Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER eleven





IR EDMUND, SEATED at the breakfast table, looked up with the opening of the door. Laying down his knife and fork, he watched as his nephew entered and took his seat. “I thought you had gone to Town?”

“No.”

Sir Edmund waited for an explanation or excuse. None came. “When do you mean to go?”

Archer laughed, if stiffly. “I think I’ve missed the Radcliffe party.”

“There are others.”

“I had thought I might remain at home this weekend. You’ve got more going on than you’re used to, what with the painters and all.”

“What is this about?”

“It isn’t about anything. I’ve been away a great deal lately. You’ve complained of it yourself, and so I thought I might remain.”

Sir Edmund watched his nephew as he attended to his breakfast, and considered with dissatisfaction this uncharacteristic air of rebellion. But he said nothing, eventually returning to his own meal, while a vague suspicion settled upon him.

* * *

Archer, after breakfasting, and not knowing quite what to do with himself, yet fearing the idleness which invariably crawled upon him whenever he was not actively engaged, decided to go out for a long, hard ride. The kind which taxes both mind and body. The very sort during which nothing else can be thought of and after which little energy is left for mischief. And later, hours later, he returned milder of temper and sounder of mind than when he had awoken that morning.

But the settling effects of his outing lasted only until he had returned to his own room, where he changed and prepared himself to assist his uncle in the library, by whatever means he might find, and however trivial. It was on leaving his room once more that his efforts were frustrated, for, as he passed the west wing, and from the very corner of his eye, he saw that too familiar figure of a not quite common servant.

Knowing very well that he was a fool in doing so, and berating himself as he closed the distance between those rooms and his own, he followed. He was curious to see what work was being done in that part of the house. Even without Gina Shaw’s presence, he was curious. Or so he told himself as he ventured in that direction.

He did not enter the room. Instead, he remained just without, cloaked in the shadow of the darkened corridor. From this vantage point, unobserved, he pondered the room and its lone inhabitant. How different she looked from the day before! That woollen monstrosity was gone and she wore, this morning, a dress of pale poplin. She was seated on the floor. With her drawing pad in one hand, a pencil poised in the other, she contemplated her work. After several minutes, she sighed and raised her gaze to rest on one wall, in a corner unobservable to him—that near which was the passage to the room beyond. She looked down once more at the several papers which she had spread before her. Archer’s curiosity now all-consuming, he took a tentative step nearer and left the protective cover of the shadowed corridor.

She looked up and saw him. And stood, dropping her work in her haste.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, surprised but pretending not to be. “Is there something I can do for you? Sir.”

“No,” he answered casually. “I was curious, that’s all.”

He continued to watch her. A stoic expression rested on her brow, but her eyes were alive, searching, uncertain what to do or how to behave. He did not like to see her ill at ease. Desirous to remedy the situation if he could (and he knew he could), he entered the room. Quickly, almost hurriedly, she began collecting the spilled and scattered papers, and tucking them into the cover of her drawing pad as if to conceal them.

He approached, examining her as closely as he might have done the renderings he could no longer see, and quite as intrigued. He held out a hand. He wished to see them.

“No,” she said, and held them closer.

He reached for them, placed a hand upon them.

“Please,” she said, but she made no more determined effort to stop him.

He took them, and page by page, examined them. What he saw impressed him. And he said so as he looked up at her again.

“Will you show me,” he asked, “what it is you have done? What it is you mean yet to do?”

She hesitated for a long, agonising moment. “Very well,” she said at last. And to his delight, she smiled.

And she did show him, explaining how it was that she had, with the help of Charlie and Mr. Brown, removed all the contents of these rooms, had seen to the cleaning and repairing of the plasterwork, had taken for her inspiration some remnants of a former colour scheme she had discovered under several layers of paint. Now, having peeled from the walls every last vestige of curling and mildewed paper, she was ready to make the final preparations before the new paints and papers were to be applied.

He watched her carefully. Her words, honest but perfectly delivered, her movements natural and yet well-schooled, she seemed at ease, as he would wish her always to be.

