Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER twenty-five





RCHER HAD WATCHED and waited. His patience at last awarded him a sight of her. Too late. She was approached once more, this time by a woman he could only suppose to be the aunt of whom Barrett had spoken. Wrapping a shawl around the younger woman, the elder led her off, downstairs and toward the entrance hall of the Radcliffe townhouse. Her night, it seemed, had ended. And his chance—perhaps his last and only—had passed. Frustrated and disappointed he turned back toward the ballroom. The dancing had just begun, but the sight of so much merry-making repelled him. He turned from the room. The night was still young; he could not leave until Mrs. Barton was ready to go. But certainly he might step out for an hour or two. For air, or…well, anything really, so long as he was away from the noise and the laughter.

On the landing of the staircase, he stopped. Miss Shaw– No that was not right. He must make himself familiar with that other name. Miss Everard. Imogen, was it? She was standing alone in the entrance hall, looking through the sidelights of the door and out onto the lamp-lit streets beyond. But where was the aunt?

Passing the front parlour, the answer was provided him, for there the aunt stood talking, evidently detained. And her companion? None other than Mrs. Barton. Odd that, but he had not the time to consider the significance of it.

He entered the front hall. “Miss Everard.”

She turned and looked at him. If she was uncertain of herself now, it did not show.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she answered evenly—too formally.

Silence then as he thought what he might say. He must say something before the opportunity was once more beyond him. But what did such an occasion call for? And what would it allow?

“I can’t tell you how surprised I am to see you,” he said. “Nor how pleased.”

She made no attempt to reply.

“You have returned to London, then?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You have family here?”

“Yes.”

“You did not tell me.”

“No.”

“You did not trust me?”

Her eyes, fixed on his until that moment, looked away.

“Why not?”

“Mr. Hamilton, please.”

In an effort to appear more at ease than he felt, he began to walk the perimeter of the room. He did not think that he might appear to her a little like an animal on the hunt.

“Tell me,” he said. “I want to know. I think I deserve to know.”

“You believe you deserve an explanation?” she said, her eyes raising to follow him.

Stopping at the door, he looked out onto the street and then back at her. “Don’t I?”

“I’m not sure you do. We are from two different worlds.”

“How can that be?” he said, his arms folded now as he faced her. “We are both here, are we not? Both guests under one roof, equally received.”

“You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“Then help me to do it.” He continued his circle around her as he awaited her answer. It did not come, and at last he looked to her.

“I ran away, Mr. Hamilton. I did not tell you of my family because I had left them. I did not wish to be found.”

“But you were found. And now you are—”

“What am I, Mr. Hamilton? You think me raised now, do you?”

“I was going to say, ‘here.’ You are here. But yes, I don’t see why you should not consider yourself raised if we are now to meet in similar company. Say we are?”

Blankly she stared at him.

“You are not happy to have been found? Your cousin, I think, would regret that very much.”

She flushed and looked away.

“I’m sorry. I had no right to speak—”

“I cannot regret having returned to his friendship. It is one of my rare comforts.”

He had completed his circle now, and having made his round of the room, he turned to face her, his back once more to the hallway beyond. “You once promised to consider me your friend. Is there no comfort to be found in that?”

Again, she did not answer, but neither was her manner quite so certain as it had been a moment before.

“Claire will be very pleased to know you have turned up—and where and how you have.”

A look of sorrow flashed across her face. Or was it regret? “How is she?”

“I’ve not heard from her since the day you left. She has been anxious to find you; that I know. May I write to her and tell her I have seen you?”

“Yes, of course. I’d be most grateful if you would.”

“If there is anything she might do for you… If there is anything I might do…”

“No.”

Her answer, so brusquely offered, pained him. “You are certain?”

“I’m quite certain, Mr. Hamilton, that I have no desire to cause either you or myself any further trouble. My aunt has been detained, but she will return shortly. If we are seen together…”

He watched her for half a moment as she grew increasingly discomposed. Whatever power he may once have had over her, it seemed to have abandoned him completely now. “I don’t typically form friendships just to drop them the moment they become inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” she said with a shocked laugh.

