Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER fifteen





HE SITTING ROOM of the upper suite was at last cleared and prepared for a thorough cleaning. With notebook and sketch pad in hand, Imogen began to put her ideas down on paper. So occupied was she in her task that she did not hear the footsteps approach.

“Are these your plans?” came the pleasant voice.

“Miss Montegue,” Imogen said and stood. “Yes, ma’am. They are.”

Claire examined them a moment. “Whatever Sir Edmund pays you, it isn’t enough, you know.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“Oh, but I mean it,” she said, and seemed really to do so. “You were not overwhelmed by the task? I know what the rooms looked like before, you know. It could not have been easily accomplished.”

“The most difficult part, I think, is knowing that whatever I do it is not likely to meet with approval.”

“Ah,” Claire said with a sympathetic glance. “Never mind that. I have my doubts she’ll ever see them.”

“You believe the rooms will be Mr. Hamilton’s.”

Claire cast a contemplative look on her, and Imogen regretted her boldness.

“Mr. Hamilton has not treated you too impertinently, I hope?”

“No, not at all. That is, not of late. And he was never unkind, only…”

“A little too attentive?”

Imogen’s gaze fell to the floor. “Yes, perhaps.”

“You object, of course.”

“I do. At least… it is not right.”

Claire examined her once more. “As to your question, I’m afraid it’s hard to say,” she said, shifting her gaze toward the window and what lay beyond. “I hope it will not come to some horrid arrangement, but if my cousin does not take the required initiative for himself, it may well come to that.” Claire turned and looked to her again. “I wonder,” she continued, then stopped once more.

“Yes?” Imogen prompted, though something warned her she did not want to hear what Miss Montegue had next to say.

“I wonder what it is that brought you here. I do not have to wonder how you found employment when a hundred others were turned away. I understand him.”

“Your uncle?”

“He’s not my uncle. He is my aunt’s cousin,” she answered proudly. “We’re all cousins, you see. It’s easier that way.” Proud or not, there was nevertheless a heavy dose of sarcasm implied in her words.

Imogen dared an uncomfortable smile.

“He has placed you up here to keep you out of the way. And to discover your talents, I think. I wonder what else you are capable of. You are not, after all, a servant of the common order. It takes no great genius to see that.”

Imogen looked down at her drawings and shifted them slightly. “I don’t know what you can mean.”

“Don’t you?”

“I came here in need of work. That is all. I’m sure many others before me have found themselves in humbled circumstances. Am I not to seek employment simply because I do not appear to be made for it? I must make my way the same as everyone else.”

“But why?” Claire asked. “Why in this way? Why here, as a servant?”

“A woman without family, without connections…”

“Such as yourself?”

“Yes, of course. It is, after all, the only thing for which I can recommend myself, truly.”

Claire turned her attention once more out of doors. Imogen watched, waiting for whatever might come next. Did this woman consider her some kind of threat? Did she, too, fear that Gina Shaw had come only to cause trouble? Would she cast her out to make her way somewhere else? At last Claire turned toward her again.

“I would like a walk, Gina. Would you be so good as to accompany me?”

“Certainly, Miss Montegue.”

“Claire,” she said. “You must and you will call me Claire.”

* * *

A quarter of an hour later, the two walked out of the house together, and upon gaining the avenue, Claire slipped her arm into Imogen’s.

“Now, Gina Shaw, I want to know all about you.”

“All about me?” A tremor of alarm was plain in Imogen’s voice, though she tried to sound as composed as her companion.

“Yes. For instance, where were you born? That’s a good enough place to start.”

Imogen winced. So it was going to be an interview. “India,” she answered truthfully.

Claire glanced, a look in her eye of surprise.

“And then?”

“My parents died and I came to England.”

“To live in London.”

“Yes.”

“With?”

“An uncle. Until he, too, died. And then I found myself on my own.”

“With no one at all to claim you?”

Imogen could not and would not answer this.

“And you have been in service then for…?”

“A great many years.” It was at once a lie and the absolute truth, for there had never been a time when she had not been expected to serve her uncle in some way.

Claire seemed not to believe her. Imogen too was aware that not all of her answers were matching up quite seamlessly.

“You must have been very young, indeed.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“Yes.”

Claire laughed and the sound comforted her. “Which one?”

“I’m nineteen today. Tomorrow, Saturday, I shall turn twenty.”

“Good heaven! The wonders never cease.”

“I suppose it is a bit of a coincidence. Charlie told me it is Mr. Hamilton’s day as well.”

“You’ve met Charlie?”

“Yes, he’s been helping me.”

“Such a promising boy. I wish something could be done for him. He deserves better.”

“Yes,” Imogen said with greater enthusiasm. “That’s just my feeling. His life will be hard enough, I think. He only needs a little in the way of helpful encouragement. Some practical assistance. If he were to go to a proper school, if he had a patron who would support him, not just financially but…” Imogen stopped as Claire offered her a challenging look, though it might have been of wonder as well. Either way, Imogen had presumed too much. “I speak out of turn. Forgive me. I have yet to learn to keep my thoughts to myself.”

“If you have not learned it yet, Gina Shaw, I doubt you ever shall.”

“I will try. I’m determined to try.”

“You mistake me. A woman who speaks her mind is what is wanted most here. That is not to say it’s most welcome, only…necessary.” She smiled once more, at Imogen first, and then, turning her attention back to the path before them, at nothing at all. “I think… That is, I dare to suppose, that we will soon find ourselves very good friends.”

