Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER twenty-eight





N THE WAKE of his failure, and impelled by the seeming hopelessness of his situation, Archer began his second epistle to Claire. Certainly she would help Miss Everard. He had no doubt of that, but it might not prove very useful to his own ambitions. Yet that was his ultimate aim. Else why write at all? If only he could be so unselfish. He had never had much practice in that. In every practical matter he had been handed his every desire, but when it came to the things he needed most, these were ever elusive. He had been spoilt materially but starved of affection. Such faults in his character would not serve him well. He could feel them eating at the very fibre of his moral being, weakening the foundation of what had so far kept him head and shoulders above his peers.

In the privacy of his Hamley Lane room, with paper and pen before him, the chaos of jumbled and addlepated thoughts distracted him from his occupation. The letter begun would not finish itself, and as he felt powerless to persist with the endeavour, he arose from his desk and went downstairs, hoping to be out of the house before anyone should notice. He’d been taking a lot of aimless walks of late, trying to clear his head that he might make sense of his conflicting emotions.

“Oh, Archer,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him. “A word?”

Archer entered the study and took the seat to which his uncle beckoned him.

“I think we’ve got it about settled,” he said as he looked over a letter lying before him.

Archer, uncomprehending, remained silent.

Sir Edmund glanced up. “This marriage arrangement, I mean.”

Blindly, Archer blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I have it here,” he said, raising the letter up. “The terms are at last agreed upon.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Sir Edmund smirked but offered no answer.

Archer’s heart was pounding, and the air, thick with tension, was unbreathable. “I want more time.”

“What good is more time going to do you? This is not a new proposition I’m making. You’ve had warning enough.”

“There has to be another way. I must be allowed to choose for myself.”

“It’s not your lot in life, my boy, to have the luxury of following your inclinations. Not when you’ve wasted so much time about it already.”

Shock and disappointment changed to anger now. “My lot then, is to make up for your failings?”

Sir Edmund sat in silence, rubbing at his chin, before attempting any reply. “It won’t do you any good to set yourself up against me in this. It’s an obligation you have always known was yours to fulfil. If it weren’t for me, you’d be nothing, and without her and the money she brings with her, all we’ve built up together and struggled to maintain will come crashing to the ground.”

Archer was on his feet. His collar was too tight, the room too warm. “I won’t submit to this!”

“My bet is you will,” Sir Edmund answered and leaned back hard in his chair.

Archer could stand no more. He turned to leave the room.

“Archer!” Sir Edmund said, stopping him once more.

Reluctantly he turned but did not answer.

“You’ve not asked me who the lucky girl is.”

“It really matters very little, sir.” But it should matter, and he knew it.

Calmly, Sir Edmund answered. “I should think it would be a matter of some considerable interest to you.”

Archer, his jaw tense, returned to the room.

Sir Edmund looked at him an excruciatingly long time.

“Well?” Archer asked at last.

“The young lady’s name is Miss Imogen Everard.”

Archer started and moved forward.

“She’s always been a bit of a curiosity to me—as I believe she has been to you.”

“Yes, but–” Archer began, and stopped again in utter confusion.

“It seems her uncle, upon his death, left her a sizeable fortune.”

Archer fell once more into his chair.

“Your marriage to her would set us quite free of debt, my obligation to Everard completely forgiven.”

“Miss Everard?” Archer said in bewildered amazement.

“You can’t have objections?”

Did he? Half a moment ago he might have listed them off by the dozens. But now? Now the world had suddenly shifted and every argument, every possible objection had evaporated. To think she might be his! But it was wrong. Nothing right is ever so easy. What is right is usually the hardest choice, the one which requires the most sacrifice. He ought to speak out, to protect her from being used in this way. But he was powerless.

“Does she know?”

“Not yet. But she will soon enough.”

“Will you let me speak to her? Will you let me plead my own case?” he said rising from his chair. “I think I can convince her. But I need more time.”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because you have done, unless I’m mistaken, and she wouldn’t have you!”

“I’ve hardly had the opportunity.”

“You’ve been chasing the girl since you first laid eyes on her. Don’t speak to me of opportunities.”

Archer, with one hand ruffling his hair, began pacing the room. “When?”

“Soon. A matter of weeks. A month maybe. The aunt is in a hurry to have it done. I suppose that Barrett fellow has something to do with her anxiety over the matter. It’s all a bit underhanded, I admit. But then who am I to judge? I may write to Mrs. Ellison and tell her to proceed with the arrangements?”

