That Summer: A Novel by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online

late,” was all Arthur said, as if that explained everything. As he pushed open a door the hinges protested as though they had not been used in a very long time.
    The heavy drapes were drawn, blocking the faint light of the stars, and the air was heavy with the scent of dusk and damp. Arthur’s candle cut an uneven path through the darkness, revealing rosewood furniture draped in flowered pink brocade.
    It ought to have been pleasant. Once, it might have been. The bed and dressing table were both of rosewood, carved in gentle curves. The paintings on the wall were all floral in theme, delicately framed in gilt. The two long windows were shrouded in heavy drapes in a color that must once have been rose, like the bedspread, but had faded to an ashy pink.
    “This room has not been used in many years,” Arthur said apologetically.
    He set the candle down on a dressing table, next to the miniature of a woman propped on a small, gilded easel. The woman looked a little like Miss Cooper, but her features were softer, rounder, her hair in a froth of blond curls around her smiling face. She was young, as young as Imogen. The candlelight flickered off the painted features, lending an uncanny illusion of life to those painted blue eyes.
    There was no doubting who she was, or to whom this room must have belonged.
    In the mirror over the dressing table Imogen could see her own face reflected back at her, pale and drawn, her hair dark and drab about her face, loose, limp locks straggling free of their pins, nothing like the pink and gold loveliness of the woman in the picture.
    In the candlelight Arthur suddenly seemed a stranger, this man whom Imogen had known only a little more than a month, on whom all her happiness depended.
    Impulsively Imogen put her hand on Arthur’s sleeve. “Do you miss her? Your—” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say wife . “Her?”
    For a moment he seemed almost puzzled, and then his eyes followed Imogen’s to the miniature on the mantelpiece. Arthur lifted the picture of his wife, regarding it as if viewing a stranger.
    “It was a very long time ago,” he said almost apologetically. And then, as though he were examining any work of art, “It is a good likeness.”
    Imogen didn’t want it to be a good likeness. She wanted it to be rank flattery, for the real Emma Grantham to have been squint-eyed or hunchbacked or have a laugh like an unoiled door hinge.
    In a subdued voice Imogen said, “It was too bad of you not to give Miss Cooper any notice of my existence.”
    Setting down the picture of his first wife, Arthur held out both hands to Imogen. “You are too precious to share.”
    Next to the miniature of his wife Imogen felt anything but precious; she felt large, clumsy, and gauche.
    Imogen nestled her hands in Arthur’s, drawing reassurance from his touch, trying to hold on to the memory of their time together in Cornwall, that enchanted courtship in the garden, when Arthur’s eyes had been for her and for her only.
    Naturally, everything seemed gloomy now, late at night, with the rain dripping down the shrouded windowpanes, but the morning would dawn sunny and bright and they would begin their lives here together just as Arthur had promised they would, working together in perfect companionship and harmony.
    But she couldn’t quite stop worrying away at the uncomfortable realization that Arthur hadn’t bothered to let anyone know at home about his new wife.
    “She was very cross,” said Imogen. “And she had every right to be.”
    “Once Jane knows you, she will love you, just as I do.” Imogen felt the pleasure of his words warm her like sunshine until Arthur added thoughtfully, “She will be a great help to you as you learn to get on.”
    “I did manage my father’s household for a great many years,” Imogen reminded him, wishing she felt more confident that the one translated to the other. Miss Cooper was right; London was a very long way from Cornwall. Imogen tilted her