Chapter Fourteen
Although it felt like forever, it only took around fifteen minutes for the strange little party to come across the path to
the rear of Middlemass Hall. Eventually they were there, relieved to see the lights streaming comfortingly from the windows,
illuminating the stable yard and throwing the surrounding woodland into pitch-blackness.
“Not that way,” snapped Gabriel as Dark Hair made to follow the branch of the path that led to the Hall front, nearly unseating
Imogen in the process.
“Stop here,” he added, sliding Imogen gently to the ground, where she stood swaying on one foot as he grabbed a bunch of keys
from his waxed jacket pocket. Selecting a large key from a bunch—even in the semidarkness Imogen could see it was a beautiful
object, slim and elegant with an elaborate head of wrought iron in the shape of a clover leaf—he slipped it into the lock
of an arched oak door set into the outer wall of the stable block and swung open the door into a room of echoing blackness.
“You had better push off now,” he said over his shoulder to the two men, who looked relieved to make their escape. “And I hope I never see your ugly mugs again,” he added to their departing backs.
“Can you hop if I support you?” he said gently.
“I’ll try,” she said, keen to impress, although admittedly it was a bit late for that.
Leaning heavily on his arm and gritting her teeth, she half hopped, half lurched inside. Gabriel slammed the door with a clanging
crash and reached behind him to flick a switch. As the interior flooded with dazzling, bright light, Imogen gasped. It was
a huge space, only around twenty feet wide but perhaps sixty feet long, making up what looked like a whole wing of the old
stables that Imogen had previously glimpsed in daylight—a quadrangle of two-story buildings enclosing a square cobbled yard.
Glancing down at the floor, Imogen saw that they were standing on flagstones, dark and slick with age. The ceiling was beamed,
with great rough-carved and smoke-blackened oak studded here and there with giant iron hooks. And what was hanging on the
hooks made Imogen gasp again. For dangling from the beams and resting on the long steel-topped bench along the wall was a
mind-boggling selection of pincers and tongs, all blackened metal and fearsome-looking. Stacked in the corner was a pile of
metal bars of all widths, and—most chilling of all—Imogen’s eyes settled on a stained leather apron hung casually on the back
of the door alongside a pair of thick black leather gloves with elbow-length gauntlets.
Panting with fear, Imogen assessed her situation. Here she was in the most chillingly well-stocked torture chamber she could have ever imagined. The door to freedom was closed, and her throbbing ankle meant that she could only hop—not a good mode of transport with an enormously swollen tummy. Weighing up the odds, though, flight was the only option. She took a deep breath and lunged for the door.
“Whoa, there! Steady!” said Gabriel, solicitously grabbing her elbow. “Where are you going? The stairs are over here, in case
you thought I was just going to dump you on the floor of the forge.”
Ah, thought Imogen, consciously slowing her breathing and looking again with new eyes. Forge. As in, blacksmith’s forge. Relieved
she hadn’t made an even bigger idiot of herself and intrigued that she was in the space where he created the iron candlestick
she had so admired at Simon’s house, she relaxed. A little.
With her arm firmly tucked into his, he propelled her—hopping—to a narrow flight of wooden steps leaning against the rough
brick wall, linking the workshop space to an upper floor. It was obviously once the hayloft or perhaps the grooms’ quarters.
The steps were too narrow for them to go up together. Gabriel paused, weighing the options.
“Up you come, then,” he said, unexpectedly sweeping her off her feet and into his arms.
“No,” she squeaked. “You’ll strain your back. I weigh a ton.”
“You’re not kidding,” puffed Gabriel ungallantly as he clumped up the stairs. Imogen was relieved when he dumped her—fairly
gently—on a fat teal velvet sofa with generous feather cushions.
