The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) by Emma Jane Holloway Page B

gratitude in the name of your father’s bid for Parliament. His father is an earl, you know, and the eldest son is consumptive. Diogenes stands to inherit. You could be a countess.”
    Imogen felt a sting at the back of her throat that threatened tears, but she swallowed them down. She’d spent the early years of her life an invalid and knew how to wait out discomfort. This was just another episode that would eventually pass if she were stubborn enough. “I will see the young men and be polite to them, but do not expect an engagement by dinnertime.”
    Her mother rose, her face as impassive as Imogen’s tone. “That is all I ask for now.”
    Imogen remained on the piano bench, staring at her hands for long minutes after her mother had left. The room was silent except for the distant sound of footfalls elsewhere in the house. Horne Hill was quiet and genteel, everything a gentleman’s summer residence in the country should be. But to Imogen, it was a prison with Aubusson carpets.
    She wished Evelina were there. They’d shared every hope and secret since girlhood, and her friend had a way of making unpleasant situations feel more like an adventure than a burden. Evelina would have figured out some creative way of getting rid of Smythe, but all Imogen had managed was a black temper. Marry him? She could barely stand to be in the same room.
I wonder what would happen if I started giggling hysterically the next time Smythe came to call?
    She heard the thundering trot of her younger sister’s feet coming toward the sitting room. Slowly, she lifted her head and tried to arrange her features into something acceptable.
    “There is no poetry at Horne Hill,” moaned Poppy as she burst through the door. “The soul of every brick was forged on the anvil of dullness.”
    Imogen winced at the invasion—not to mention the jumbled metaphors. “We have a library. I’m sure I saw a copy of Pope’s
Iliad
there just this morning.” She noted with some surprise that the sun had advanced halfway across the floor. Apparently, she’d been sitting alone in a stupor for longer than she’d thought.
    “Pope? Ugh! I don’t mean
that
kind of verse. I have real poets to read if I want words.”Poppy knelt on the seat of an armchair and peered over the back as if she were four and not fourteen. Her long, tawny curls fell in a curtain, barely contained by a dark pink ribbon. “I don’t mean poetry of the written kind, I mean of the
soul
. There is no
romance
here.”
    Imogen fought the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. Or weep. Or foam at the mouth. “Were you listening outside the door?”
    “To what?” The girl actually looked innocent.
    Imogen forced a smile. “Just as well. You’re too young to hear about such things.”
    Poppy rested her chin on her arms, pouting over the chair back. “I am not too young for courting. And I would choose one of your young men rather than leave them sighing in distress. You’re a snow queen. You have no heart.”
    So she did overhear
. Tears stung Imogen’s eyes and she closed them before she betrayed herself. Poppy was both too wise for her years and yet all too young. For one thing, her head was chock-a-block with swashbuckling and derring-do. As a girl, Imogen recalled having a tendre for the Count of Monte Cristo. With Poppy, it was a constant parade of knights in shining armor.
    She turned away, trying to forgive the girl for simply being who she was. “You need something improving to keep you busy.”
    “Improving.” Poppy snorted. “That sounds like something nasty one takes for indigestion.”
    “Well, then how would you occupy your time?”
    Poppy raised a tawny eyebrow. “With pirates. Or highwaymen.”
    Despite herself, Imogen prayed that Poppy would never stop being outrageous. “I think those are more amusing on paper than in person. I hear the real ones have fleas.”
    Her sister awarded her a scandalized glare. “Are you insensible to the thrill of a man onhorseback,