He was impressed. He could not be otherwise. In a combination of keen observation and her own resourcefulness, she had put together a room both tasteful and comfortable. And somewhat provoking, too, for the colours she had chosen were all flesh tones. She continued on, speaking now of some uncertainty that had arisen and how she was no longer sure of herself. But he was not really listening. He was watching her, following her, nodding his head at the appropriate times. Or so he hoped. But his mind was on the purpose of this room, how it might be used, and by whom, and whose hands would make it a welcoming place once again. And how they ought to be rewarded for that effort. It was not difficult—in fact it was far too easy—to imagine her here. Servant, lover, mistress of the house, he did not much care at present.

“You’re not listening.”

“Wasn’t I?” he said, awaking with a blink and laughing at his own blatant lie—and at her boldness. No. She was not like any common servant at all.

She smiled wryly. “It will do no good to show you if you will not even pretend to look.”

Rebuked, pleased by this easiness of manner, he did look. She was showing him the source of her misgivings. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, but between the layers of faded and flaking paint was evidence of a mural, rendered in hues decidedly not in keeping with the plans she had formed.

“I hate to cover it over. It looks to be very good work. And yet it has been covered on purpose, I think. Were it up to me I’d have it restored, but that means revising my entire scheme.

Still he was having a difficult time really concentrating on her meaning. What cared he for paints and papers, for lost and forgotten murals? All he could think of was her, her voice, the way she smelled, like lye and lavender, the warmth of her beside him. All these things, welcoming, inviting, comforting—these were alien experiences in this house. But she was not to be considered by him. She was not! This was insanity. To be consorting with the maid... What was he thinking? He wasn’t. She rendered the exercise all but impossible. Minus the hideous dress, without the concentrated and, to his mind, affected humility, there was nothing to indicate by any means obvious or apparent that she was miles beneath him. Reminded he was not supposed to be here, he prepared to make his excuse and be gone.

But it was she who spoke first. “Excuse me, Mr. Hamilton, but I really must get back to work.”

Suddenly it seemed impossible to leave. “Must you?”

“I really should,” she said, and moved away. Yet she appeared uncertain of herself even then.

“What is it?” he asked and prayed the answer was not the obstacle of his lingering presence.

She did not answer, but bit her bottom lip.

Tell me I should go. He tried but could not bring himself to say the words.

“I really must get back to work. Only...”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m waiting for a change of water. Have been waiting this half hour. They complain that I’m slow, but… Forgive me, I should not speak so.” Suddenly self-conscious once more, she turned from him. “I think I must fetch it myself. It’s just that I’m not to leave the room.”

“There’s an easy enough solution to that.” Archer crossed to pull the bell.

“No!” she said, stopping him.

“Why ever not? You need water. If you cannot fetch it then it must be brought to you.”

“But it will cause me trouble, don’t you see? A servant does not ring for a servant.”

Of course not. And he felt a fool. Why could he not remember what she was to him? His servant. Or his uncle’s at any rate. It was not much different.

“Excuse me,” she said and turned from him. “I had better go fetch it myself.” He watched her go, but she got no farther than the door before she stopped suddenly. Becky had arrived, a pail in each hand. She set down the buckets and looked up at Gina and Mr. Hamilton alternately. A scowl was followed by the slyest of smiles. She said nothing however, and simply turned from the room.

“There. You see. You did not have to go, after all.”

She turned on him. Angry now. “Do you see the trouble you will cause me?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Yes!”

But he couldn’t do it. He remained. He found he could not look at her when she was staring him down so. There was both ice and fire in those great blue eyes of hers. He turned from her and took another examination of the room, and of the mural that had started it all. It was a landscape, it seemed. Or was it?

“Are those eyes?” he asked her.

She nodded, tersely at first, and then sighed. “Yes. I believe so.” She crossed to the other side of the room, far from him, where she could get her own clear view of the ill-concealed mural. “Were it not for the eyes staring out at me, I might be able to ignore it. It’s as if they want to be discovered. And I have to confess, I want to discover them.”

He examined them a moment longer. “Have you a brush?” he asked her at last.