Imogen, at last at ease, smiled her pleasure in return. They walked on for a little way and were just nearing the village when they were stopped by a gentleman Imogen had seen before but whom she had never before met. His appearance prompted from Claire a look of profound annoyance.

“I’m very sorry,” she whispered to Imogen.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Claire Montegue! Fancy seeing you here,” the gentleman, pale and tall, said. “Taking the new housemaid out for an airing, are you? She could use it, I dare say, after being shut up in the Abbey for these past many weeks, doing Sir Edmund’s dirty work and preparing for that woman to take residence.”

“Miles Wyndham,” was Claire’s only answer.

“I have not been properly introduced to your friend, Claire,” he said as a very winning smile spread across his face. He was frighteningly handsome. “Would you be so good?”

“It seems you know her well enough, Mr. Wyndham. I think I ought to spare her any further indignity.”

“Well then, if enough is enough, I might address her myself. Gina Shaw,” he said offering an exaggerated bow. “It seems to me a wonder that you have been in residence these many weeks and I have not yet had the pleasure of properly making your acquaintance.”

Claire looked to Gina, a blank expression on her face.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, “don’t you think?”

“Not so remarkable,” Imogen said, seeing at last that she must give some answer. “Not when the fact remains that I should be considered quite beneath your notice, and you so far above mine that no reasonable contrivance can have been arranged that we might become acquainted one with another. It is no more than logical. It is no more than either of us should wish.”

Wyndham looked to Claire, bemusement on his brow. “This is Sir Edmund’s new maid-of-all-work?”

“You will do well to remember it, sir,” Imogen answered before Claire had the chance.

“I think I can be made to forget,” he said, raising the hair on her arms.

“I doubt very much you shall have the occasion.”

Again he turned to Claire. “You have come to celebrate Mr. Hamilton’s birthday, no doubt.”

“Yes,” Claire answered. “It’s good of you to remember it. I will relay to him your good wishes for the day.” And taking Imogen’s arm, she began to move off.

“Well, I might do it myself, you know. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. You are come. I imagine there is to be a dinner at least. Might I presume to beg an invitation?”

Claire, having turned back to answer, offered her reply. “It has been some time since the two of you were on good terms. If ever you were at all. It may indeed be presuming, sir.”

“A quiet family gathering then is it?” The question was asked with a degree of resentment Imogen found both puzzling and unsettling.

“If you are not welcome it is no fault of mine.”

“Well, then,” Wyndham returned. “I suppose I shall see you there.” He bowed once more.

“You presume to go where you are not welcome, sir?” Imogen demanded of him, though how she found the courage she could not say.

His gaze flashed from Claire’s face to Imogen’s and softened into something that might have been ingratiating had it come from another. “Do you mean to wound me, Miss Shaw?”

“No, sir, I mean to remind you of your manners. If you are a gentleman, you do not much act like one.”

He laughed and looked away. “Clearly you are in similar danger of forgetting your place, Miss Gina Shaw. Or has Claire offered to raise you from it? Training her as your lady’s maid are you?”

“Perhaps,” Claire said. “It is, however, no business of yours.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It will make things simpler, certainly.”

“How is that?”

“Well, where you are, she will be. It seems the acquaintance is to be improved after all, Miss Shaw,” he said with a bow. “You may count on it.”

Claire suddenly held to Imogen’s arm more snugly, uncomfortably even. “Good day to you, Wyndham,” she said and turned from him.

They walked then, back in the direction of the Abbey, though Mr. Wyndham watched on for some time, even following them that he might keep them in view as long as possible.

“Surely he was speaking in jest,” Imogen asked of her still flushed companion, and hoping for any reassurance.

“You know of Wyndham? Of course you must,” Claire asked of her.

“No. I have seen him come and go from the Abbey on occasion, but I’ve never spoken to him.”

“And no one has spoken to you of him?”

“No. Should they have done?”

Imogen waited for the explanation, and dreaded it too.

“Mr. Wyndham is a menace. He is dangerous, deceitful and completely unconcerned with anyone or anything but himself. You will remember it?”

“Yes. Yes of course.”

“Your reply to him was well dealt, but I fear it will only encourage him. You may have a reason to consider him a threat. I pray it isn’t so. You will remember the warning?”

Imogen glanced back to see him trailing at a leisurely pace and felt her colour drain.

“Of course I’ll remember.” She smiled, hoping it would sweep the feeling of doom away, or at least remove the evidence from her ashen face. Clearly it didn’t’ work.

“Gina, my dear,” Claire said, appearing truly concerned now, “if I’ve upset you…”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t anything you’ve said or done.”

A long silence ensued, wherein Claire continued to observe her. “Something is wrong. Will you tell me?”

“There is nothing to tell,” Imogen said, her gaze fixed obstinately on the Abbey before them and the uncertain safety to be had within its walls. What had she done in coming here? Why had she assumed that amongst strangers she would find safety? In running away, had she abandoned her one solitary chance of ever finding it?

Claire reached out to her. “What is it?” she pleaded as a true friend would. “Tell me. You can trust me.”

Imogen had never before had a real confidante. The idea she might was a comforting one. A tempting one. “You will think me very foolish, I’m afraid, but I came here believing I would be out of harm’s way.”

“You came to seek safety here?”

“Yes. You do think me a fool.”

“No, but…”

“There isn’t anywhere a woman is safe, is there?” Imogen asked with a catch in her throat.

Claire looked her over very carefully, searching for something. At last she seemed to have found it. “I think you had better tell me the whole story.”