Page 55 of With Love in Sight
She needed time and space to think. Her emotions were in turmoil when he was near. Though her entire body strained toward his, she forced herself to take a step back.
But she needn’t make a decision this moment. She had until the end of her trip. That was plenty of time to think on all the frightening, wonderful possibilities that loomed before her.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said, her voice sounding far off and dreamy to her own ears. Bobbing a quick curtsy, she turned and fled to the safety of her room.
• • •
Imogen was roused abruptly. She lay utterly still, uncertain why she was suddenly so very awake. Her eyes took in the unfocused darkness of the room before she turned her head in the direction of the window. She had left the curtains parted when she had retired for the night; though Sir Alexander had declared a storm had been brewing, the sky had been beautifully clear, with the moon plump and bright in the sky, illuminating her room in a soft silver.
Now, however, it was black as pitch, nary a bit of light breaking through the veil of night that seemed to have fallen over her eyes. The air had an electric anticipation to it, and she found herself clutching the blankets to her chin.
Then, suddenly, the whole of the room was illuminated in a bright flash. Light burst in, sending the shadows running, leeching everything of color. And then it was gone as fast as it had come. Imogen began to count as she used to as a child, slowly and softly. When she reached ten, a low rumble started, shaking the very windows in their frames, rolling on and on.
Now she sighed softly and sat up in bed, reaching over to light a taper. There would be no sleep for her until the storm had passed, so she might as well make the most of her time. She reached for the well-worn copy of The Romance of the Forest from the library and began to read. It was quiet for a time, the gentle fall of rain starting up against the glass panes of her window, providing the perfect backdrop for dark forests and ruined abbeys. And then another flash, followed more quickly this time by a sharp clap of thunder. The storm was moving closer and would be directly over their heads shortly.
A peculiar shuffling in the hall caught her attention just before a rumble boomed with enough force that it seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. She looked up quickly as a faint cry followed by a muffled thump reached her. As silence settled once more, Imogen heard the shuffling again, what she could now determine as the muted sound of footsteps passing directly outside her door.
Someone was out there, perhaps in some distress. Imogen put the book aside and threw off her covers, quickly lighting a candle and throwing on her spectacles and robe. She had seen firsthand the terror such a storm could invoke in a person, her young brother Bingham being deathly afraid of them. If there was any way to help someone through this, she would try.
She opened the door and looked down the hall. At the very end was a golden shimmer of light that bounced on the walls and grew fainter. Someone had just turned the corner. Imogen hurried forward on bare feet, the rug that covered the floorboards helping to dull the sound. She rounded the corner and peered into the open door that she remembered led into the Long Gallery.
Down at the far end was a silent figure in white. Dark hair trailed in a long plait down her back. The candle the woman held before her flickered over the walls, casting a feeble light on one painting in particular. She stood before it with a stillness that sent a chill up Imogen’s spine.
It was a scene straight out of a gothic novel, she thought as another burst of lightning bathed the room in its harsh, brilliant illumination. It was followed immediately by a violent crack. The figure at the other end of the gallery jumped, the light from her candle careening across the walls.
Imogen shook herself. The woman in the gallery was obviously of flesh and blood, no specter come to haunt her former home. She had been reading too much of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel. There was no reason to be afraid.
Squaring her shoulders, she slowly moved into the room.
Chapter 23
At Imogen’s approach, the silent figure tensed and whirled about. Her white night robe billowed out, her heavy braid swinging in an arc. The flame from her candle nearly guttered at the movement but struggled back to life, shining on the face of Lady Emily Masters. The glittering trails of tears shone like diamonds on her cheeks.
The two women stared at each other for a shocked moment. Lady Emily was the first to react.
“Miss Duncan, what are you doing up?”
“The storm woke me,” she answered gently. “I thought I heard you in some distress, so I followed. Forgive me. I thought I could be of help.”
Emily shook her head and wiped hastily at her cheek. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
Imogen regarded her carefully. This was the longest conversation she had ever shared with the other girl, and she feared breaking this unexpected truce with a wrongly placed word.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” she said softly. Emily turned from her, back to the portrait. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, knowing she would not get a chance like this again to reach out to her, Imogen slowly stepped up beside her.
The painting was of a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years of age. His copper hair curled endearingly over his forehead and hung a bit overlong to shoulders still narrow under his deep blue coat. He had a wonderfully assured look in his gray eyes, with a spark of mischief that was only enhanced in the slight quirk of his lips. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding the lead to a black and white spaniel that lay obediently at his feet.
With a shock, Imogen realized the young lad looked eerily like Caleb. But with a sad certainty Imogen knew deep in her heart that this boy was Jonathan, the brother Caleb had told her of who had perished so cruelly and at such a young age.
She felt a wave of grief for this boy she would never know. She could not imagine what Emily had gone through, being so young when she lost her twin, nor what she must still feel with her face as a daily reminder of it.
“This is Jonathan?” she asked quietly.
Emily swung sharply to look at her. “How do you know about Jonathan?” she rasped. Imogen could hear no animosity in the question, only shock.
“Caleb told me,” she answered.
Emily’s mouth fell open. “He told you? About Jonathan?” Her voice broke slightly on his name; she frowned and cleared her throat.
