Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER twenty-nine





RCHER AROSE THE following morning feeling himself the greatest of villains. His musings through the night had presented for his consideration the dire consequences of his rash words. He dressed and went in search of Sir Edmund. He found him too, sitting in the drawing room as Mrs. Barton chatted at him over the morning’s paper.

As Archer entered, she arose to embrace him. “Congratulations, my dear,” she said, her smile beaming more with self-satisfaction than with any sincerely selfless sentiment.

“I wonder, Mrs. Barton, if I might have a word with my uncle?”

She took a quick glance at Sir Edmund, who raised a questioning eyebrow at his nephew. “Yes, of course,” she said, and left them.

“Well?” Sir Edmund prompted once the door was closed.

Archer hesitated only a moment, and then… “I want more time.”

“We haven’t got it.” And as though that were all there was to the discussion, he picked up his paper and resumed his reading.

“These arrangements,” Archer tried again, struggling to be patient. “I fear Miss Everard will not welcome them.”

“No, I’ve no doubt she won’t. But what choice has she?”

“That’s just it, sir. I do believe I can convince her. But she has the right to make the decision for herself. Think how unpleasant it would be to bring her back to the Abbey against her will. She’s not indifferent to the house, nor to me, I believe.”

“Only to me, then, is it? That’s an obstacle I cannot overcome.”

“You will not treat her ill? Can I promise her that much?”

“We are bargaining now, are we?” Sir Edmund asked, glancing up over his paper.

Archer took a seat next to his uncle. “If that’s my only choice, yes.”

“Choices!”

“I have a choice to do it willingly or not at all, whatever you may say. I might try it on my own, after all.”

“With what! You’ve no money of your own that isn’t tied up in the estate—or hasn’t been wasted at the gambling tables.”

Archer hesitated a moment. “But she does, doesn’t she. And you should know I’ve written to Claire. She will help me if I ask her.”

Sir Edmund scoffed but wriggled in his chair.

“I want one more opportunity to speak to her. Think how much better it will be for everyone if the arrangements are made amicably, all parties accepting.”

Sir Edmund took a deep breath and released it as he laid the paper down on his lap. “One more chance?”

“Yes.”

“If I grant you this request, you will submit willingly?”

“You have my word.”

“To everything. All the arrangements. No matter what?”

Archer considered this. Was there something more to his uncle’s plans than he had yet realised?

“Whether or not she will accept you?” Sir Edmund pressed.

It was asking a lot, but he saw no other alternative. “Yes,” he said, at last.

“Tomorrow afternoon. That’s the best I can do. They are expected to join us for tea. You will have your opportunity then. But whether or not you succeed, the arrangement will be announced tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Archer said, hope and relief washing over him.

“And you will submit, remember.”

“Yes. Whatever you ask.”

* * *

Imogen arose that morning to find Mr. Watts having a cup of tea with her aunt.

“We go to the house today,” Muriel reminded her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you sure you are up to it?” the lawyer asked, a twitch of his mouth betraying his sympathy. She regretted she had ever thought him callous and hard.

“I believe so,” she answered him. At least she was as ready as she would ever be.

Upon arriving at the house, Mr. Watts attended the aunt through the house, while Imogen followed, watching for herself as the woman tried in vain to open the locked wardrobe and the attic doors. Where were the keys? No one knew.

As for Imogen’s fears, these had been laid to rest upon seeing the house in the light of day, and knowing that any last evidences of her history were not to be found here. Nothing remained to betray her secrets. Roger had disposed of these in a mendicant’s bonfire on their journey home.

They left the house soon enough, empty handed and silent, but Muriel suddenly found her tongue upon arriving home.

“What do you intend to do with that house, Imogen?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, aunt.”

“You don’t mean to live in it?”

“I might.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“Not at present, no,” Imogen answered. “But you must allow that there will come a day when you’ll have no control over me, and I can live where and how I like.”

“I suppose you hope to make yourself quite independent of us?”

“Wouldn’t you, were you in my position?” Imogen answered. “I think you know very well I’m not happy.”

“That’s very ungrateful of you! Think of all I have done for you.”

“Oh, have no doubt, ma’am. I think about it every day,” she said, and gained a step or two on the staircase before her aunt stopped her.

“You’ve had an offer of marriage.”

“Yes,” she said, facing her aunt once more.

“I want you to consider it carefully.”

“I know very well that my opportunities in that vein are few. I do not take Roger’s offer lightly.”

“It isn’t Roger I mean, child. There is another.”

Imogen blinked, her voice catching as she answered, “I’m sorry?”

“I want you to consider him carefully before you reject him out of hand. Roger’s offer may seem attractive to you at first, but you know him well enough to doubt his constancy.”

Imogen didn’t answer this, but swallowed hard. She felt the walls closing in around her.

“You will listen to him?”

“You do not demand that I accept him?”

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“When?” she asked.

“Soon, I think. I cannot be sure. In the meantime, we’ve been invited to have tea with Mrs. Barton. You should consider it an honour to be thought of. We owe them something after all.”

“Them? Sir Edmund and his nephew will be there?”

“I suppose they will,” Muriel replied offhandedly.

But Imogen was no longer listening. Her gaze drifted past her aunt’s face toward the door, and the locks and bolts that kept it closed fast. She was trapped. But she would see Mr. Hamilton again. Perhaps for the last time. It was something, at any rate, that she might look forward to.