Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER twenty-two





HE JOURNEY FROM Kent to London was accomplished in much the same way as was Imogen’s passage from India ten years ago—and felt every bit as long. Muriel, sitting beside her, remained silent the entire duration. Imogen could feel the tension, and waited any minute for the tirade to begin. It never did.

By early afternoon, they reached London. Still Aunt Muriel kept her reproofs to herself. Imogen, without ceremony, was shown to her room, where she retired early, though it was quite late before she found any rest. She awoke again but a few hours later, alone in the dark, her hair damp, her heart pounding. As she had returned to London, so had her nightmares returned to haunt her.

In the morning, Imogen arose to find that the lawyer had come. She was helped to dress in deep mourning and then led to the little library that had once belonged to Muriel’s late husband. Here she found Mr. Watts.

“I’m sorry if you had to wait,” she said to him.

“It’s no matter. I had a few matters to discuss with your aunt.”

“Oh?”

He looked up at her from the papers which he had only just situated on the desk before him. “If you would be so good as to put your signature to these, Miss Everard?”

“What are they?”

“A trust has been set up in your name. This will give you access to it—when the time comes. And here also is an acknowledgement, stating that I gave you…” He inserted two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and searched it. “...this,” he said when he had found what he was looking for. With a click of metal on wood, he laid the object down upon the desk. A key. “To your uncle’s house,” he said. “It’s yours now, of course.”

“I don’t want it.”

“So you’ve said, but…it is yours nevertheless. It is, according to present law—though who’s to say what will happen when the Married Women’s Property Act is presented before Parliament—the only security you will keep…when you marry.”

“I told you, sir—”

“You may change your mind.”

Imogen cautiously approached the desk. Mr. Watts handed her the pen and, reluctantly, she took it. She examined the documents. The size of the trust astounded her. It was quite shocking. Disgusting, even.

“Must I?”

Once more, Mr. Watts offered no answer. Perhaps there was no need. They had discussed it before, after all.

She bent to apply her signature. But stopped again as her hand wavered over the document. She looked up at him. “My aunt did not contest the will?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Who is to say? Perhaps she saw reason. Whatever the case, it remains that a Chancery hearing would no doubt last beyond your minority. The expense would be considerable, as well as the time and trouble… And it would make many things public that I’m sure you, and now she, as your guardian, would prefer remained quite private.”

“Yes, I see,” she said. And she did see. In fact it explained a great deal. Muriel had so far refrained from censuring her for her foolish misadventure. Instead she had treated Imogen with a sort of forced cordiality, a kindness that was never quite sincere enough to conceal the undercurrent of resentment and frustration she truly felt. Were she to do otherwise, were she to hand the decision to the courts, Muriel might never have a chance at Imogen’s fortune at all. But this way… Yes, this way her aunt might use more persuasive measures. Muriel had interfered, meant yet to interfere, to design and to scheme and to meddle. It was plain to Imogen now that the only means by which she could ever hope to be free was to hold onto this money as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it did, in a way.

She signed her name in a flurry of loops and flourishes and then took up the key.

“You are free to see the house whenever you like. If there is anything you want from it or—”

“No.”

“Very well…” he said and began gathering up the papers and replacing them into his bag. “If you change your mind… If you would like for someone to accompany you…besides your aunt, I mean.”

“Forgive me,” Imogen said, regretting her harshness. Mr. Watts was apparently on her side, after all.

He glanced up at her. “There is nothing to forgive.”

She wasn’t sure she quite believed him, but there was nothing more to say. She remained, watching, as he took up his coat and left the room. Leaving her to sit and to think in the seldom used library.

Twelve months. It wasn’t so long. Not really… How many days was that? And how would those days be occupied? Was she to remain quietly cloistered in her aunt’s dreary house, hidden away from Society and the tattle that must follow? Or would she be allowed to go out, to mix and mingle amidst a select company? Even she could not say which she would prefer.

She did not know, but she suspected these moments alone would be rare. Her aunt, no doubt, had some plan in mind for her, and it was unlikely to allow her much liberty to use her time as she wished.

