Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER eighteen





T LAST DINNER was over. Sir Edmund and Mrs. Barton, whose conversation had grown increasingly confidential during the meal, retired to another part of the house to continue their tête-à-tête in privacy. In the meantime, the rest of the party withdrew to the drawing room while the table was cleared in preparation for the unveiling of Mr. Hamilton’s rather large and apparently complex gift.

While they waited, Charlie presented his own gift. It was a humble offering. He took from his pocket a small volume of poetry, and on finding the page, began to read, and then, gaining confidence, to recite from memory. Ozymandias. He recited it well. Imogen felt it a pity Sir Edmund was not present, for it would have attested to the care that man had taken in the boy’s education.

“Well done,” Imogen said when he had finished, and in glowing praise of his efforts.

“Have you another, Charlie?” Mr. Hamilton asked him now. “One poem for two birthdays seems hardly fair now, does it?” He arose to examine the book Charlie still held.

“No, please,” Imogen objected and stood.

“You dislike poetry, Miss Shaw?”

“No, of course I don’t dislike poetry, sir, but my place is as a companion to Miss Montegue, not as a spectacle, which is, I fear, exactly what I’m making of myself by being here at all.”

“Well,” Mr. Hamilton said to Charlie, seemingly defeated. “If Miss Shaw objects to poetry for herself, why not another for me?”

“Of course, Uncle. What would you prefer?”

Uncle? Is that what the boy called him?

“Keats, I think. Have you Ode to Psyche, Charlie?”

“I think so.” With Mr. Hamilton’s help, Charlie turned to it and began to read.



“O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched ear:”



And when Mr. Hamilton helped him to read, and then, looking up, to recite along with him the words that followed, Imogen turned away.



“Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?”



It was all too much. Or was she making too much of nothing? She crossed to the farthest wall where a bookcase stood, and examined it, though rather blindly. She tried not to listen as they read. But it was that or think. She’d had quite enough of thinking for one day. She took a book from the shelf; she did not know what. Until she opened it. Ovid’s Metamorphoses. She had turned, by chance, to Boreas’ pursuit of the reluctant maid. Hurriedly she returned it to the shelf, but it dropped and fell with a great echoing thud, to the floor. It seemed an extravagance of sound, for it was not a large book.

It was Claire who broke the silence. “Have you another, Charlie? Anything will do. Something light, I think.”

“A sonnet?” he suggested.

“No. Definitely not a sonnet.” She took his book, and made a selection. “There. That should suit the occasion well enough.”

As Charlie once more began to read, Claire offered Mr. Hamilton a scolding look. He approached his cousin, and with her voice lowered, though not entirely inaudible, she spoke to him.

“Your pointed attention is out of place here, Archer. Don’t you see you make her uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know what to say, Claire, I….”

But Imogen could hear no more. Their voices had grown quite low. That, or Charlie’s voice had risen. Relieved, she listened to Charlie, who read now of ships and seas and voyages in far off lands. Safe subjects, all. And while he read, she took the opportunity of studying him in comparison to his uncle, or father, or whatever Mr. Hamilton might one day prove to be. Really, the resemblance was unremarkable. Save for the same elegance of manners and uniqueness of speech, they had little to identify them as kin. Perhaps she had been mistaken. How she hoped she had been mistaken. Not that it mattered. It didn’t.

Charlie, having finished, looked up with a bright face. As Mr. Hamilton and Claire were still consumed in their discussion, it was Imogen alone who applauded him. Which drew attention, once more, to herself.

Mr. Hamilton turned to her, while Claire, very red of face, knelt to speak to Charlie, to congratulate him, it seemed, and to offer the encouragement he so richly deserved. Of which, Imogen presumed, he was used to receiving very little.

While Claire spoke with Charlie, Mr. Hamilton approached Imogen. He stopped when she took a step away from him. “You’ll be leaving us soon,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I believe you will be very happy with Claire.”

“I see no reason why I should not be.”

“No,” he said quietly. Was it regretfully?

She dared to look up at him again, and found, as he gazed down upon her from the great height of his lithe frame, that the look in his eye had taken on a hint of desperation, as though he was aware of some impending loss, and that she alone might relieve him of it. But that was foolishness. On his part to imply it or on hers to imagine it, she could not say. Before she could make up her mind how to reply, the doors opened and Miles Wyndham entered.

“Well isn’t this a cosy gathering!” he said. And then he stopped as his gaze fell upon Imogen. He smiled broadly. At last he looked to Claire and greeted her.

Claire stood and turned as Charlie concealed himself behind her. Neither said a word to him in reply.

“Miss Shaw,” he said, approaching them. “Hamilton.” This last was offered rather coldly.

“Wyndham,” Mr. Hamilton answered.

“Good evening, Miss Shaw. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I was until a moment ago, Mr. Wyndham,” she answered honestly.

“And what has dampened your gaiety? Not my late arrival, surely. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton has somehow offended you?” He examined the pair of them standing very close together, for Mr. Hamilton had drawn nearer with Wyndham’s approach. “It would not be the first time I had cause to reprimand him for presuming upon—”

“Excuse me,” she said. “I think I made a mistake in coming.” She moved toward the door.

“Not so soon, Miss Shaw,” Wyndham said, stopping her. “The night is still young.”

“I’m sorry, I think I must. It’s been a long day.” She looked to Claire for permission to retire. Claire, now standing alone (Where had Charlie gone?) nodded her approval.

Imogen hesitated only a moment more. “I wish you a very happy birthdays, Mr. Hamilton.” With an apologetic smile, she then quit the room.

She returned to her own and, dressed as she was, she laid down on her bed. The tears came. Tears of shame and humiliation. Tears of regret. Then one or two of hope.

And then sleep.