Imogen suddenly missed her brother—and her mother in far-off Cumberland. Family—that deep sense of connection as opposed to a mere dutiful visiting and letter writing—was something she had given up with everything else five years ago. She was not entitled to the warmth and comfort it provided—or to the bickering and the laughter.
She felt a bit as though her heart had been in cold storage for a long time and was gradually thawing. She could not allow it to happen completely, of course, but for the next week and a half she would perhaps allow herself to relax a little. She would put herself back together when she was at Penderris, surrounded by her friends. She would ask for their help if she needed it, though just an awareness of their love and support would probably be sufficient. She would do it, though. She had never been much lacking in willpower.
In the meantime, she would now permit herself some enjoyment. It seemed a long age—another lifetime—since she had last enjoyed herself.
If only she had been able to have a child or two with Dicky, she thought as she left the hall to return home and drew her cloak more closely about her against the chill of a colder day. Geoffrey was coming across the lawn, one hand in his grandfather’s, the other in Mr. Eldridge’s, and she could hear the chant of their three voices, “One, two, three, j-u-u-m-p.” The two men lifted the shrieking child high between them on the last word.
Imogen did not often regret her barrenness. What was the point? And it would have changed everything if she had been fertile. She would not be standing here now, smiling wistfully at a child who had not even been born when Dicky died. Who knew what she would have been doing? It was foolish even to think of it.
Percy was approaching from the stables with his two friends and Hector frolicking along beside them—yes, actually frolicking. The child, seeing them, abandoned the other two gentlemen and went racing off to be lifted high and spun around and deposited astride Percy’s shoulders. A burst of laughter and a high-pitched shriek and giggle ensued when Percy’s tall hat was knocked off and he insisted upon bending to retrieve it himself, deliberately almost spilling the little boy over his head as he did so.
There was a general exchange of pleasantries as everyone approached the house.
“The invitations are all written, are they, Lady Barclay?” Mr. Galliard asked.
“They are,” she told him. “We are all agreed that we cannot expect quite the sort of sad squeeze we might have hoped for if this were a London ball during the Season that we were planning, but the ballroom should be quite creditably filled.”
“Hard luck, old chap,” Mr. Welby said, clapping Percy on the shoulder and lifting Geoffrey down to play with Hector.
“One must always look on the bright side,” Percy said. “How lowering it would be if I could expect no more than my own family members and two friends already assembled here, huddled in one corner of the ballroom pretending to enjoy my belated birthday ball. I am not at all sure it is a good idea to let Heck kiss you, Geoff, my lad.”
“Are you on the way home, Lady Barclay?” Viscount Marwood asked her. “Do allow me to escort you, ma’am.” And he offered his arm together with what seemed like a mischievous grin.
“And since you are in possession of two arms, ma’am,” Mr. Welby said, bowing to her with a courtly flourish, “do allow me to escort you too.”
Imogen laughed and dipped into a deep curtsy. “Why, thank you, gentlemen,” she said, taking an arm of each. “I was warned just yesterday that there might be wolves.”
“Plural,” Percy said. “At least three of the beasts, or so I have been told. I had better come too.”
And they set off, the four of them, across the lawn in the direction of the dower house with a continuation of the silly, mindless banter—in which Imogen joined. She found herself almost wishing someone would suggest the one-two-three-jump game. And then, when they came to her house, Percy opened the gate with a flourish, she stepped inside, he closed it, and the men took turns, the foolish idiots, raising the back of her hand to their lips and assuring her that she had brightened their day and made the fact of the hidden sun quite irrelevant.
She stood at the gate, watching them walk away, Hector trotting along behind. They were still talking, still laughing, and she realized she was smiling—and realized too that it was an unfamiliar feeling. And then she was blinking back tears—yet again. Another unfamiliar feeling.
Percy turned his head briefly before they disappeared from sight behind a tree and smiled at her. And she was still smiling herself, tears notwithstanding.
Oh, goodness, oh, goodness—she was so very deeply in love with him.
And it was all her own fault. She had no one to blame but herself.
*