She arose from her place and crossed the room to examine the shelves. The rows upon rows of neatly arranged books consisted almost exclusively of multi-volumed collections, all with titles clearly marked on perfectly matched spines. Had they ever been read? For the most part they were classics: philosophy, drama, verse. Mythology. She stopped on seeing a familiar name, the same she had found on the shelf of the Abbey drawing room. She took it down and opened it. The virgin spine cracked as she turned the stiff pages. Ovid’s Metamorphoses seemed to be a collection of pursuits, conquests and deceptions in order to win reluctant lovers. Images of Daphne and Apollo, of Proserpina and Pluto assailed her. And one, the same she had seen before, of the winged Boreas carrying a naked and resisting Orithyia off to his home in the clouds.



For Orithyia Boreas suffer'd pain,

For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;

Tereus his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,

Against the match a main objection stood;

Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,

Empty as air and ineffectual prove.



She stopped again on hearing the bell. The door was answered. Voices were heard, softly at first, and then rising higher. Imogen stepped out into the hall. From her place at the end of the corridor, she could only just see the housekeeper, who was turning the callers away and struggling to shut the door upon them. At last it was accomplished.

“Was that my Aunt Julia?” Imogen asked of the housekeeper.

She curtsied but did not answer.

“And Roger?” Imogen begged as the woman walked away.

“You are not yet ready to receive visitors, Imogen.”

“Aunt.” She had appeared very suddenly. No doubt she had heard the commotion—had expected it, even, for the housekeeper knew what she was about when she refused to admit her aunt’s visitors.

“You slammed the door on your own sister? And your nephew?”

“Roger is not my nephew. He is my sister’s husband’s…something or other,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Nephew.”

“So they say.”

Imogen hesitated for a moment, considered this and dismissed it. “Am I to see no one at all? Not even my family?”

Still, no answer.

“What are your plans for me? How am I to occupy my time? And for how long am I to be kept hidden away?”

“I see you found your mourning.” Aunt Muriel attempted a smile. It was unconvincing.

Imogen let out a quick breath of frustration. Why would she not answer her questions? “Yes, I found it. It was hard to miss as it was veritably thrust upon me.”

The smile, thin as it was, faded. Muriel turned from the room.

Imogen followed. Upon entering the parlour, she was shown to a writing desk, where she was not to write—who would she write to?—but where several books had been assembled and placed for her. This was to be her morning’s exercise, spent in reading and contemplation. In reflection, and, so her aunt seemed to hope, in repentance. The selections were extensive and exceedingly tiresome. But as her penance, they were hers to attend to. Each day. Every day. Sermons they were mostly. Scripture, too, and occasionally a bit of inspirational verse. And while Imogen read and contemplated and reflected, Muriel watched over her, quizzed her, and, in her insipidly false kindness—which was a sort of cruelty in itself—she rebuked her the only way she dared.

In the evenings, Imogen was given needlework, decorative items for the home Muriel doubted very much her niece would ever have the miraculous fortune to earn. But one must be prepared, after all, for even the most unlikely of eventualities. And the cause of preparation was furthered by the nature of her projects. Wall hangings, pillows, tablecloths, all of which were to be inscribed, in needle and thread, letter by letter, with verses of scripture or sage warnings intended to remind her that, if she should ever find herself blessed with the comforts and privileges of home and family, that the pathway to happiness was always, and had ever been, a road both straight and narrow, reserved for the penitent and faithful. Which virtues Imogen had so far failed to exhibit.

As for her meals, they were all taken in silence. At least Imogen was silent. Aunt Muriel talked enough for both of them, commenting on the paper’s Society column, or on the doings of the young (and worthier) relations of those with whom she exchanged visits. Nothing was said of Imogen’s escapade. While she was reminded, at every opportunity, of her folly, the episode itself was to be forgotten. If it were necessary to mention it at all, the word ‘holiday’ was the preferred term of reference, as if changing the name would somehow alter the implications of what she had done.

