Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER fourteen





N THE LONDON townhouse he shared with his aunt, Roger Barrett sat, driven to idleness by the absence of his dearest friend and by the elusiveness of any diversion, worthy or otherwise. Julia too was taciturn this evening. It was not like her, but so far Roger had failed to notice.

“Is it some illicit pact Parliament has made with the devil that ensures that the weather for an entire six months is nothing but fog and rain? I’ve not seen the sun in weeks.”

Julia, with her chin resting on her loosely fisted hand, her gaze vainly piercing the fog-filled streets outside, did not answer.

“It’s abominably cold in here.”

Still no answer. Nothing.

“Great day, it must be colder inside than out!”

At last, and without looking. “Hmm? Did you say something?”

“Has the fire gone out?” He stood then, to see for himself. “No? Well it could be stoked higher, I dare say.” And he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

“Ring for Mary, then.”

Before Roger could quite reach the bell pull, the door opened and Mary entered, stacked the coals higher and left again with a polite curtsey, as Roger watched her with suspicious interest.

“How do you like that?” he said when the door was closed again.

“What Muriel ever had to complain of, I can’t imagine,” Julia answered as she turned back to the window. “I think that girl must have been the most faithful of any of my brother’s servants.”

“Muriel has hardly a kind word for anyone,” Roger returned. “Do you believe her? Mary, I mean. Do you believe she truly has no idea where Imogen has gone?”

“There’s no telling, really. She is faithful; I have no doubt of that. But I cannot believe she would consider Imogen’s running away to have been in her best interest.”

“Five weeks and not a word! Not a clue!”

Julia looked to her nephew. “Not quite without a clue.”

Roger, in three strides, was beside his aunt. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

Julia examined him a moment. “Do you know Mrs. Emily Barton?”

“Should I?”

“No,” she answered pointedly. “You shouldn’t. But she has lately been present at a few of the dinner parties to which Muriel and Lara have been fortunate enough to be invited. I’m not quite sure what her credentials are. She seems to me a rather common character. But you know Society these days. It is not as stationary and predictable as it once was.”

“For which I, for one, am grateful.”

Julia laughed. “Yes. And I suppose I should be too. Were it not for your uncle, my dear husband—may God rest his soul—” and she placed her hand tenderly over her heart, as she always did at the mention of him, “I would probably have to work every bit as hard as my sisters do, and simply to maintain myself amidst the lowest of the respectable circles. But for him... Well, we neither of us have to struggle now, do we?”

“But what news of Imogen? What has this Mrs. Barton to do with her?”

“She has been asking questions.”

“Of you?”

“Of Muriel, mainly. Strange questions, too. Regarding our brother’s servants.”

“Mary?”

“That was not the name she mentioned. Shaw, I believe it was. Gina Shaw. You were not aware of anyone by that name?”

Roger shook his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Everard had so many though, coming and going. No one ever stayed long. But what interest to anyone should your brother’s servants be?”

“It seems someone from his house has shown up at the home of an acquaintance of hers, begging for a position. And it was shortly after my brother’s death. Within a day or two.”

Roger could not think what to make of this, but for the fact that something hard and cold had settled in the hollow of his stomach.

“Have you asked Mary?”

“No. No, not yet.”

Roger crossed the room once more in search of the bell pull. And pulled it hard. Mary appeared half a moment later.

“Mary,” Roger began, and rather impatiently.

“Roger, let me.”

With a breath of air, he agreed, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Mary,” Julia gently inquired, “did my brother, Mr. Everard...did he ever have any servants by the name of Shaw? Can you remember anyone by that name?”

“No, ma’am,” she answered. “I can recall no one by that name.”

“No one answering to Gina?”

Mary started visibly, then recovered her composure. But it was too late.

Roger stepped forward. “Tell us, Mary, what you know of a Gina Shaw.”

“Nothing,” she said, vehemently. “Nothing at all of anyone by that name.”

Roger, frustrated, turned from her and began pacing the room. Remembering his drink, he tossed it off as Julia continued to question the young maid.

“Do you know where cook and the housekeeper have gone?” Julia asked.