“By your terms, Miss Everard. Not by my own.”

“My little adventure has caused me a great deal of harm. People are talking. It will not do to be found here alone with you now.”

Archer turned and took a quick look into the hallway behind him. “Don’t say you wish we had never met, Miss Everard.”

“It would have been better, I think.”

While his heart sank at the words, something in her manner suggested it was not their friendship she regretted, but rather the impossibility of improving the acquaintance now her circumstances had changed. But why should that be? Aside from his uncle’s disapprobation, which did not seem such a great thing now he stood face to face with her, there was really nothing he could see that should come between them.

“To see you now,” he said, “here, of all places... It cannot be coincidence.”

She looked at him askance. “Are you saying it was by design, Mr. Hamilton?”

“No. That’s not what I meant at all. Of course it’s coincidence, but not an insignificant one. Not one I can or will ignore. If you could only know how anxious we’ve been, Claire and I. We feared your circumstances must be deplorable indeed. But to see you now. I cannot tell you what relief it gives me.”

“You are mistaken,” she answered him, once more taking on that determined air. “Nothing has changed. Not really. I no longer serve your uncle. Other than that it is just the same. We are just the same.”

“No.”

“Trust me, Mr. Hamilton.”

“But I don’t. On any other point, Miss Everard, I would gladly stake my honour on your word. But on this single point, I cannot.”

“My word may indeed be worth very little, sir. But if it is on this point alone, you must trust me. I came to the Abbey seeking employment. I told Sir Edmund that I had long lived and worked as a servant. It was both the absolute truth and a bald lie. It is true that I lived under Drake Everard’s roof, but as no paid servant. I lied to Sir Edmund. I lied to you. Drake Everard, banker, private money-lender, was my uncle.”

He had not expected this, though by now, of course, he ought to have connected the names. In his distraction, it had completely escaped him. “Your uncle?”

“Yes. And so, you see, it is quite impossible. I may have been a gentleman’s daughter, but I was raised by a dishonest and unfeeling man. It is wrong of me to speak so, I know. But it is the truth and I owe you that, at least. He was once much respected, but his reputation for being a man of few principles and fewer loyalties was not unduly earned. I witnessed it. It is seared into my soul, never to be forgotten.”

“But he is gone. He can do you no harm now. With the help of your aunts—and your friends, Miss Everard—you might certainly rise above whatever taint Society may have attached to your uncle’s name.”

“You have not been much in Society yourself if you believe that to be the case. You say you did not know him. Surely you know something of him. People talk. Have you not heard the stories?”

“I don’t listen,” he said. “I believe I’ve said so before. I want to know. Everything. Will you tell me?”

“You can’t be made to understand me,” she said with an odd mixture of hope and frustration. “I’m grateful for the consideration you’ve so far shown me, but…” She did not finish, but turned away from him.

“You cannot claim to be unworthy of it now.”

She faced him once more, squarely. “Yes. That is exactly what I am saying. You have been very kind to me. I’m grateful. But you will learn to regret knowing me. I mean to save you the disappointment.”

“I wish you’d let me be the judge of that.”

Her resolve seemed to falter. So did she, in her answer. “But, then…you see…I run the risk of being disappointed too.”

What was she saying? That she did not regard him because she feared to do it? The look on her face certainly bespoke regret, but an opportunity once lost would not be thrown away again.

“Miss Everard, my opinion of you has been formed already. Whatever has happened, whatever changes in our circumstances have or may occur, what is done is done.”

She remained silent.

“I am your friend, Miss Everard. I would like it very much if you would consider it so. Will you?”

Imogen opened her mouth to speak, but with a glance into the hallway beyond, she closed it again and moved away. They were no longer alone.

“Ah! So that’s what this is all about, is it? First Mrs. Barton, and now…” Muriel paused and examined him. “You are the famous Mr. Hamilton, I believe?”

“My aunt, Mr. Hamilton,” Imogen said. “Mrs. Muriel Ellison.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ellison.”

Muriel continued to study him quite carefully. “You must find my niece much improved,” she said at last.

“In some ways certainly,” he answered quite honestly. “In others, regrettably, no.”