Besides her daily garden walks, the only outings she had to look forward to were the weekly church services, to which she was expected to go. And to which she gladly went, eager as she was for any opportunity to get out of her aunt’s dreary house and the tedium of her life there. Though the sermons in her aunt’s parish offered little in the way of enlightenment, the predictability of the ceremony comforted her. The words which had once inspired her to recollection and regret summoned different memories now. Those of her brief residence in an out-of-the-way village in Kent. Where she had found friends. Where she had been admired. And where, were she to be quite honest with herself, she had admired in turn. The memories, though painful, were a sort of comfort as well. She had very nearly been happy there. She might have been happy, indeed, had Claire’s plans not been frustrated—had she been given just a few more days. She would have been out of her aunt’s reach then. But why dwell on the past? None of it could matter now. It was over. Better to forget it had ever happened. And yet this past, foolish though it was to dwell upon, was a kind of necessary escape from the wretched present, to which she must return with the ending of each service.

Foolish or not, still, Imogen endured six days out of every week so that on the seventh she might indulge herself, reliving in her mind small chapters in Gina Shaw’s short story, while the parson’s voice droned on in the background. She knew it was wrong but she was presently helpless to resist the temptation. If only there were something—or someone—to fill the hole that remained where a piece of another had once, if briefly, existed.

She prayed for such. If she had to endure twelve more months of near solitude, she would do it. But she prayed for some kind of salvation from the trials she knew she’d only begun to endure under her aunt’s roof. She had offered this prayer on her first Sunday in London. She had offered it last week. And she offered it now. She could not be wholly unworthy of happiness, could she? Or of the devotion of one trustworthy man, who would love her for who she was and not what she brought with her? Who might, just possibly, overlook the stain on her character that she seemed unable to escape, no matter how she tried.

These were the thoughts and questions that mingled with her fervently offered prayer this morning—until the impression of moving and shifting bodies roused her. She looked up to find that Julia had just joined them. And with her, Roger.

“How are you, Imogen?” Julia whispered.

“Well enough, aunt,” Imogen answered with a smile. She was aware how stiff it felt, and how insincere it must, consequently, appear.

Julia’s smile was sympathetic as she took her niece’s hand in her own. With his aunt’s permission, Roger took it briefly and squeezed it before relinquishing it again. Without a word, with a look only, he conveyed his message more forcefully than he might have done with any spoken gesture. That sense of comfort and companionship she had longed for a moment ago was provided now. Had her prayers been answered so soon?

The pleasure of his company was not to end with the conclusion of the service, it seemed, for Julia announced her wish to join them for dinner. Her intentions thus stated, and so publicly, Muriel had no choice but to do the Christian thing. She issued the invitation.

Imogen, upon returning home, made her way into the garden, where she sought a little quiet contemplation and some fresh air before Roger should join her. He was not long in doing so.

He hesitated only half a moment as he shut the door behind him. In silence he approached her, and did not hesitate or falter but took her in his arms and held her there, close to his heart, where she had ever and always belonged. Why had she left him? Here, safe and sound in the protecting embrace of one who really loved her, even she could offer no excuse. And she blessed him for not asking one of her.

At last he let her go and examined her closely. “Do you have any idea how much I have missed you?”

“Perhaps I do now. But I think I had to go to realise it.”

A breath of pained laughter was his answer to this, and he held her close again before drawing himself away. Aware that the family was watching from indoors, he suggested a walk through the small garden plot, making the most of what little time they might be allowed together.

“Tell me, will you, where you’ve been…what you’ve been doing?”

“Well,” she began at last, “I went to the country. A charming village in Kent, very quiet and quaint. And there I found something by which I might occupy my time and earn for myself a bit of independence.”

“You worked?”

“Yes.”

His question this time was cautious. “Doing what?”

“Goodness! All sorts of things.”

“Such as?”

But she’d had enough of the interview. It was her turn. “How have you been keeping yourself occupied, Roger? Tell me that.”

“I’ve been missing you. Trying to find you. Wondering where you’d gone and why. And if and when you’d return.”

