Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER twenty-three





December 1881



LTHOUGH IT HAD been agreed that Imogen was to step back into Society, it was a week or two more before she was actually allowed to do so. In the interim, her time was spent in anxious anticipation, which made the tedium of her daily schedule all the harder to bear. Her aunt’s manner toward her began to grate as well. Muriel was gentle and patient in her daily dealings with her niece, but when certain topics of discussion were broached—her uncle’s house, her suitability for Society, and, most provoking of all, Roger—her manner became more strained, and it was clear in the way that her gaze became icy while her voice remained sugar sweet, that Muriel’s efforts at civility were in conflict with her natural inclinations. Even had her performance been more convincing, Imogen’s experiences did not allow for much naïveté. She was not quite so foolish nor so desperate in her self-love as to believe that every soft word spoken was sincerely and selflessly uttered. Her history had taught her to see those honeyed words as inconsistencies and ones that should raise suspicion before exciting vanity.

Still, Muriel was not quite without cause to hope, for though Imogen could not be courted by kindness, to convince her that she was unworthy of whatever happiness she might ordinarily hope to gain was far too easily accomplished. Imogen believed quite thoroughly in her own unworthiness, and she would not again try for escape as she had done before. Her sojourn had been a lesson in futility. But it had also given her strength. She would endure, and she would hold on for dear life to that which might, should heaven answer her prayers, offer her last and perhaps only chance at happiness. One way or another, she would claim her right to a life of her own.

* * *

At last the evening of her first outing came. They arrived at the dinner party early enough to allow Imogen the opportunity of reacquainting herself with a few of her distant cousins, from whom she had long since been estranged. Close friends of the family were also present, and in order to mitigate any discomfort Imogen might feel under such awkward circumstances, Julia, with Lara in tow, took her niece under her wing. Imogen could not have known the measure of her aunt’s popularity, never having witnessed it before now. Her power tonight was used to influence others, that her example might be followed in welcoming the companionship that she was so proud of in her niece. It was not all easy work however. There were many whose disinclination to become better acquainted was apparent, and the more the room filled, the more alone Imogen began to feel in it. Even with the silent and ever pre-occupied Aunt Lara beside her.

If only Roger were here, she might then be able to endure it. But he was not. Nor was she surprised to learn that he was attending upon other engagements this evening. She had not seen him again since their reunion, and Muriel’s petitions that she ought not to think of him had grown increasingly frequent. But those admonishments had not the effect her aunt had supposed, for in her loneliness, in her need for companionship, Imogen clung to the idea of him. And it was an escape of sorts, for it pushed the memory of another from her mind. She was not likely to see Mr. Hamilton again. The certainty of it, made her regret. But there was nothing to regret. At least she was foolish to do it. And so she replaced these thoughts with those of another. One who loved her like no other had ever done.

As she meditated, watching the crowd as it took turns watching her, discussing her, weighting the chances of her success (or failure) she struggled to find some glimmer of hope to cling to. There was only one way to do it. She thought of Roger and what he might do for her when once he found a way around her aunt’s contrivances to keep them apart. She knew he would, eventually.

Through dinner, she sat still and silent, receiving as much attention as might a figure of naked Hebe. Everyone aware of her presence, no one daring to be seen considering her. Yet the whispers and the surreptitious glances continued. Imogen bore it all, as she was expected to do, with perfect equanimity.

Dinner this night, and on each evening subsequent, was followed by entertainment. Games, cards, music, or, on occasion, to both her delight and dismay, dancing was the order of the evening. On such nights as music played and couples formed, Imogen was made to quit the party early, before the temptation toward any too frivolous merry-making should overcome her. She envied the couples, admired the exercise, but knew (and her aunt did not spare herself in reminding her) that these diversions were not hers to enjoy. She was still in mourning, after all, though half-mourning, at that. And she had no desire to set herself up for further humiliation. By now she had had her fill of company, at any event, and was grateful for any excuse to get away.

If the joint aim of her aunts was to assure themselves of their niece’s acceptance into their social circle, the sheer frequency of her engagements over the following weeks should have provided for it. But such endeavours seemed not to bear the kind of success Imogen, or her aunts, had hoped for. She wished to blend in, to become a fixture, unnoticed but not unwelcome. It was not to be. Without someone to bear her burdens proudly alongside her, her chances were non-existent. Julia could only be presumed upon so far. She wanted, needed, Roger.

Imogen, desperate for some companionship, for his companionship, at last summoned the courage to ask after him, and to inquire as to when she might be allowed to see him again.

“You should know, Imogen, that Roger’s prospects are looking well for him,” Muriel said as they prepared for yet another evening out.