Dear heaven! He expected an answer now? It was impossible.

“Where are you going?” Sir Edmund asked as Archer headed once more for the door.

“Out.”

“Now?”

“I need to think.”

“What is there to think about? You want her. I’m not a fool. You will agree, of course you will. You know what’s expected of you.”

It was true; Archer had long understood what was expected of him. And to consider it might be she, for whom he’d grown to have the strongest of sentiments… The irony was too much to conceive of. He hesitated a moment more, staring at his uncle in silent disbelief.

“If you won’t do it, there are others who will, after all.”

“Others?” Of course there were others, but how would that benefit his uncle? Unless…

“Wyndham would be happy to oblige.”

Archer turned again and did not stop until he was once more in his room. In half a dozen lines, he committed the matter to paper, then sealed and addressed his letter to Claire. He returned downstairs and left the house to walk. Where? Anywhere. Blind as he was, it did not much matter.

* * *

Imogen turned the key in the latch as quietly as she could. The door creaked open on its hinges. Little had been altered since the day she had left. Even some of the crepe and bombazine remained, reminders that she had need to mourn, if not for her uncle’s death then at least for an innocence lost. And the freedom for which she had hungered so long. That which might be hers after all, should she accept Roger. Much was at stake with regard to this evening’s escapade. Roger must know the truth. She would tell him tonight. Only then, and only if he could look at her the same, if nothing in his regard for her should change, would she accept him.

Quietly, she stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

“You’ll wake no one, Imogen,” Roger said in full voice.

“Hush!”

“No one can hear. Turn the lights on.”

“No.”

Ignoring her, he began lighting the gas and a few candles, besides.

Imogen took the candle offered her and they began their silent examination of the house. It was not so bad, really. Even in the gloom of night, with so little to light the way, it was not as terrible as she had remembered it. The drawing rooms and parlours held not the ghosts she feared. It was not here her secrets were hidden. Her uncle’s rooms: his bedroom, dressing room, a sitting room and a study were all situated on the second floor. This is where they went last, and it took her a great deal of nerve to move beyond the landing where signs still remained of the struggle that had taken place.

“What happened here, Imogen?” Roger asked as he tried to right a fallen table. His efforts were in vain. The leg was broken and only haphazardly mended as if to disguise the fact. “Imogen?” he asked her once more, but she didn’t answer.

She forced herself onward, and when they reached her uncle’s bedroom, she waited at the door, sending Roger in alone to check all the corners and to look under the bed before moving on to examine the other rooms in like manner. It was only when they reached her uncle’s private study that she took the lead once more. Through the desk, through the drawers and shelves and bookcases, she rifled. The safe had been opened and emptied already. Its contents—various items of collateral—had been liquidated, or returned, as the lawyer deemed fit. Those valuables that had made up her uncle’s private collection were kept elsewhere, hidden, strewn about the house in various holes and hiding places. Or had been until a week ago, when she had instructed the lawyer to dispose of these as well. The house’s worldly treasures were not what she sought.

In a cabinet adjacent to the desk and across the room from the safe, she found them. Records, personal journals of the life’s works and dealings of her late uncle. There were ten of them; one for each year of her life here. Taking a deep, uneven breath, she gathered them up and stacked them on the floor before her. She sat, then, and opened the first. The uncertain light of the candle was interrupted and broken by a moth as it fluttered about the flame, singeing its already worn wings and making Imogen’s work all the harder. She began. But stopped again when her hands began to tremble and she found she could no longer see. And did not want to.

Roger, kneeling down beside her, took her hands in his.

“Tell me what all this is about, Imogen. You did not come here to retrieve some valued item you left behind.”

“No.”

“Something more personal, then?”

She nodded and looked down once more at her cache.

“These books, Imogen, are these what you came for?”

She handed him the first, of which he hesitantly opened, then read. The passage introduced her life with Mr. Everard. Her uncle was not disposed to keep her then. Though he liked her, thought her a charming girl and promising, she was not convenient to his mode of life and he regretted the responsibility that had been thrust upon him by his shirking sisters.

Roger finished this and she handed him the last. That which contained the entries of the final hours of his life. Here was his apology for his treatment of her and his hope that she would not continue to suffer from the consequences of what she had been made to endure. Then came the confession.

“Will you tell me? I won’t– I can’t read any more,” Roger said when he’d finished the first of these passages, “but will you tell me what exactly he expected of you? What he required?”

“I was to entertain, Roger, to attract and encourage. To keep this clients coming back if I could—however I could.”

Roger looked away.

