Perhaps it was because almost a year had passed since the last reunion and she had not seen any of them in the interim. She would be with them again soon. But even that prospect could not significantly cheer her.
She had kept herself busy. Her flower beds were bare of weeds and she had clipped the box hedge on either side of the gate, though it was too early in the year for there to have been any real growth. She had worked at some fine crochet she had started at her brother’s house over Christmas and read a whole book, though she was not sure she remembered its contents. She had written letters to her mother and her sister-in-law; to Lady Trentham and Hugo; to Lady Darleigh, who would read it to Vincent; to George. She had walked into Porthmare to make a few purchases and to make a few calls. She had baked a cake earlier to take to Mrs. Primrose’s sister in the lower village—she had recently given birth to her fourth child. She had checked every room upstairs and every cupboard and wardrobe and drawer to make sure everything was back in order.
There was nothing left to do except more reading or crocheting. She was alone and there was no social event planned for the evening.
Self-pity was a horrible thing.
She had last seen him the evening before last at the Quentins’ card party. He had been his usual charming self, and had behaved toward her just as if she did not even exist. She did not believe their eyes had met even once during the evening. They had spoken not one word to each other and had sat at different tables for cards.
It had all been an enormous relief. She had still been feeling raw from the telling of her story. Why on earth had she allowed him to maneuver her into doing it?
But could he not have looked at her even just once? Or said good evening to her at the start or good night at the end? Or both?
The confusion of her feelings puzzled and alarmed her. It was so unlike her to allow anyone to dominate her thoughts or control her moods.
He was expecting company at the hall. Thank goodness she had been able to move back to the dower house. His mother was coming and perhaps other relatives too. His mother was determined to organize some sort of belated thirtieth birthday party for him, he had warned everyone at the Quentins’ social evening, but everyone, of course, had been delighted. Imogen could not remember when there had last been company at Hardford Hall or any sort of party there. For Dicky’s eighteenth birthday, perhaps?
She hoped she need not be involved in any way at all, with either the visit or the party. Perhaps it would all happen after she left for Penderris.
She wished he would just simply go away, though that seemed a remote hope now, at least for a while. Perhaps if he went away she would be able to recapture some of her serenity.
She made a cup of tea after washing the dishes she had used to make the cake, and took it into the sitting room, where Blossom kept guard over the fire. At least the cat was a live being, Imogen thought, setting down her cup and saucer and scratching her between her ears. She felt rather than heard a purr of contentment. She was so glad Blossom had come and stayed. She had never before thought of having a pet, some living creature to comfort her and keep her company.
There was a knock upon the door.
Imogen looked up, startled. It was not late, but it was February and already dark outside. It was also raining. She could hear it against the windows—the first they had had for some time.
Who . . . ?
There was another knock.
She hurried to open the door.
*
Until his hand released the knocker and it banged against the door, Percy convinced himself that he was merely out for an evening stroll but would check that the roof was still on the dower house while he was at it before circling back to the hall.
It was a dark evening but he had not brought a lantern with him. The twelve capes of his greatcoat did a decent job of keeping out the rain and the cold. The brim of his tall hat did a tolerable job of shielding his face, though only if he held his head at a certain angle, and even then there were little deluges every time enough water had collected at the edge of the brim to become a waterfall, one of which had found its way down the back of his neck. The path along which he had walked was becoming a bit slick underfoot and threatened to turn to mud if the rain continued. A wind was getting up. It was not exactly a gale, but it was neither a gentle breeze nor a warm one.
In other words, it was a miserable evening to be out, and only when his hand had released the knocker did he admit to himself that a stroll was not after all what he was out for. And here he was ending a sentence again, even if only in his own head, with a preposition.
She did not dash to open the door for him. Perhaps she had not heard the knocker. Perhaps he still had a chance to slink away, to retrace his steps and dry off before the library fire with a glass of port in one hand and the volume of Pope in the other.
He rapped the knocker against the door again, and within seconds the door opened.