Imogen clasped her aunt’s necklace and then looked at her in the reflection of the dressing table mirror. That it ought to have been Muriel helping Imogen to dress had not occurred to either of them.

“I don’t doubt it,” Imogen said in reply.

Muriel arranged the newly placed gems to lay neatly at her throat and examined herself, and then her niece, in the mirror. “You would not want to get in the way of his chances.”

Imogen remained silent, dreading what seemed destined to come next.

“We go tonight to the home of the young lady in whom he has recently, and wisely, placed his hopes.”

The disappointment she felt surprised even her. Imogen stared blankly into the mirror, and saw nothing.

“He could not seriously consider you. You know that?”

Imogen blinked, waking. “Yes, I do know,” she heard herself say. What had she been thinking? Of course it was true. And then considering further, and reconsidering her desire to go out at all or ever, “He will be there, though? You are sure of it?”

“Considering all, I expect he will,” Muriel said as though Imogen were foolish even to ask. Perhaps she was.

Her aunt turned to look at her, and taking her hand, spoke sweetly—too sweetly. “It will be difficult for you, my dear, to find someone willing to look past your faults, but think of all you have on your side. The money makes up for a great deal.”

Imogen paled and tried to recover her courage which had scattered and flown like tares in the wind. While she did so, or struggled to do so, and without success, Muriel finished the last of her preparations and was soon ready.

* * *

Imogen, certain an hour ago that all she wanted in the world was to see Roger, entered the house of Miss Hermione Radcliffe with the desire only of leaving it again as early as she might be allowed. As had become the pattern of these evenings, she, accompanied by Lara, took a pass of each of the rooms before finding for themselves an out of the way place where they might while away the time. She was glad, on this evening more than ever, to do it.

By now certain details of her life and history had begun to be handed about. Some false. Others quite accurate. She had run away from her cruel uncle and had come back disappointed. She had engaged upon an elopement, but had been rescued just in time. She had run away with a fortune stolen from her uncle’s house. She had run away from a fortune. But no. That was inconceivable. And the looks and curious stares continued. She was a curiosity, to be sure. The ladies who sought her company did so with a mixture of shocked interest and fascination. They wished to know her story; what was true, what was not. She told them nothing, and they were soon enough on their way. But the gentlemen… The gentlemen persevered, their conversation trite and trivial beyond endurance. She answered their questions vaguely, and when she could bear no more, she fanned herself impatiently and prodded Lara to steer the conversation onto more reciprocally tedious paths. Lara would begin, then, and seemingly with great pleasure, upon recollections of her youth, parties like these, where she was the debutante whose affections were to be sought and won. She laughed and flirted—even with gentlemen half her age, and took great pleasure in it, too. When Imogen turned her attention away, and Lara’s laughter and triviality became too much, these would-be suitors at last understood that their time was up and their chance passed. This was not the way to improve her popularity, Imogen well knew, but she had little patience for such blatantly mercenary efforts. And they must be, to the very last man, mercenaries all, to consider her in spite of the talk.

She had just determined to go in search of Muriel with the hope of departing early, when Julia came to find her. “Roger is here, Imogen. He’s anxious to see you. Will you let me take you to him?”

The elation she felt at the prospect of seeing him—that he wanted to see her—could not be quailed or disguised. “May I, aunt?” she found herself asking of Lara.

“Oh yes!” said Lara, and then stopped. “Oh, no!” and looked to Julia helplessly.

“Muriel has told you, I suppose,” Julia said, turning to her sister, “that you are to shield Imogen from Roger?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered.

“But think, Lara. If Roger welcomes her openly, others will follow, and that is why she has come. Your job is to shield her from those whose company she finds unwelcome. Or those whom you might deem unworthy. You can do that, surely?”

Lara looked to Imogen then, as if considering. She blinked. “What do you think, dear? Would you like to see him?”

“I would like it above all things, Aunt. If you would be so good as to allow it.”

“Then you must,” Lara said. “Go to him, dear. He’ll be quite happy to see you, too, I’m sure.” Thus rescued from her confusion, she released her charge to her sister.

* * *

Archer, on this evening, arrived much later than would have been his desire. He’d at last been released from the confines of his uncle’s library, to which he had been relegated nearly the moment he’d pronounced his intentions to return to Town. Trivial tasks he’d been assigned. And those not so trivial. He’d been directed to examine the last several years’ ledgers, and had done so—at first grudgingly and, later, upon realising the purpose, with an air of resentful resignation. His uncle’s financial affairs—and consequently his own—were far more troublesome than he had ever supposed. He had always known there were debts; he had never realised the extent of them. Despite the hardship, Archer’s education had been a significant expense. There were his living expenses, too, to consider. In addition, there was all that it required to run the house, to pay the staff’s wages and to keep up the necessary appearances. These things added up. And on top of it all were the recent improvements and the employment of a maid they could not reasonably afford to pay. Long hours he had spent at the books, counting, recounting, calculating, trying to make it work out by any means other than the most obvious. Certainly Sir Edmund might marry Mrs. Barton. Her widow’s fortune would relieve them of the greater weight of their burden—for a time. But it would not last. What they needed was something far more significant. It was Archer’s responsibility to make up for these shortcomings. He had always known it. Why had he thought he could escape duty?