Mary shook her head. “There’s been no housekeeper for such a long time. And I don’t know where cook went to. The moment Mr. Everard popped off… Forgive me,” she said and flushed.

“No, no. Go on, Mary.”

“The moment she heard he was no more...well, she left. Not a day’s notice. She just left. What was Miss Imogen to do then without someone to cook her meals?”

“I think Muriel had accounted for that,” Roger said.

“Yes,” Mary said, turning to him. “But Miss Imogen did not want to go to that woman, now did she?”

“No,” Julia said. “No, she did not.”

“She might have gone to you, though.”

Both Roger and Julia were caught off guard by the girl’s uncharacteristic boldness.

“If you’d insisted, she might have done. I won’t say she would’ve done, but she might have. And now she’s gone.” Mary, covering her face in her apron, began to cry, relieving them both of any remaining suspicion.

And yet... “You said you knew no one by the name of Gina Shaw,” Roger asked her. “You swear to this?”

“Yes,” she said, and nodded. “Yes, I swear I never knew anyone by such a name as that.”

“Nor by Shaw alone?”

“No. Nor by that name neither.”

“And what of Gina?”

Mary paled.

“You have known someone by that name?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mary! I demand that you tell me whether you have ever known anyone by the name of Gina.”

She hesitated, but she became suddenly forthcoming as Roger took another step toward her. “I never knew anyone whose right and proper name was Gina. But I did know as Miss Imogen was sometimes called that.”

Roger’s eyes grew large and he felt the vein in his temple begin to pulse.

“Those gentleman, them who came to see Mr. Everard… One or two of them...one in particular...he liked to call her by that name, though she hated it so.”

“Who! Who would dare call her by something so common? I want to know, Mary. Tell me!”

But Mary would say nothing more about it.

“It doesn’t matter, Roger.”

Roger turned to his aunt, her face kind, comforting in her shared grief.

“That is not what’s important now.”

“No,” Roger said, only vaguely comprehending. Was it possible that his cousin and dearest friend was now found? By someone, somewhere? “This Mrs. Barton, do you think—”

“I’ll do what I can, Roger. But it may be too late.”

“Too late?”

“If the woman is in Muriel’s confidence...”

“Yes, but at least then she’s found. That’s something. And you can step in then. If Imogen doesn’t wish to live under Muriel’s care, then bring her here. It’s a simple matter, really.”

“It’s not, though. To bring her here, Roger. It complicates things, don’t you see?”

“No. No, I don’t see at all.”

“Muriel is her godmother. She has the right to claim her. And truly, it’s not possible for me to take you both on. Nor would it be prudent.”

“I’ll go then. I’ll get a place of my own.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s not possible you object to my wish to marry her.”

“No. Of course not. I see quite plainly all she might do for you. Of all the people whose influence might improve you, there is no one on this earth who can make of you what Imogen might.”

Roger did not answer this, only poured himself another drink. He was prepared to commit to anything, if she could only be brought home.

“However,” Julia continued with a great steadying breath, “Muriel will cause trouble for us all if we attempt to interfere. Should Imogen show up on my doorstep, of course I would exert all my powers to protect her. But I think that eventuality is not very likely. Imogen has not much faith in me, and that is my own fault. I will remedy that if I can,” she added with a heavy sigh, “whenever I may. But truly, Roger, I can’t help feeling that poor Imogen would have a better chance were Muriel to take the will to chancery.”

“She has not?”

“No. And while there’s a possibility of her return, and of Muriel gaining control over her, she’ll not risk it. But the battle will be far harder waged across the dining room table rather than in a courtroom.”

He knew she was right, but at the moment, it was all secondary. “Just bring her home,” he said. “We can figure the rest out later. Just, dear God in heaven, bring her home.”

* * *

Newly arrived, Claire stood in the Abbey’s great entrance hall and sighed. Archer watched her as she examined the place.

“It never changes, you know?”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

She, glanced at him, unpinned her hat and removed it. He’d not seen her in some time, and she looked taller, her hair fairer.

“One might expect something,” she said with another cursory glance about the room. “A little extra dust year after year, the tapestries more worn, more faded. But no. It is always the very same.”