“Is that all?”

“Very nearly.”

“I did miss you very much.”

* * *

“Just how long do you plan to keep our niece hidden away?”

Julia’s tone was demanding, and Muriel did not appreciate it. Who was Julia to force herself where she was not wanted?

“She’s been home for nearly three weeks now and no one at all has seen her.”

Muriel turned from the window, from which vantage point she had been watching with irritation as her niece and her sister’s nephew engaged in conversation decidedly too warm for her liking. As the curtain fell it blocked the beams of light which fell as shards upon the faded carpet and cast the room into a sort of half-darkness.

“Our name has been in the papers,” she replied. “Everyone knows to whom Drake left his money. They know Imogen ran away, and they know she’s returned. People are talking and I’ll not be made a laughing stock at the hands of a foolish girl.”

“But you needn’t punish her. Her life’s been difficult enough. She can overcome this.”

“She might…and she might not.”

“People will forget.”

“In time,” Muriel took a chair, and from it surveyed her sister. There was no need to guess what Julia’s objectives were. “I think it would be better for all of us if she were to keep her head down for a little while. There’s no need to go pushing her into company more likely to cause her further discomfort than to do anything in the way of helping her.”

“Her embarrassment will become your embarrassment if you do not take steps to overcome it.”

“What do you suggest, Julia?”

“She must be taken out. She must be seen.”

“It’s not done, what you’re suggesting. One cannot fly from friends and family, hire oneself out as a servant, and then just step back into Society as if nothing at all had ever happened.”

Julia, pacing impatiently, turned. “You’ll make her an outcast.”

“She’s done that for herself.”

Muriel was distraught. She’d come very close, or so she had believed, to finding an answer to these problems. Julia had given her the idea, though unintentionally. Imogen must marry.

She had no doubts whatever that the directions her brother had made for his estate had been made in confusion and in the madness of his last convoluted thoughts. To contest the will would take considerable time and expense. She had neither. And so, when Sir Edmund Barry had shown up with news of her missing niece, his suggestion seemed providential. Both might benefit by the uniting of their dependents. The nephew was willing. It would be a simple matter—no one need feel any guilt.

She had taken her measure of the man—titled, no doubt wealthy and connected... And greedy beyond reason. Such an arrangement might be convenient enough for him to manage. For her, it would be somewhat harder. Imogen was not likely to go along with any plans her aunt made for her. For so much trouble she deserved some extra compensation. And so Muriel had named her price. She wanted half of all liquid assets, nothing less. Sir Edmund had considered the terms. And he had spent long enough over them to allow Muriel the opportunity of building one or two castles with the wealth that was soon to be hers. Then, quite unexpectedly, he had declined. No. His nephew could do better. Considering her shady connections, the reputation she must drag behind her simply by sharing the name of Everard… No. And with that pronouncement, he closed the negotiations. Muriel was invited, veritably commanded, to claim her niece, and in all possible haste, but not to bring the matter up again.

She had gone, of course, had returned with the wayward and truant young woman. But now what to do? Another candidate must be found, that was certain. But how? And where? Of course Julia had her own ideas, but Muriel was having none of that. It was she who ought to benefit, not her sisters who had never had any right to entertain expectations of their own.

“For all the talk,” Julia continued, “no one really knows anything. The details of her life with our brother, or of her flight, are unavailable to them. To hide from Society now only gives weight to those suppositions, and that is all they are. She might hold her head up again. She’s young and attractive. If Drake did nothing else, at least he made sure she was educated. To keep her hidden away is suicide to her chances. She must be allowed to try. And the money, Muriel, think of that.”

At last it was out. The real battle could now begin.

“Yes, the money makes up for a great deal,” Muriel said. “But it makes her a target in other respects. For a few hundred thousand pounds any number of eligible young bachelors might be willing to look past a tattered reputation, but what kind of men are those likely to be?”

“There is Roger.”

“Roger!”

“Yes, Roger. He will set an example for others to follow. And so shall I.”

