Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventeen





MOGEN DID NOT return to her own room that night. Relieved to have unburdened such a weight as she had for so long borne alone, and this combined with the collective effects of a month’s late nights and early mornings and days filled with hard work, she slept well and long. When she awoke, late the next morning, it was to the sound of Claire entering and closing the door behind her. With her hands on her hips, she blew a breath of air and then turned so that Imogen could see her crimson face and the fire in her eyes.

“I told him.”

“Told who? Oh!” Imogen said, suddenly realising and sitting up. “Was he very angry?”

“Livid! His interest in you is far greater than I had supposed. I think we did not decide on this plan a moment too soon. I told him we would be gone by week’s end. Can you manage it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Claire sat down on the bed, a sober, cautious expression on her face. “There is nothing you’ve kept from me, is there?”

Imogen considered a moment. How could she lie to the one person who was willing to help her? And yet there were things she had kept back, that she must keep back. Those things she had left behind forever, never to be reclaimed: a name and a fortune. “No,” Imogen answered. “Nothing.”

“Sir Edmund is dead set that you should stay. Yet he knows the risks you pose by remaining. I do not understand it.”

“Neither do I, I can assure you,” Imogen answered, her alarm mounting.

Claire continued to study her. It seemed she must make that final confession. But just as she had determined to do it, Claire suddenly arose from the bed and crossed the room to examine the contents of the wardrobe.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose we will chalk it up to not quite idle curiosity. He is a man of paradox, by all accounts. I suppose it cannot matter now.”

“No,” Imogen said and watched as Claire began tossing gowns onto the bed. “Are you packing already?”

Claire turned and examined her. Then smiled. “It is quite the common thing for a lady to give her hired companion her cast offs, you know.”

Imogen looked at her suspiciously. “Cast offs? For me?”

Claire held one up and examined it against Imogen’s complexion. “Yes,” she answered, and tossed this, too, onto the bed.

“I have no occasion to wear clothes as fine as these. I have my poplin. Well, just the one now, but…”

“Yes, just so,” Claire said with a kind but condescending air. “And for attending me from day to day, the one may suit, when it is properly pressed and laundered.”

“I have another. A black silk. It will do well, enough.”

“Perhaps.” Claire appeared to be contemplating this. “Drab mourning is not quite the thing for a party though, is it?”

“Claire, I don’t think—”

“You may cower in your room alone and unprotected, or you may escort me, properly dressed in a manner to command respect. Which is it to be?”

Imogen could give no answer. She was perfectly happy to leave her mourning behind, all the more so for the trouble it had caused on a former occasion, but she could not readily agree to this. To be raised from the station of a common servant was one thing. What Claire was proposing was something else entirely.

“Good,” Claire said, assuming acquiescence from Imogen’s silence. “Then the matter is settled.”

The greater part of that day was then spent in trying on and taking in and up, for Claire was several inches taller than Imogen. Had Claire’s offerings been of the variety so common to the upper crust of Society, Imogen could not have been persuaded, but these gowns, three of them, were selected from amongst the most practical and versatile of those in Claire’s possession. And Claire was always practical. So there were no large bustles, no obtrusive trains and no impractically narrow waistlines.

“Look at you!” Claire said upon observing her reflection in the mirror.

Imogen, too, looked. Having grown accustomed to feeling shame at the sight of the face that looked back at her—by accident in the reflection of windows or in passing a mirror she had not known to be there—she was surprised now to find a young woman not hideous or shameful in any observable way. The dress, iridescent blue and trimmed in black, was truly beautiful on her. That old sense of vanity seemed to threaten once more. Thrusting it aside, she turned to Claire.

“Would it not be better, truly, to wear something a little less…?”

“I understand your misgivings, but hiding will not help you. It is too late now to wish to go unnoticed.” She smiled again, though rather weakly. “If you want to know, your presence will be a comfort. Sir Edmund quite frightens me.”

“But you—”

“Yes. I know. I’ve stood up to him on more than one occasion, but it is nevertheless a thoroughly unpleasant business. Say you’ll come? As you are. Please?”

Thus implored, and too grateful for words, Imogen at last agreed.

* * *

Claire, upon arriving at the drawing room doors, paused and threw a glance back at Gina. She prayed she was not making a mistake in requesting, nearly requiring her company this evening. It was a risk, she knew full well, and in more ways than one. At last, taking a steadying breath, she nodded at the butler, who drew the doors aside. Archer stood with their entrance and offered a familiar, if rather familial, smile to Claire, but his gaze quickly shifted and fastened on her companion, as she had suspected it would.

“Miss Shaw,” he said, welcoming her in turn, and warmly at that.

“Sir,” Gina answered, and did not offer her hand.