“I confess,” she went on, her heart racing as she held back the tears long enough to tell her story, “in the beginning, I welcomed the attention I received from these men. I even began to hope, foolishly now, I admit, that I might find escape from my uncle’s own vulgar demands were I to persuade one of these men to take an interest in me. I thought I might be rescued, do you see? I didn’t understand then. In my innocence, I was too naïve to see that what they wanted from me was so far from what I could ever wish for myself. I didn’t understand, Roger. I didn’t know the dangers. How could I?”

“You couldn’t, Imogen,” Roger reassured her. “Of course you couldn’t, but–” he stopped, and it was a minute or two before he went on. “Just how far did he require you to take such matters?”

“As far as necessity demanded, I suppose. Though I may have learned late, I did at last realise what it was my uncle was offering these men on my behalf. He was often angry when I refused to comply with his wishes, but he never forced me. The lengths to which I was willing to go to prevent it made it impossible that he should.”

“Then why do you insist that you are unworthy of the respect, even the regard of others? Such forbearance proves your virtue, Imogen, not the reverse.”

“Yes, in an ideal world you would be right, but this is not that world, and what has been proposed that I might do or might be done to me is as good as accomplished in Society’s eyes. But you read these pages?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not completely innocent.”

“But you said—”

“Once, Roger. Once. It was not my uncle’s planning, but he had provided the opportunity. And the opportunity being so provided, it was taken.” Shameful tears prevented her from saying more, and she buried her face in her hands.

Roger pulled her toward him and held her until she calmed.

“What happened in the upstairs hall?” he asked her when they were both able to speak again.

“That night, the night he died, we fought.”

“He was angry with you? You had a disagreement?”

“Roger, we fought. Once again, I had refused to do his bidding. He was so angry. Of course he had been drinking. And he called me such terrible names.”

“None of which you deserved!”

“Names I’ve called myself.”

“Imogen, please.”

“It was not the first time. It had happened before, but this was by far the worst. I was determined it would be the last. He was equally determined, I suppose. We struggled. Somehow my strength, my senses were surer. I pushed him away from me, but he was very near the stairs. He fell. Not down them, but near them. He’d been struck somehow. Perhaps by the banister, or the table when it toppled over with him, I don’t know. He struggled to get up. He begged for my help, but I wouldn’t go near him. It was cruel of me. Wicked.”

“No,” Roger assured her.

“It was in his writhing that he managed to be near enough the stairs. I might have prevented it but…”

“Imogen...”

“I killed him,” she said, with tears streaming.

“No, you did not. He killed himself.” Roger held her close. “Do you hear me?” he said. “He killed himself.”

* * *

Archer, in his wanderings, had no predetermined plan in mind, and he found he’d gone some distance before the faint idea became a firm realization that his steps were carrying him in the direction of Mrs. Ellison’s neighbourhood. It was too late to expect to see Miss Everard. He could not speak to her. And what would be the use if he could? Archer walked past the house. All the lights were out, as they should be at this hour. There was no point remaining here. If he stayed much longer, he would begin to look suspicious.

He was not quite ready to go back to Hamley Lane, however, and so he turned instead down a side street, and then another, until he found himself in a more familiar neighbourhood. There were few people out so late, certainly no one with whom he would wish to speak. All was still and quiet. And then he heard voices. He could see no one, but they seemed to be ahead of him somewhere. Then, from out of the shadows and into the light cast by the streetlamps, appeared a couple. They were talking very intently, very earnestly, the two. They walked arm in arm, not the way friends do, but the way those of the most intimate acquaintance will when one means to protect the other from pain, or cold—or the night. As they drew just opposite, he entered the shadows, and they once again came within the light of the street lamp. It was Barrett—and Miss Everard. Good heaven! What could they be doing out together at such an hour?

Before he could be seen, he turned and made his way down a darkened side street. He refused to consider what this must mean, but there was no erasing the image from his mind. He could not escape it no matter how he tried.

Was it too late, then? Had she made up her mind already? If she should marry Roger Barrett... And with the thought, he felt something within him harden. He was no longer powerless to do other than submit to circumstances. With a word, perhaps three, he could cast it all aside. He might rescue her—secure her. Perhaps, after all, there was no other way.

* * *

Sir Edmund looked up as the library door opened. “You have made a decision?”

Archer, from his place within the doorway, opened his mouth to speak. He had not prepared the words, and so they rather surprised him as they tumbled out. “Make it happen,” he heard himself say.

Sir Edmund leaned back and smiled. “Very well, then.”