Perhaps Miss Shaw’s departure was timely. What he had proposed to do, and had very nearly determined to do, would ruin him and his uncle at once. He could not think of it now. His desires had been irrational. Perhaps on the very brink of insanity, for it could only have ended in disaster. With his nose buried in the ledger, with his mind full of numbers and calculations, plans and schemes both worthwhile and worthless, he endeavoured to forget. And in a stupor of mind numbing facts and figures, and these mingling amidst the effects of some very good brandy, he’d come to convince himself he’d done it.

It was then that his uncle requested that he escort Mrs. Barton to a party in Town. First to one, then another and another. Sometimes to the opera. Other nights it was the theatre. With the return to London came the return of former longing. On crowded streets, amidst the staff of the hosts with whom he dined, he found himself looking for a familiar face. Though he knew it was pointless, he did it, and did it without thinking.

He’d arrived tonight, prepared, or so he thought, to brave yet another crowd. Were he wise, had he any rational feeling for the precariousness of his position, he might have put forth a little more effort to do what he had come to do—what he’d been sent to do. He had no doubt of his uncle’s purpose for keeping him close to home, nor for sending him to Town now that his blood had cooled. He was to find a bride, a suitable one—and quickly. But ever and always, he found himself avoiding the ballrooms and dining rooms, turning instead to the card tables and his hosts’ best spirits. And it was in that direction he had just determined to go when he was waylaid.

“Hamilton!”

He heard the voice and cringed. He had not seen Roger Barrett in an age. With a stiff smile, he turned.

“You’ve been rather elusive of late. Caught and captured your ‘bright thing’ and enjoying the fruits of your labours, I presume?”

“Barrett,” was Archer’s stony reply.

“Here on official business, then?” Barrett inquired, and passed an assessing look over a pair of young ladies who were just walking by, and who returned this attention with smiles and flirtatious glances.

To him they were all blank faces. Satin gowns in myriad hues swished and sidled past him. He was aware of his neglect to duty, but acknowledged it and dismissed it with cool indifference.

“You’re not quite yourself, Hamilton,” he heard Roger say.

Archer took a drink from a passing tray. “And what is that, do you think?”

Roger laughed. “Devil take me if I know!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be busy wooing your own ‘bright thing’?”

“Ah. Miss Radcliffe.” He turned in her direction.

Archer followed the line of sight until he found its target. In a not too distant corner of the room, the young woman in question had very suddenly taken her gaze from Barrett and was now whispering to a neighbour and fanning herself furiously.

Barrett returned his attention to his companion. “A bit awkward, that.”

“Why should that be? Unless you’ve given it up before she has.”

A noncommittal smirk answered this.

“Wait,” Archer said, his brow lowering. “Miss Radcliffe? This is her home, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Rather.”

“And the trouble? She seems willing enough.”

“Something’s come up.”

“Such as?”

Roger did not answer right away. “My cousin has been found, did I tell you?”

“No you didn’t. She’s here, then?”

“Yes. Somewhere, or so I’ve lately been told.”

“You have not yet gone to her? Why is that?”

“She is to be sent to me, providing my aunt can arrange it. It’s a bit complicated, you see.”

“Well it always is, isn’t it? But if you’ve got two women under one roof I’d say you’re presently fixed more than most. Why should you be kept apart, though? She is your cousin, is she not?”

“She is my cousin by marriage and a great deal more to me. Consequently, I’ve been dissuaded from keeping her company,” Roger answered with a stiff sigh. “From seeking her out, even.”

“You’re being kept apart?”

“Not for long. I don’t mean to put much stock in her aunt’s eccentricities, the more so as I intend to rescue her from them. But neither do I wish to cause her any trouble.”

“No. I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Archer answered with real sincerity. “At least the latter end of it.”

“So what of your ‘bright thing’?” Roger asked, thus reminded. “Conquered is she?”

“No.”

“And you do not pursue?” he observed, uncomprehending. “You are here—when you could be there?”

“I’ve been mercifully removed from the temptation. Or she has, I should say. She’s gone.” He took another drink.

“That is rather disappointing. I was looking forward to the sordid details, you know. It’s usually a simple matter. You had the time. You had the desire, I believe. Why you didn’t take your chance when you had it, I cannot understand.”