Muriel scoffed and looked away. “If I agree to this at all it will only be for knowing she is safe from your grasping on your nephew’s behalf!”

Julia stood up straighter, her face red. “Can I tell you what I think?” she said. “I think you want to keep her by your side for a reason. I don’t think you want her to marry. If she does, then there go your expectations once and for all.”

Muriel bristled, for Julia at once had it all wrong and completely right. Imogen must marry. That was a certainty. But Muriel knew the difficulties inherent in allowing her niece to go it on her own. Her sense of independence was too strong; she had proved that already. But there were enough avaricious gentlemen in the world to encourage her to believe that the risk might ultimately be worth it—if the proper care were taken.

“I simply do not want to see her hurt any more than she has been,” was the answer she gave at last.

“But she deserves a chance to try for herself.”

“To try Roger, you mean? That would be very convenient for you wouldn’t it?”

“To try to make herself happy by whatever means she can,” Julia insisted.

Muriel thought for a long while before offering any reply. “If I agree to this, can you promise to keep Roger at bay?”

“You give me more credit than is due if you think I have that much control over him. He’s a man in love, Muriel. What can I do?”

“Restrict him at least. She can do far better than Roger, I think. And if he is to be monopolising her, then there is no point in taking her out at all.”

“There is certainly some point. If he is not ashamed of her company…”

“No. I understand you. Still… She must be allowed to consider alternatives.”

Julia turned to her sister with a wary look. “I will try, Muriel, to restrict him at first,” she said at last. “I have no delusions that it can last. He will endeavour to be where she is.”

“At first, then. Until she has made her presence known and felt.”

Julia sighed. “Very well. I will try. But I can promise no more than that.”

“And she should go out in mourning.”

“Mourning? But three months is all that’s required of a niece for her uncle, and we’re nearly beyond that now.”

“It’s my feeling she should mourn him as a father. That was, after all, what he was to her.”

“But mourning will restrict her. No balls. No dancing.”

“Yes. Exactly. And so her entrance into Society will be serious and respectable.”

“So that you might further mitigate the risks, I suppose, should she find herself the recipient of some young man’s admiration. Someone of whom you do not approve.”

She was clever, Julia was. Muriel accordingly adjusted her mask of self-righteousness. “The wolves, Julia. They will descend. Mourning will protect her.”

“Or advertise the point. I’m not sure which.” Not that that was necessarily a problem. In fact… “Very well,” Julia conceded at last.

“And she should have a companion. A chaperone. Someone who will ward off those whose attentions are unwelcome.”

“Besides yourself, you mean?”

“You know how precarious one’s footing always is. I cannot risk her tattered reputation on my shoulders.”

“I think I can make arrangements for that.”

“I’m sure you can. That would be quite convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Well if you will not do it, who will?”

Silence descended as they each considered.

“Lara,” they both said at once.

The decision, it seemed, was made. Julia took it upon herself to arrange for Imogen’s first few outings, and as she had promised that Roger would be kept preoccupied, Muriel willingly agreed. Julia’s connections and powers of influence were far superior to Muriel’s own. There was no use denying it, especially when such advantages were to benefit herself—and her niece, of course.

In the interim, Muriel was reminded of that which could no longer be delayed if Imogen was soon to go on the hunt for a husband. She wished to see her brother’s house. As Imogen, upon each petition, failed to acquiesce, Muriel became more importunate. She had heard what treasures were often left behind in the homes of misers and moneylenders, and as Imogen continued to refuse to go, even to allow Muriel to go alone, she consequently concluded that her brother’s house concealed greater treasures than she had previously supposed. Her petitions continued. Yet Imogen insisted she was not ready. She needed time before she would be prepared to enter that house again.

“We’ll go when you are ready, then,” Muriel had said, relenting, though only out of desperation. It was clear Imogen would not be forced, but it was apparent by her too ready dismissal, her refusal to commit to the promise, that she intended to put off the visit indefinitely. Muriel would see the house one way or another, though. She was quite determined.





The more the room filled, the more alone she felt.