“Not everything is the same.”

“No?”

“We’ve begun some improvements.”

Claire’s eyes widened.

“You are to cast your approval. Sir Edmund says so.”

“My approval?” she asked, dubiously.

“Or your disapproval, as the case may be.”

“Now I am intrigued,” she said as she pulled off her gloves. “Which rooms?”

“The west bedroom suite.”

Claire’s eyes grew larger still. “You had better show me.”

And Archer led the way.

“You are finished, then?” she asked him as they made their way together, her arm in his. “With your studies, I mean.”

“Another month or so is all.”

“And what then?”

“I don’t know, Claire,” was his characteristically dismissive answer.

She cast upon him a disappointed look as she detached herself from him and entered the room. She stopped short and looked about her, turning round and round as she took in every detail, the ceiling, the newly painted mouldings and plasterwork, the walls freshly papered in embossed cameo medallions, the draperies a rich mocha, the sheer bed curtains with a damask overlay.

“Good heaven!” she said at last. “Sir Edmund didn’t direct this.”

“No,” Archer answered.

“He hired someone, then?”

His answer was necessarily cautious, for he suspected the woman in question was in the next room. He had not seen her, but this was where his uncle had determined to keep her. Away from him and all others who might be tempted by the distraction her presence afforded. “In a matter of speaking.”

“With what money, is what I’d like to know?”

“Mrs. Barton’s I suppose. I’m sure the costs didn’t run what they appear to.”

“No? He had one of the servants see to it then, did he?”

He glanced toward the adjoining room. Nothing could be seen or heard from within. “Something like that.”

Claire turned to face him, uncomprehending. “Mrs. Hartup, I suppose,” she said, her doubt quite apparent. “Or your Becky Winslow, maybe.”

“She is not my Becky Winslow, Claire. I beg you not to say such things.”

Claire shook her head and sighed. “So Sir Edmund has at last decided to take a wife, has he?”

“Or so he says.”

“And this is to be her room? Mrs. Barton,” she added with an air of disdain. “His marrying her can only be a financial arrangement. They say you have recently begun playing escort yourself. Do you understand the risks you take?”

“They, Claire? Your circle and mine are not the same.”

“But they might be, Archer. That’s the point. There are those more than happy to help you. Myself included. But you cannot take him with you.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice, is it? He commands. I obey. That is that.”

Which won from Claire a sideways glance before she turned her attention once more to the room. She ran her hand appreciatively across one of the drapery panels.

“You don’t suppose I enjoy escorting my uncle’s mistress to functions at which she is only reluctantly received?”

Claire turned to face him. “No. No, I don’t suppose you do. But don’t you see that you must separate yourself from him? You must make your own way.”

Archer turned from her and, placing his hands in his pockets, began to take his own turn of the room.

“You must take this seriously, do you not see? If you don’t do it now, it may very soon be too late. If he makes good on his promise to arrange your marriage, there’ll be no separating yourself from him then.”

“It’s not as easy as you propose, Claire. I’m utterly dependent on him. I owe him everything.”

“But that’s not all. That’s part of it, I see that. You’re afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You’re afraid to turn your back on the one person whose respect and appreciation, even love, you’ve really wanted. He’s given you everything but that, and that’s what you want. It’s what you’re waiting for yet. Am I wrong?”

Archer did not answer. He did not dare to. It was hardly a discussion he would like to continue. Nor was it one he would like to have overheard.

“You are holding onto some vain hope that he will one day appreciate you for the man you’ve become,” Claire continued.

“I don’t know quite what that is yet, Claire.”

“Neither do I, to be quite honest with you. You are one minute a saint, a Galahad, someone’s knight in shining armour. The next you are nothing but a spoiled child.”

“That’s not very complimentary.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. What do you propose to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“So you propose to do nothing, then? Just stay here, reliant on your meagre allowance and hoping that something will be left by the time you inherit?”

She seemed almost angry, and he couldn’t understand it.

“Well?”

“Blood and money, Claire,” he said at last, frustration thick in his voice. “One doesn’t just cast these aside. As for my uncle’s approval, I have not yet counted myself beyond the earning of it, as you seem to have done.”