“We are not, all of us, dead set on any conquest,” Archer answered, a little ruffled by Barrett's remark.

“She was not worth it, then.”

“Perhaps not,” he said in echo of the thought he too had been trying to convince himself of. But somehow hearing the words from Barrett’s mouth made his spirit rebel.

“But truly,” Barrett went on, “it was not as if you could have had any real intentions toward her. Yet you look as though someone’s shaken the life out of you.”

Archer turned a warning look on his friend, but Barrett didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he returned to the subject of his lost and recovered cousin and of the difficulties which had arisen—and had yet to arise. To this Archer could commit no more than half an ear. He had no patience left for Barrett’s ramblings, nor had he the mental acuity to comprehend them.

Professedly forlorn over his beloved cousin’s disappearance, Barrett had nevertheless found his burdens lifted by the substitution of another. In contrast to his friend, Archer found himself irrecoverably fixed on the image of one woman for whom he should have no desire, and whom he was likely never to see again. The irony in their respective situations warranted consideration. But truly, Barrett’s was not an uncommon practice. It was Archer himself who lacked the proper sense of masculine pride (or so he had been told) that would provide him with the power to turn his heart and mind at will from any too prepossessing temptation. There were opportunities enough for a gentleman to seek and find diversion, however fleeting and indiscriminate. Such was necessary to those who had affection to give—or other, baser needs to fulfil—but must reserve their hand and home for nothing less than respectability and a fortune. He closed his eyes upon the thought. Why could he not just let it go? It was pointless, after all. And if he did not get himself together, he would soon find himself shackled in an arrangement from which he could not escape.

He sighed and opened his eyes—and blinked again. Could it be? Setting down his drink, he was suddenly a man of purpose. “Excuse me, Barrett, will you?”

“What?” Barrett said, interrupted. “You going?”

“Yes, I—”

“By Jove, there she is!”

Instinctively, Archer stopped. His blood had run a little chill. “Who?”

“My cousin. Come. You will meet her.”

With a sense of dread, he turned and followed Barrett’s gaze until it landed, once more, on she who had a moment ago transfixed his. But no. That wasn’t possible.

Or was it?

Blindly, Archer followed as Barrett advanced toward the doorway.

“Beautiful, darling girl!” Barrett said, taking both her hands in his and kissing each cheek.

Her face was suddenly full of light upon seeing her cousin. How Archer wished she had ever looked at him that way.

“How are you?” Barrett asked her.

Beaming, she looked up, and only then did she see Archer. Her shock was quite apparent. She blushed, then paled and seemed suddenly uncertain of herself or her surroundings. As if she wanted only to run away. It was not much of a compliment.

“My dear,” Barrett said, her hand still in his. “Look at you!”

She was dressed very nearly as Archer had first seen her, in a gown made expressly to fit her, in mourning of grey and black. Though sombre in both dress and manner, she was breath-taking, and if he had ever begun to recover from the loss of her, it was all undone now.

“You’re a fright,” Barrett said to her, offering his own conclusion.

Was he blind?

“You look like death itself. And your aunt has you in the cheeriest of colours, I see. You’re not unwell?”

To Archer’s surprise, for it was not the response he expected, she laughed.

“No,” she said. “I’m perfectly well. I’m having a little trouble sleeping, is all.”

Only then, as she threw a glance in Archer’s direction, did Roger remember his company.

“My dear,” he said, drawing her forth, “may I present to you my friend, Archer Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, my dearest friend and cousin, Imogen Everard.”

Archer opened his mouth to speak, stopped and stumbled over the name. “Miss Everard,” he managed to say and struggled to maintain her gaze, which faltered and fell to the floor before rising once more to meet Roger’s. Where it stayed.

Completely befuddled, he found himself at a loss for anything to offer. He couldn’t very well say he was pleased to make her acquaintance, for he knew her already. He could not ask after her health or happiness, for Barrett had done that. What did that leave him? If she would not even look at him, then nothing. But he must say something. It was not possible that she should walk back into his life just to have it end like this, as though they had never met. Archer opened his mouth willing any coherent thought or word to issue forth.

“I’m sorry, Hamilton,” Barrett said, forestalling him. “Do you mind if I take my cousin for a little walk?”

“You have catching up to do,” Archer heard himself say, but otherwise left the question unanswered.

Barrett began to lead his cousin off, but she turned back suddenly. “It was very good to see you again, Mr. Hamilton.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Miss Everard. I assure you.” With those few words, he attempted to express all the sincerity he felt. She smiled, briefly, and turned away, leaving him helpless to do anything but watch her walk out of the room, clinging affectionately to the arm of Roger Barrett.