Good. Very good, Claire thought. She will do well.

The look of silent approval Gina then received from Archer served both as gratitude and confession. He was pleased, and yet there still remained cause to be cautious. How Sir Edmund would receive the unexpected guest, it was uncertain. If he treated her with callous indifference, that was possibly the most that could be reasonably hoped for.

Archer continued to stare at her companion, and Gina seemed tempted to shrink under the weight of it. She held her own, however, and admirably. Archer opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled from the attempt by the opening of the door.

“Miss Shaw,” came the familiar voice, and all turned to find Charlie entering the room, dressed for the occasion in white tie and waistcoat.

“Well aren’t you the fine gentleman this evening, Charlie,” Gina answered him. “You look very handsome, indeed.”

He beamed at her, then turned to Claire, whom he greeted with a bow before addressing Archer. The child smiled tentatively, hopefully.

“Mr. Hamilton,” he said. “I wish you many happy returns of the day, sir.”

“Why thank you, Charlie.”

Still beaming, the boy turned once more to Gina. “May I walk you in to dinner?”

“I would like that very much, Mr. Mason.” And she joined him as he took a seat quite out of the way.

Archer took a step in her direction, no doubt eager to take advantage of what few opportunities might be his before his uncle should join them. But Claire had a word or two to offer him first.

“Have you spoken to your uncle today?”

With apparent effort, he turned his gaze from Gina to herself. “No,” he said. “He’s in one of his moods, so I’ve stayed well clear. Mrs. Barton is here, you know.”

This surprised her, though perhaps it should not have. “But Archer, dearest, I’m afraid your uncle’s foul temper might not be all Mrs. Barton’s doing. I spoke with him myself this morning.”

“You must have had quite a row with him, then. I hope it was worth it.”

“Yes, I think it was. At least it was necessary.”

His playful smile faded upon realising how serious she was.

“I’ve hired Miss Shaw to serve as my companion, Archer.”

“Claire, that’s capital!”

“Yes. I think she’ll do well.”

“From that position you might do anything for her.” He glanced, once more, toward that corner of the room in which she sat, laughing and chatting animatedly with the boy. “Anything at all, really.”

“But not here.”

His attention was suddenly fixed on Claire.

“I’ll not stay my usual fortnight. I’ll leave come the weekend. And I’ll take her with me.”

Silence followed, and Archer’s face took on a stunned expression. His voice sounded choked, defensive. “Claire.”

The door opened, interrupting him, and Mrs. Barton entered on Sir Edmund’s arm.

“Archer, darling,” she said approaching him with arms wide. She placed a hand at each side of his face and kissed both cheeks. “A very happy birthday to you, dear.” She stood back and admired him. “You have certainly grown into a fine young man,” she said, and then turning to Sir Edmund. “He is the most beautiful young man, do not you think, Edmund?”

Sir Edmund offered no verbal answer but poured himself a drink every bit as stiff as the smile he had flashed in his nephew’s direction. Glass in hand, he turned to Gina. His eyes narrowed before offering Claire a warning, suspicious look. She ignored it.

Archer fidgeted under Mrs. Barton’s enduring approbation.

“That’ll do, ma’am,” Sir Edmund admonished at last.

“He bears a remarkable resemblance to his mother, I think,” the woman went on, unheeding.

The room fell deathly silent.

Suddenly aware of her faux pas, Mrs. Barton attempted to repair the damage. “Well I know you do not like to speak of her, but really. Look at the boy—a man now. She was a beautiful creature, and he has benefited by it. There is no shame in that.”

Still the silence reigned, while Claire watched Gina’s eyes flash from a pained and puzzled Mr. Hamilton to a red faced and seething Sir Edmund.

Mrs. Barton approached them then, examining Gina quite closely.

“Miss Montegue,” the woman said, though her gaze remained fixed on Gina.

“Mrs. Barton,” Claire answered very coolly.

“I believe I have not had the pleasure of being introduced to your friend.”

Claire stood, and Gina followed suit. “Mrs. Barton, may I present to you Miss Gina Shaw.”

Mrs. Barton’s eyes started out of her head. “Miss Shaw? Edmund, is this her? This cannot be the girl.”

“It is,” was his only answer.

Mrs. Barton continued her survey. “This is the girl whom you’ve asked me to—”

“Shall we go in?” Sir Edmund said, interrupting her.

Mrs. Barton, veritably silenced, turned slowly to Sir Edmund. “Oh dear,” she said, and, taking his arm, looked back to examine Gina once more as they entered the dining room, leaving Claire and Archer to follow, Imogen and Charlie trailing awkwardly behind.

Dinner was soon served, but Mrs. Barton, it seemed, had not yet done with her gawping.