“Wow!” she said, gazing around. If the forge had taken her breath away for all the wrong reasons, this room did it for all the right ones. Acres of polished oak floor swept the length of the room, a lofty arched ceiling with bent oak beams dividing and supporting its structure like the hull of an upturned ship. Several large skylights along both sides of the roof framed a star-studded sky. The light now was supplied by dozens of low-voltage spotlights set almost invisibly into the beams, casting sunshine into every corner. The décor was restrained but luxurious, with thick wool rugs on the floor, a brick fireplace big enough for Imogen to stand upright in (if only she could stand at all), and yards and yards of books lining the walls.
“Hi, Simon, it’s me...” she heard Gabriel saying on his mobile as he stood out of sight in the kitchen area at the far
end of the room.
“So, you’d better come...” he continued. “Bloody idiot” and “yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” were the only other phrases
she caught during the brief call.
She tried to persuade herself the unflattering stuff referred to the two young men. Then she saw the set, irritated expression
on his face when he returned.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“So you should be—charging around the estate in the dark in your condition.”
The two of them sat in awkward silence for several minutes, waiting for Simon to arrive.
Imogen suddenly became aware that she had remembered no squirming and kicking from the baby. Surely the fall hadn’t... Mind you, she reasoned, with all the excitement and the pain from her ankle, if the baby had turned somersaults, she might not have noticed. She lay very still and concentrated. A kickstart of caffeine would give the little one a bit of a jolt, she reckoned, hoping this apparent ability to sleep through chaos would continue after the birth. “I’d love some coffee,” she said.
“I bet you would,” he replied forbiddingly, but got up and went to the kitchen.
She heard cupboards opening, the fridge door, and a glass being put down on a hard surface. Downstairs the heavy oak door
opened, and Imogen heard, with relief, the sound of someone running lightly up the stairs.
He and Simon arrived back at the sofa almost simultaneously.
“Imo, you poor old love,” exclaimed Simon, “what have you been doing to yourself?”
Kneeling by her side, he took her foot in his hands, feeling gingerly around her now impressively puffy ankle that was already
streaked an attractive shade of purple.
“Anywhere else hurt?”
“No. Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, coffee,” said Imogen sniffing appreciatively at the steam spiraling from the cafetière and trying to take her mind off
the throbbing pain made worse by Simon’s gentle manipulation.
“That’s for Simon,” said Gabriel bluntly, handing Imogen a tall glass of milk instead.
“And you’d better have one of these,” he added, handing her a plate of obviously homemade chocolate chip cookies.
“I didn’t have you down as a cookie man,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Or a baker, actually.”
“I’m not.”
Fortunately, Simon interrupted this vibrant exchange. “I think you’ve got away without any serious damage,” he said. “Basically,
I’d be amazed if there are any broken bones, but it’s a nasty sprain. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days, keep off
your feet, that sort of thing. How’s the baby?” he added.
The blob, enlivened by the milk and cookies, launched into what felt like a brief flurry of running on the spot, topping it
with a breathtaking uppercut to Imogen’s left kidney.
“Fine,” she gasped, tears pricking again at her eyes with relief at the unspoken fear being dispelled. “The thing about keeping
off my feet might be a bit tricky, though,” she added. “I’m planning a trip to London, seeing friends and stuff...” She
didn’t want to mention the literary agent—not before she had something to announce.
“Well, as long as the friends can help out a bit. I’ll strap it up for you, make it a bit more comfortable. Genny was saying
the other day that she’d love to see you, by the way. She’s on half term at the moment, so why don’t I ask her to come along
and give you a hand getting packed?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Good. Also, you might find it helpful to use a walking stick for a couple of days,”
“There should be one of my grandmother’s sticks in Storybook Cottage somewhere,” said Gabriel.
He was right. Imogen had a clear mental image of a walking stick in a dusty alcove by the front door. Odd how the old lady still had a benign presence there in so many ways. Sometimes, fancifully, Imogen half expected to open a door and come across her perhaps reading the newspaper by the French windows in the sitting room or listening to an old-fashioned wireless in the little room Imogen had designated the study.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the rapid tip-tapping of female shoes on the stairs.