“What? No,” she said, though her gaze fell to the very object which lay on the floor at her feet.

“You’re not a very good liar, you know.”

“Am I not?”

“Thankfully, no. Will you bring it to me?”

“No,” she said and stared at him, blinking.

He turned back to the mural and sighed. Those eyes… “Listen, if I must, I must.”

“Must what?” she asked tentatively.

“I will call you by your Christian name and order you about.”

She had no answer for this.

“Gina…” he relished the name. “Bring me the brush.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said at last and quietly.

“It should be uncovered,” he said, “if for no other reason than to see what it is. Perhaps it’s worthless after all. We won’t know until we see it. Now bring me the brush.”

She remained for a moment more, and then, at last and determinedly, she approached him, brush in hand. But she did not give it to him. Instead, she dipped it in the water and began to scrub, albeit gently, the loose and loosening paint. He watched for a time, but as he saw her once more retreat into her chrysalis, he relented and moved away. Perhaps she disapproved of him watching her work. It was fair enough. He disapproved of her working. But there was nothing to be done about that, was there? He pondered the question. Foolishly.

“You are from London, I think,” he said at last, finding it necessary to keep the conversation flowing, if he could. To keep his mind from wondering off onto forbidden and foolhardy paths. And to put her at ease… But it didn’t work. The question seemed to have made her suddenly wary.

“What brings you to that conclusion, sir?”

“Well, you speak like a Londoner.”

“Perhaps my father was from London.”

“Was he?”

She glanced at him. “No.”

He smiled and she returned it, though reluctantly.

“Will you tell me about your family?”

“No,” she said again.

“Why not?”

She dropped her hand from the wall and the look she gave him was a challenging one. “Do you usually ask such personal questions of your servants, sir?”

Sobering and feeling the weight of this rebuke, he replied, “No, I don’t.” He could answer it quite honestly. And he did so pointedly.

Ignoring him, she went back to work.

Clearly he would have to change his course, but he must inspire her once more to that easy manner. He sought for anything he might offer. Anything to keep her talking to him.

“These rooms have never been used, you know,” he said at last.

“Never?”

“Not during my life, no.”

Seeing her defensiveness crumble away, he went on, encouraged to speak of things he’d never spoken of to anyone. Of things that were never spoken of by anyone.

“They were meant to be my parents’,” he said. “This room was to be my mother’s.”

Imogen stopped and looked at him. “Was meant to be?” she said at last. “And never was?”

“She died before she could ever use it.”

“I’m so very sorry.” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “But then—”

“She died shortly after I was born. She died in giving me life.”

She blinked then, as if his pain were hers to bear.

He was strangely touched. “It’s all right,” he said. “I never knew her. I could not have missed her.”

“Are you quite sure?”

The question stopped him, made him think. “How do you miss someone you’ve never known?”

“How do you help missing someone who ought to have loved you but never had the chance?”

He was stunned by her understanding of that which he had felt but had never been able to form into words. And if he had, he would never have dared utter them.

“I’m very sorry for you,” she said again, and just as sincerely.

Speechless for the moment, he turned from her. He found it necessary to wander the room.

“Have I said something I should not have?” she asked eventually.

“No. No, of course not.”

“If it has caused you pain to speak of it…”

He shook his head in answer, unable to offer any verbal reply.

At length she went on with her work, but after several minutes spent in silence, she stopped again and turned to him.

“Does it bother you to have these rooms prepared for Mrs. Barton?”

“Why should it?”

She did not answer this, but dipped and wrung out a rag to wipe the dust from the wall. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

He ran one hand through his hair. “I’ve just told you my life’s history and you want to apologise for speaking out of turn?” He laughed then and found he could not stop.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“And you have not told it all. Only of your mother. What of your father?”

“Ah. Well now you do presume, for you would not tell me of yours, so I have no incentive whatever to speak of mine. I think I’ll keep that a secret.”

She blushed in response to his mock chastisement.

“For the present.”

She offered no reply to this. At least she made no objection, and he found himself hoping for such an opportunity to speak with her again on subjects both personal and familiar. As he considered this most welcome possibility, wandering the room as he did, she continued with her task.