“I understand, now, your curiosity—and your concern,” she said to Sir Edmund as she dipped her spoon into her soup. Her voice was not quite low enough to escape being overheard. “But did you not tell me that she had come as a maid? As a common servant? Why does she present herself here, and in this way?”

“Miss Shaw has left Sir Edmund’s employ, ma’am,” Claire offered in Gina’s behalf. “She’ll be leaving at the end of the week to serve as my hired companion.”

Mrs. Barton considered this, then turned to Sir Edmund with a question on her lips.

Sir Edmund interrupted her before she could begin. “It is not for Miss Shaw’s benefit we have gathered.”

“Dear, no. No it isn’t.” Mrs. Barton raised her glass. “May the next twelve months bring you all you wish for, my dear Mr. Hamilton.”

Archer answered with a grateful smile and raised his glass.

“And may you never forget your duty,” Sir Edmund added.

Hesitantly, certainly not enthusiastically, the toast was seconded.

Archer’s attention was once again on Gina. She was really amazing in a dress of jewel-toned blue, shadow and light dancing upon it in the reflection of the gas jets. Whatever might be said to the contrary, she seemed not at all out of her element here.

“It seems I’ve turned the whole house on its ear today,” Claire said recalling Archer’s attention.

He looked to her and smiled. “That’s no more than you usually do.”

But Claire’s look hinted vaguely of regret.

Archer, powerless to mitigate the damage already done and anxious to put to good use the little time that was left him, turned his attention, once more, from his cousin to Miss Shaw, but not before assuring himself that his uncle was occupied in deep conversation with Mrs. Barton.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble while you’ve been here. I hope you know it was not my desire to do so.”

“Please,” she answered. “It’s nothing. It is I who should apologise.”

“You?”

“I took the initiative to uncover the mural. And it was I who painted it over.”

“Perhaps it’s true you held the brush and applied the paint,” he returned. “But you did not do it of your own accord. I cannot blame you. And truly,” he went on, encouraged by her grateful smile, “you are right to say it was nothing. I had no idea of the painting’s existence half an hour before it ceased once more to be. It does not bear thinking on.”

Her expression was suddenly tense—pained. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The image was of your mother, Mr. Hamilton.”

For an instant he felt rebuked, and then, looking into those blue eyes of hers, he saw something deeper, as if she understood him like no other had ever done. It was not the first time she had had this effect on him, and he did not want it to be the last.

“I’m sorry,” she said, straightening in her chair and colouring. “I’ve done it again. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

Archer glanced at Claire who was busy in conversation with Charlie, and then assuring himself that his uncle’s attention was still diverted, lowered his own voice to answer.

“Your words may move me, Miss Shaw. They may make me think—and have done, but they will not offend me. They cannot.”

He looked once more down the table, where Sir Edmund and Mrs. Barton were continuing their whispered conversation, too engrossed to notice that any dialogue of consequence was taking place at the opposite end of the table. Archer might have been relieved, but at the moment, he didn’t care, so long as it caused Miss Shaw no further trouble. It could cause her but little more, truly. But that was the just the problem. She was leaving, and then what? How and under what conditions was he to consider her, then?

Claire looked up from her conversation with Charlie. “I nearly forgot,” she said. “You and Miss Shaw share a birthday, Archer. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Bewildered and staring, he answered a breathy, “Yes.” What more did they have in common? Would he ever know?

“Is there nothing we might give her?” Charlie asked, his face alight with anticipation.

“No,” Gina said, shaking her head. “No, this is Mr. Hamilton’s day.”

“Yours too,” Archer insisted.

“I have far more than I could have asked for. I have a friend now. More than one, I think,” she said looking from Claire to Charlie with an inclusive smile.

“Miss Shaw,” Archer said, determination thick in his voice. “I should hope you would consider yourself possessed of no less than three very dear friends.”

She turned to him again, her colour high. “Yes,” she said. “If you insist.”

“I do. And if you’ll promise to consider it so, I’ll hold it as the greatest of the gifts bestowed on me this night.”

“And after all the trouble, I’ve gone to!” Claire said, teasing. “If I’d known that’s all you wanted…”

“It’s no small thing,” Archer said.

“No. No it isn’t.” Claire’s manner was suddenly tense and warning. He did not understand the abrupt change. Or feared to.

“That is it, I suppose,” he said, with a nod toward one corner of the room where Claire’s gift to him had been deposited, packaged mysteriously in several large crates.

“Yes, but you must wait until the table has been cleared, for you will find it necessary, I think, to lay it out that we all might see. I think you will be pleased. You had better be, at all events.”





Aren’t you the fine gentleman this evening.