“Gabriel!” said a voice brightly, soon revealed as belonging to flippy-haired Louise. The one who was always flirting with
Gabriel. Today, in work mode, she appeared with her hair in a smooth, professional-looking chignon and morning fresh makeup
despite the late hour.
“And Dr. Simon too, how nice,” she added, simpering in Simon’s direction.
“And Imogen, I think you’ve met?” said Gabriel.
Her eyes settled on Imogen, and her face hardened. “I saw you at the village hall,” she said. “So, this is the trespasser
my clients were referring to.”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Gabriel. “What do you think we should do with her? Summary execution or just a hundred lashes?” As
he spoke, he was pouring and adding milk to a mug of coffee, which she took from him with the barest acknowledgment of someone
who was on intimate terms.
“How are the biscuits?” Louise said, with frank accusation, checking out Imogen’s bulging cheeks and the scattering of crumbs
on her lap.
“Not bad, thanks,” she replied cheerily through a large mouthful. So here was the phantom biscuit maker. With sinking stomach, Imogen began to understand why the once red-hot Imogen and Gabriel connection had lost its heat.
Instinctively disliking the woman, she also remembered the comments of Winifred Hutchinson. This must also be the woman in
the red skirt suit who scuppered the holding of the village fête at the Hall by wanting to charge a huge fee for the use of
the venue. Come to think of it, Joan and Muriel were banging on about a girl planning to get her claws into the lord of the
manor, so... what? Did that mean Gabriel was the lord of the manor and this girl Louise was the “brazen hussy”? Surely
not...
As the penny dropped, Imogen caught such a fearsomely hostile glare from Louise she wondered for a minute if she had spoken
aloud.
Hers and Gabriel’s was the steamy affair that never was. This woman was clearly the love interest in Gabriel’s life. Of course,
she was.
“Not too much damage done, then,” Louise said tightly, watching Simon strap up the ankle.
“No, except that I saw my life flash before my eyes when your clients jumped out and shot me at point-blank range,” said Imogen.
“Lucky Gabriel came along when he did.”
“You shouldn’t have been there,” replied Louise testily. “As Lord Havenbury will concur, it is trespassing—by the way, darling,” she added sotto voce to Gabriel, “my guests mentioned you were a little abrupt with them.
I am sure you didn’t mean to be.”
“I didn’t,” said Gabriel. “I meant to be a lot abrupt.”
Louise looked put out for a moment, and then resumed her smooth demeanor with obvious difficulty.
“Actually, Louise, Imogen isn’t a trespasser,” Gabriel went on, “at least strictly speaking. She’s the one who bought Storybook
Cottage a few months ago.”
“Oh, I see,” said Louise grudgingly. Imogen could see Louise reluctantly adjusting her attitude to take into account this
new, clearly unwelcome information, and then her face brightened. “Well, if that’s the case, Gabriel, it would seem now is
the perfect time for us to deal with this issue of—” Louise stopped mid-sentence.
Transferring her gaze to Gabriel, Imogen saw the reason why. He had a terrifying scowl on his face. “This is absolutely not the time,” he ground out.
“As you will, my lord,” she said stiffly, giving a little bow of the head in acknowledgment of the dressing down.
“Anyway,” said Simon cheerfully, tying off the bandage with a neat bow, “that’s you done. How about a lift home?”
Imogen gratefully accepted, suddenly keen to be alone to lick her wounds, both physical and—she admitted to herself—emotional.
Louise clearly didn’t regard Imogen as competition, and why would she? Being heavily pregnant and covered in bright yellow
goo, she wasn’t exactly the catch of the century. Especially to the lord of the manor. Fancy.
Her only regret around leaving was that Louise also looked tetchily relieved at Imogen’s departure, settling down with Gabriel
to drink the rest of the coffee with the barest of goodbyes to them both.
Imogen had to admit Simon’s bandaging had done a good job. The following morning, her ankle was only really painful if she tried to walk on it, and the swelling had definitely gone down a bit, she thought, examining it critically. It clearly wasn’t broken, anyhow. Just a nuisance.