“There,” she said at last and stepped away.

Archer returned to her side to examine her work, and what it should reveal. But he stopped again quite suddenly, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

It was indeed a landscape, expertly rendered and concealed beneath a single, shallow layer of paint. Interrupting the scene, emerging on horseback from the protection of a wooded glade, were two figures, a man and a woman. The sun’s rays, shining through autumn leaves, illuminated the woman in an ethereal glow made all the more remarkable by the manner in which her companion gave chase, following her as doggedly as a looming shadow. Yet it did not seem to fit there, the man. It was as though he had been added later. An afterthought. An omission rectified long after the fact.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“What do you see?” he heard her ask. And then he heard the footsteps. He turned to her.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“That would be my uncle, I believe.”

Her eyes were suddenly very wide. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m afraid it’s you who are going to have to go.” Unceremoniously, though not roughly, he took her arm and led her into the adjacent room, by which she was to exit through the other door. These were the instructions he gave her, returning just in time to greet his uncle.

* * *

Imogen understood the dilemma but was helpless to remedy it in the manner Mr. Hamilton had suggested. He had given her his instructions, but she had been given others. She had been instructed by Sir Edmund to return to this room and to remain here. Likely he would be displeased whatever she did, but she would not disobey, and she felt certain nothing could be gained by deception. If Becky had seen her here with Mr. Hamilton, it was entirely likely that others had subsequently learned of it.

She was frightened now. Not of Mr. Hamilton. Well, yes, perhaps a little. At least she was conscious that she should be, even if it were only for having felt so safe in his presence. Perhaps in that illusion of safety was the real danger. Just what trouble had he caused her? Or, conversely, she him? She heard the raised voices, and felt his shame mingle with her own. Suddenly it occurred to her what it was Sir Edmund had meant by his admonitions—why he had wanted her, and her alone, to stay out of the way. And with the revelation came another; the idea that Becky had known quite well what she was doing when she placed Imogen, however unwillingly, in Mr. Hamilton’s bedroom.

She remained, listening. She heard the question asked, demanded: “What the hell are you doing in here!”

She waited for Mr. Hamilton’s reply. It was not what she expected. “This is my mother’s image?”

Silence, only footsteps across bare floorboards.

“This is not my father. Is it you?”

“How did you come to find this?” Sir Edmund demanded.

“Why was it hidden? And what does it mean?”

“Where is the girl?”

It was Mr. Hamilton who remained silent now.

“Where is she, I say? ... Gina!”

Imogen, her heart pounding, entered the room once more.

“You’ve uncovered the mural?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“I found it when I was washing the walls. I did not know if you wanted it restored or—”

“It was covered over, was it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That did not serve as adequate indication that it was meant to remain covered?”

“I did not know what to do, sir.”

Clearly angry, he crossed the room to where the painters’ tools and supplies had been placed. He found and opened a can of white paint and poured it into a pail before finding a brush and returning with the lot.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the brush into Gina’s hands and placing the paint on the floor beside her.

“Sir?”

“Paint it over.”

She dared a glance at Mr. Hamilton and saw a pained look on his face, guilt ridden and perplexed.

Taking up the pail, she dipped the brush into the chalky liquid. It had not been stirred, and the oil pooled at the top, while the fumes of turpentine made her head spin. She felt sick. She looked to the gentlemen again. First to Sir Edmund, then to Mr. Hamilton, who, closing his eyes, nodded his encouragement that she should obey.

Reluctantly, she began, and the two men stood side by side, silent and tense, until the whole of the uncovered mural was covered again. Finished, she turned to them.

Sir Edmund, without a word, turned and moved toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton” she whispered.

Silently he shook his head to dismiss the matter, and remained half a minute more.

“Archer! I believe you have somewhere to be.”

At his uncle’s demand, he followed.

Imogen, once more alone, sank down onto the floor and gazed up at the newly painted wall, obtrusively white against the rest of the greyed and dingy room. The look she had seen on Mr. Hamilton’s face... She would never forget it.