time I met you, on a road at the edge of Mistingham, you were wearing a wedding dress and carrying a suitcase. All I knew was that you were Birdie’s granddaughter, that you had arrived in our village and my daughter wanted to help you, and you seemed lost.’
‘OK.’ Her voice was tiny, because this was … she had no idea what this was.
‘Then I spent time with you,’ Dexter went on, ‘and I discovered that you wanted to help people – even people you didn’t know. You tried to find solutions to problems, you weren’t afraid to get involved, and you took every new thing that Mistingham had to offer, and you saw it as a gift.’
‘A Christmas gift?’ someone shouted, and Dexter grinned at the audience.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It is the time for giving, after all. And I …’ He turned back to Imogen, who was starting to sense that something was happening here, something she had not been prepared for.
‘Whenever you spoke to me, when you confided in me and asked for my help, it was like I was being given something precious, too.’
‘The mistletoe promise.’ She thought she’d said it quietly, but there were a few ‘Ooooohs’ from the crowd.
‘Our mistletoe promise,’ Dexter confirmed. ‘And spending time with you, decorating the mistletoe, ice-skating, hunting down rogue goats and freeing trapped pigeons, rehearsing this scene – that I have now royally fucked up—’
‘Language!’ someone admonished, and there were more, shocked, ‘Ooooohs’.
‘Shit. Sorry! Shit.’ Dexter shook his head, his cheeks flushing, and it broke some of the tension that had been gathering like a snow cloud on the stage.
‘Dex.’ Imogen took a step towards him.
‘Rehearsing with you, the fact that you even asked me to do a scene with you – I’ve been happier these last couple of months than I’ve been in a long time. It’s made me think about what I want. And mostly that’s whatever Lucy wants, whatever is best for her, but also—’
‘I love Imogen!’ Lucy shouted. ‘Artichoke does too!’
‘Thanks, Luce.’ Dexter acknowledged her declaration with a wave, then turned to Imogen again.
‘But I also thought, long and hard, about what I want. And that’s never been easier, but also, it’s never been harder than since I met you.
’ He closed the gap between them and held out his hand.
Imogen took it without hesitation. ‘Imogen, I know none of this is straightforward. You came here when you were at a low point, and your life is still in London. I know this isn’t your home.
But if …’ He swallowed. ‘If you feel anything like I do, if you’ve enjoyed being with me as much as I have with you, then London is only a couple of hours away.
I think we could make it work, if you – if you wanted to? ’
She opened her mouth, but Dexter wasn’t finished.
‘Because actually, I’m in love with you, Imogen Rowsell.’
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and Imogen’s heart thudded, but he wasn’t done yet.
‘I want to have a lot more time with you, decorating twigs and cooking pizza together, skating and walking, foraging for whatever you want to forage for, hunting down one specific rogue goat. If you think I’m worth the hard bits, and the complicated bits, and you can accept that I come with Lucy and Artichoke, and that train journey doesn’t give you terrible flashbacks, then—’
‘I’m not going back,’ Imogen rushed.
Her words were met with a stunned silence. Dexter stared at her, his eyes wide, and she looked at the audience, because surely someone had understood that? Everyone was rapt, watching and waiting. Birdie had a look of quiet triumph on her face, but she was the only one.
‘You’re not going back?’ Dexter repeated. ‘You’re not coming back? Here? You’re going home to London, and—’
‘No.’ She shook her head, her hair swishing against her shoulders. ‘No, I mean I’m not going back to London. I’m staying in Mistingham, in Birdie’s house, in the room in the eaves, and—’
‘I told her we’d get her a double bed!’ Birdie shouted, her hands cupped around her mouth.
Imogen blushed instantly. ‘No heckling, Gran!’ She looked at Dexter, and his hopeful expression took her breath away.
‘I am going to keep volunteering for the community hub,’ she said, ‘and if there’s a job there, I’ll apply.
I’m going to do Story Time with Jazz, and I won’t have any money because I’ll have spent it all on posh notebooks and your sandwiches, but who needs money when you have Mistingham beach and the coast path and walks everywhere, and big skies and secret books that help you figure things out?
And if people in this village don’t want me to spray paint plants any more, then—’
‘You’re staying?’ Dexter asked.
‘I’m staying. And I would like all those things you said, but without the train journeys, unless we wanted to go to London?
We can go and see my friend, Nikki, in her new play, and we could take Lucy to the Natural History Museum and maybe, eventually, if I ever speak to them again, to meet my mum and dad, but—’
‘Is this real?’ Dexter ran his thumb along her cheek, and Imogen wondered if her tears had already started falling.
‘If you’ll have me, and Lucy and Artichoke will, too.’ She turned her head. ‘Can I be a part of your family, Lucy?’
‘Yes!’ Lucy shouted. ‘Yes please! Artichoke says yes, too.’
There was a smattering of applause, a lot of cooing and ‘aaaahs’, and Imogen realized she didn’t mind that their attempts at rehearsing had been terrible.
‘Lucy says yes,’ Imogen told Dexter, even though he’d heard. ‘What do you think? I know it won’t always be easy, but—’
‘Easy is overrated,’ Dexter murmured.