Muriel threw a knowing glance at her niece, who paled and turned toward the door, desperate, it seemed, to be gone.

“You are a man of keen discernment, Mr. Hamilton. Her present circumstances are indeed difficult, but you make them no easier by detaining her alone in out of the way places.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “It was not my intention to compromise her further. I was renewing an acquaintance. Nothing more.” Receiving nothing in response to this, he bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Ellison. Miss Everard.”

The aunt did not reply, but turned from him.

He remained. And he continued to watch, and saw, as the door was opened for them, the look Miss Everard offered him as a last parting token. Her face, pained, sorrowful, full of regret and the finality of goodbye, struck him. And would haunt him until he saw her again. If he should see her again.

Of course he must! But how to be sure of it? He would write to Claire. She would help him. Wouldn’t she? He might at least rest assured that she would help Miss Everard. But what were the chances now that the two forms of assistance might have one common result? He did not know, and for the moment, did not dare to think.

* * *

“The audacity of some people!” Muriel said as they took their places in the rented carriage.

“He meant no harm, aunt. We had met before. He only felt it polite to acknowledge the acquaintance.”

“It was not Mr. Hamilton, I meant, Imogen. But I think you give that gentleman too much credit. He is not to be trusted, and you will do well to keep clear of him. In fact I should be very wary of any intercourse you may have with that family. To think how I was treated by that man!”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Imogen asked in surprise.

“Sir Edmund Barry, is who I mean! He summoned me there to retrieve you and then treated me as if I hardly had the right to enter through his front door. You will promise me you will not encourage him? Mr. Hamilton, that is.”

Imogen did not answer right away, but as her aunt’s gaze grew more penetrating, actually angry, she at last acquiesced. “Of course not,” she said, and knew she didn’t dare, whatever the temptation. “And what did Mrs. Barton have to say?” She was not sure she wanted to know, but if it meant diverting Muriel from the subject of Mr. Hamilton, she would gladly pursue the topic.

“The audacity!” she said again. “That scheming, conniving, impertinent woman!”

“Aunt?”

But the enlightenment she sought was not to be had. Silence reigned for some time. It was not until they had nearly reached the house that Muriel spoke again.

“We should go to my brother’s house soon,” she said. “I think it would be unwise to wait much longer.”

“I really have nothing there I want.”

“Will you write Mr. Watts and tell him I might be allowed?” Muriel asked with a stiff smile and a voice laced with unnatural sweetness.

Imogen felt that old panic set in. Her reply was offered cautiously. “I thought you could not go without me.”

“He says you might arrange it, if you wish.”

“Well I don’t,” she said, and turned to look out the window.

“You’re extraordinarily insensitive, Imogen. You know I want to go and yet you keep me from it. Not to mention how ungrateful it is of you, after all that has been done.”

Imogen was angry now. “Because he left me his estate as a sort of perverse gesture in order to make up for the deplorable manner in which he used me? Which gesture I would much rather have refused? Or perhaps it is to you I owe my gratitude, for making me accept that which I loathed to possess.”

“No one is making you keep it,” the aunt said, that light of anticipatory hope appearing in her quickly shifting eyes. “No one says you must have what you do not want.”

“I haven’t a choice now, have I? As you say, there is little chance of my marrying well, and so I must have something.” She would have said more, but could not, for the desperate bleakness of her situation weighed on her with such force she could barely draw breath.

Muriel grew rigid once more. “The house, at least, you needn’t neglect. You may not want it, nor anything that’s in it. That does not mean that others may not find some sentimental attachment to it. But no. You’ve selfishly abandoned it. Your uncle made great sacrifices. He worked his fingers to the bone to acquire such a house and to furnish it as he did. And do you care for it? Do you have any feeling at all for what he achieved…what he died trying to maintain?”

Muriel had hit closer to the mark with this than she could have realised.

“No, of course not. Ungrateful, wretched girl! Instead you let it sit to rot and decay!”

What more could she say? It was absolutely true. That house was the foundation, walls and roof, doors, locks and bolts of her past. If it stood and rotted from the inside out there could be no better end to it.





The enlightenment she sought was not to be had.