That was little consolation for an uncomfortable night. She had been relieved to see the blue dawn light soak through the
curtains. Given how she was feeling—thick head and gritty eyes from lack of sleep, plus the additional mobility issues—making
the late morning train to London for her meeting with Rowena was going to be a challenge.
Two laborious hours later, Imogen had just about managed to wash, dress, and get her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.
Sitting disconsolately on the bed, she was seriously wondering how she was going to get through the day. Even with the walking
stick, which Gabriel had reminded her about, the trip to London was looking extremely daunting. The practicalities of managing
the stick, which took up a whole hand, as well as carrying her suitcase and portfolio looked impossible, let alone having
to impress in a business meeting.
“Hellooo?” a voice came faintly from downstairs. After a brief series of yells to and fro, the owner of the voice clambered
up the narrow attic stairs to Imogen’s bedroom.
“Why do you sleep all the way up here?” said Genny, slightly breathlessly as she, at last, arrived.
“I like it,” said Imogen simply, tilting her cheek to be kissed.
“Simon told me you might need a hand, poor you!” she exclaimed, cooing over the bandaged foot. “He dropped me off on the way to the surgery so I could help out—if you need me, that is.”
“I totally do,” said Imogen, relieved. “Didn’t I lock the door last night, by the way?”
“Oh yes, you did, don’t worry. I just got the key off Gabriel—didn’t want you to have to stagger all the way to the door without
needing to,” replied Genny breezily. She didn’t think it the slightest bit odd that Gabriel should apparently have access
to the house at any time, Imogen noticed. Maybe she should change the locks.
“No school today, then?” Imogen inquired.
“Nope. Half term, thank goodness. And much needed, I might add, now we’ve had an entire half term without the head.”
“Mrs. Marshall?”
Genny nodded. “She’s really unwell. It’s cancer, actually—don’t tell anyone, most people don’t know—it’s not going too well,
to be honest. It’s really starting to look like she won’t be working again, but the hope of coming back to the school gives
her something to focus on, so no one has the heart to go out and recruit another head teacher.”
“So, you’re still acting head?” said Imogen.
“Yep. Still, it’s good experience if I can survive it. Anyway, talking about careers, how is yours going?”
Imogen told her briefly about the important meeting with the publisher and waved off the confident assertions with a nervous
grin.
It seemed no time until the bags had been efficiently packed and put by the front door. Genny even made them both some breakfast and left the washed plates draining by the sink. “It’s awful to come back to a mess,” she explained when Imogen thanked her yet again.
“How long will you be away, do you reckon?”
“The meeting’s tomorrow, but I want to spend some time with Sally and her husband. Sally was a bit out of sorts when I saw
her last.”
Aren’t we all? Imogen told herself, thinking first of her tetchy non-relationship with Gabriel and then of her apparent sham
of a marriage with Nigel.
Genny nodded sympathetically. “Anyway, you’ll be wanting to get off. I’ll give Gabriel a call.”
“No! Don’t do that,” exclaimed Imogen. “Why on earth would you do that?” Her voice rose as she remembered their uncomfortable
encounter the previous evening.
Genny looked surprised. “Well, my car’s at the garage having its MOT—otherwise I’d drive you myself. When I collected the
key, Gabriel said he’d be happy to come over and give you a lift.”
“I’d rather get a taxi, honestly,” blurted Imogen. He had been pretty irritated with her last night, and she surprised herself
with her reluctance to see or hear any more about that Louise woman.
“Don’t be silly,” said Genny. “He told me he was happy to do it, plus he mentioned he needed to see you about something—I
forget what.”
“That trust stuff, probably,” said Imogen.
Genny looked inquiring.
“It’s just something boring to do with the house, I’ve no idea what. He mentioned I’d be getting a letter, but I haven’t heard anything more. It’s probably nothing. Anyway, I don’t need to go for ages yet,” she added, glancing at her watch.
“Pity, because here he is now,” said Genny.
And she was right.