‘I’ve always thought that.’ Elation bubbled up inside her. ‘I like to make things as difficult as possible, for that very reason. Not always, but …’ She grinned at him, and found the courage, the confidence, to say it. ‘I love you, Dexter.’
His smile was brighter than a thousand electric tealights. ‘I love you, Imogen. Thank you for letting me ambush our performance.’
‘Pretty sure we were bombing, anyway.’
She leaned in and kissed him, and Dexter returned it, his hand cupping the back of her head, his lips soft but firm against hers.
Imogen felt another earthquake inside her, except this one was bigger, and it was all around her, and she realized it was the audience, clapping and cheering and stamping their feet.
Then there were murmurs, and confused exclamations, and another sound that reminded her what she had planned, even though Dexter’s declaration had made her forget about it entirely.
‘Baaaaaaaaah!’
Dexter broke their kiss, glanced down at the same time as she did. Felix was standing on the stage just in front of them. He trotted forwards and nibbled Dexter’s shoelace.
Dexter looked around the room. ‘Harry? Sophie?’
‘Sorry Dex,’ Harry called from somewhere near the back.
‘This is out of our hands.’
‘Finally given up trying to control him, have you?’ someone shouted.
‘Hang on.’ Dexter crouched down. ‘He’s got something …
’ Imogen’s pulse pounded erratically as he extracted the scroll that was attached to Felix’s jumper – a jumper that was navy blue with silver threads.
Imogen would have thought it was the most incredible coincidence, if she hadn’t also known that Birdie was responsible for all of Felix’s jumpers, and that she’d shown her gran the outfit she was planning to wear today.
‘What is it?’ she asked, and if anything proved that she was good at voices but that acting was generally beyond her, it was this moment.
Dexter glanced up at her, amusement and happiness shining in his eyes. ‘You—’
‘I think you should open it,’ she said, then remembered what she’d written. ‘But you really don’t have to read it out.’
‘OK.’ Dexter stood up and unrolled the piece of paper, the blue ribbon that had tied it dangling from his fingers. ‘I mean, you can if you want to. This is my grand gesture.’
‘Dear Dexter,’ he read, and glanced at her, waiting for her approval to continue.
She nodded.
‘Dear Dexter, I don’t know how to put into words all the things I want to say to you.
I decided that actions were better, except every grand gesture I came up with also included words.
So I’ve tried to combine the two, and if you’re reading this now then it means Felix has broken the habit of a lifetime, done what he was supposed to, and delivered this to you.
Anyway, I’m getting off track.’ Dexter gave her a look of such affection, such genuine love, that Imogen thought the memory of it would sustain her for the rest of her life.
‘I am so sorry I spoke to Edmund,’ he continued, ‘but I needed him to be OK. I needed to apologize to him, to explain myself, because without that I didn’t think it would be fair to ask anything of you, so …
’ He stopped, then said, ‘I don’t think I need to read any more of this out. ’
‘Oh, go on!’ someone shouted.
Dexter shook his head and took Imogen’s hand. ‘We can’t share everything. Even in Mistingham, there needs to be a little bit of mystery.’
‘Besides,’ Imogen said, ‘I already did a speech. He beat me to the whole romantic gesture thing, and his was better anyway—’
‘Don’t let Felix hear you say that!’ Harry called, and Imogen rolled her eyes.
‘—And the only thing you need to know,’ she continued, ‘is that we’re on the same page.’
‘Exactly the same page,’ Dexter said. ‘Sharing the same scene.’
He kissed her again, holding onto her waist as she slid her hands around his neck.
He was warm and firm, and he tasted of mince pies and mulled wine.
Imogen let her thoughts dissolve and her senses take over – apart for one, brief realization that her future looked bright, and that it would be terrifying to have responsibility for Lucy – except that with Dexter by her side, she felt as if she could do pretty much anything.
That settled, she let sensation swim back in, putting all her energy into the kiss until someone shouted, ‘Get a room!’ and the two of them broke apart, laughing, knowing they’d got carried away.
A moment later Lucy had joined them on the stage, cuddling Artichoke against her and dragging Birdie behind her.
She orchestrated them into a group hug, one so tight and warm that Imogen’s tears finally fell.
The audience cheered again, and she didn’t even mind when Felix stuck his head into the middle of their legs and nibbled her silver sash.
He’d done his bit, after all. He should be proud of himself.
‘Did you like the mistletoe?’ Lucy grinned up at her.
‘You did all that? In here and along the driveway?’
‘We did. Me and Dad and Harry and Sophie. Dad said it was important to you, that it symbolized things, so we gathered it and put it up. I was a bit sad that we went foraging without you, and Dad refused to go up the ladder and made Sophie do all the high bits, but he said we had all the time in the world to go foraging, now. Is that true?’
‘That’s true,’ Imogen said around the lump in her throat.
She looked at Dexter.
‘Though we might have to wait until after Christmas,’ Birdie said.
‘And after the snow melts, unless we want to make it extra hard for ourselves,’ Dexter added.
‘But then we’ll go together, all of us?’
Imogen nodded, smiling down at Lucy, wondering how she’d been lucky enough to find these people – and at Christmas, too, like some kind of miracle. ‘All of us,’ she said, and Felix bleated his agreement.