But Claire was no longer listening she was staring toward the passageway of the room beyond. He had seen it too. A flash of pale gown across a doorframe, interrupting the backdrop of a not quite empty room. Claire glanced at Archer and crossed to the adjoining door.

* * *

Imogen turned upon finding her solace disturbed. It was not much of a solace anyway with her nerves growing increasingly tense in anticipation of Miss Claire Montegue’s imminent arrival. The woman stood before her now as if she meant to stare her quite out of countenance. And what Miss Claire did not deign to do for herself, Mr. Hamilton threatened to finish.

She did not dare speak, simply stood in silence and hoping she was unobtrusive enough to avoid Miss Claire’s censure.

Claire looked to Archer.

“Claire,” he said on cue, “this is Gina Shaw.”

“Claire Montegue,” Claire said for herself, stepping forward and taking Imogen’s hand.

Imogen was hesitant to give her own, though it was for no want of civility. Rather for being treated with such unexpected and undue respect.

“You have done this?” Claire said, gesturing toward the other room.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this room is next, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. And then the one beyond.”

Claire moved to the doorway and peeked within the newly emptied chamber.

While Imogen watched Claire, Mr. Hamilton continued to watch her, and she felt her colour rise under the weight of his gaze, though she refused to meet it.

“Sir Edmund’s rooms?” Claire asked of Mr. Hamilton, begging for further confirmation of what she had already been told, and with that same air of doubt in her voice.

“And Mrs. Barton’s.”

“I’ve never before known him to take such pains for anyone. Their affair is long standing, mutually beneficial, but rarely amicable.”

“No,” Mr. Hamilton conceded.

“It won’t improve upon making the arrangement legal and binding.”

“I have no delusions it will.”

Claire straightened, having at last seen all there was to see, and sighed. “This isn’t right.”

“You disapprove?” Imogen asked, deeply disappointed.

“Oh, my dear, no,” Claire said, approaching her and placing a hand on her arm. “That’s not what I mean at all. The transformation is,” she shook her head, “miraculous. But I’m not at all certain of Sir Edmund’s intentions.” She turned once more to Mr. Hamilton. “Are you sure he doesn’t mean to have these rooms prepared for you, Archer?”

Mr. Hamilton stiffened, took Claire by the arm and led her briskly out of the room.

* * *

“What was that about?” she asked him when once they entered the little second story book room.

“You needn’t speak so openly in front of the servants, Claire. I know it’s too much to ask you to keep your opinions to yourself, but can you not use a little discretion?”

“The servants? You mean to tell me Miss Shaw is a servant?”

“I thought you understood that,” he said, ruffled still, or perhaps ruffling further. “I did tell you.”

“Yes, I suppose you did. But I still don’t believe it.”

“Well believe it!” The degree of frustration with which he said this could not be ignored, though Claire did not, as yet, understand it.

“A common housemaid?” she asked, confused.

“Not quite common,” he said, his voice thick with some unexpected and seemingly exaggerated emotion. “Not by the typical standard, but yes.”

Claire stood in silence, watching, waiting for it to become clear. Suddenly it did. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh dear, no. Archer, what are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“I can see that. What are your intentions toward this woman?”

“Claire, for heaven’s sake.”

“Answer the question, Archer.”

He sighed. “I don’t know.’

“You don’t know?”

“Sir Edmund has asked me to keep clear of her, and I have.”

“Have you?”

“Perhaps not at first, but—”

“But what?”

“What can I say? She put me in my place. And I’ve stayed there.”

“Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet,” she said, and fell into a nearby chair. “How did she come to be here?”

“I hardly know. She arrived a couple of months ago, asked for work and it was given her.”

“And from where did she come? Do you know that?”

“London, I believe. I…”

“What is it?” she prompted him.

“I don’t think she’s been long in her present station, Claire. I’d sooner believe she’s fallen royalty than a born and bred serving girl. If you had been with me when I first saw her, I know you’d agree.” And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, though not quite all the details of that first meeting. What he hoped to gain by it, even he could not say, but he trusted to Claire’s perspicacity, and to her strong and oft times liberal opinions, to make the most of it.