Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER thirty-one





OOD HEAVEN! WHERE have you been?” Muriel demanded as her niece entered the house. “You had us worried.”

“We are back now,” Imogen answered, surprised by this show of exaggerated concern.

She looked to Archer, wondering when and how he would make the announcement, and anxious to know what would come of it.

After taking a long and evaluating look at the pair of them, Sir Edmund turned back to the library. Muriel and Mrs. Barton followed.

“I think we’ve got the details just about sorted out. Or very nearly,” Sir Edmund said as he crossed the room to stand at his desk.

Imogen glanced once more to Archer, whose heavy brow bore a slight look of alarm. He smiled stiffly and gestured for her to enter as well.

“Sir,” he began but was interrupted.

“The fourteenth of February,” his uncle said. “St. Valentine’s day. And a Monday for wealth.” He laughed. “We should, consequently, waste no time about the licence. Tomorrow, I think. Early. I’m afraid you must accompany me, Mrs. Ellison—to provide the proper proofs, of residency and consent, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Aunt Muriel answered. “Gladly.”

“Good. And we’ll return to the Abbey until the eve of the thing,” Sir Edmund continued, “so there’s no reason to expect any complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Imogen finally spoke out. “I don’t understand.”

Silence reigned for a moment or two.

“Your walk, I take it, was successful?” he said, looking to Archer.

“Yes, sir, but—”

Sir Edmund turned to Imogen. “You’ve spent the last hour or more with my nephew. I see no reason why you should be in the dark. You’re to be married, Miss Everard. Congratulations and let’s get the thing done.”

Imogen stared, blind and uncomprehending, trying with all she possessed to grasp what was happening. And she continued to struggle, even as the aunt and uncle, with Mrs. Barton’s assistance, went on, calculating, planning, arranging…

“There is still the matter of how to divide the assets,” she heard Sir Edmund say. “And I think it would be unwise to delay much longer.”

“Sir,” Archer protested. “Have some pity.”

“I believe you gave me your word that you would submit willingly.”

Archer offered no answer, and the negotiations commenced.

No figures were mentioned, for those directing the arrangements knew them quite well enough already, but there were other matters to consider besides the liquid cash. There was the property, both real and portable, which must be divided. These things were all discussed quite openly, as though Imogen herself were of the least concern. But she would be considered.

“No!” she said, stepping forward.

“Excuse me?” her aunt demanded.

“No,” she said again. “If I am the one to be sold at auction, then I demand to set the terms.”

“Imogen, I have warned you.”

“Do you want to take it to Chancery, Aunt? That would suit me well enough. Heaven knows I never wanted this burden to bear. I knew it must end up this way, and so it has, but to think it was your doing! I have little choice, I can see that, but what power I still have remaining, I mean to use. The money will be my…husband’s.” She had to force the word from her lips, and as she did, she felt her heart begin to break. “You may take the house and everything in it, and I hope it serves you well. But you won’t touch the money.”

“You dare to defy me?” Muriel said rising to her feet. “After all I’ve done?”

“What have you done? I pray I may one day thank you for this, but at present I do not see how. You have betrayed me, and I’m perfectly willing at this point to turn my back on you and to put my happiness in the hands of someone better able than you to provide for it.”

Muriel, without a moment’s hesitation, struck Imogen across the cheek.

“Dear heaven! I don’t think that’s necessary,” Archer said, stepping forward in an effort to shield Imogen from any further abuse, and perhaps to comfort her if she would let him.

She avoided him and flew from the room.

“Well that, I should think, is that,” Sir Edmund said. “Do you object?”

Muriel considered. The house was no small thing, nor the treasures she imagined it contained. That it must contain! But would it make up for the money she had hoped to gain outright? It might. It very well might.

“No,” she said eventually. “I think I had better not.”

* * *

“Miss Everard!” Archer called after her. “Imogen!”

She stopped, but only for the obstacle of the street she could not cross.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching up to her. “I’m so very sorry.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He might have said he hadn’t known it would be this way. But he had. At least he’d known his uncle’s intentions, and he knew the man well enough to have supposed he could have behaved so unfeelingly. Speechless, he observed her. She made no attempt to reply.

And observing the bright mark on her face, and the welt that crowned it, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Will you get me a cab, please ?”

“Imogen.”

“Please?”

Reluctantly he obeyed, and when one had been signalled, he turned to her again.

“This isn’t how I intended it. It’s not how I wanted it to be.”

“No.”

He looked once more at the mark made by Muriel Ellison’s hand and the too large ring she wore upon it. “You have my word I’ll never hurt you,” he said.

“Your word means very little to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already broken it.”

The cab had by now stopped before them, though he did not see it, or ignored it. The driver descended from his place to open the door and to lower the step. She hesitated half a moment, then entered.

“Imogen,” Archer said again, pleading, begging her to allow him to explain.

She would not listen. She did not even look at him. The door closed between them, and the carriage pulled away from the curb, taking her away with it.

If only it could take her far away from here. Any place where no one could find her, where no one could lay claim upon her. But she had tried that already.

Turning to the window, she rested her head against the glass. What a fool she had been to have allowed herself to be so taken in. He had pleaded so fervently, how could she resist? She couldn’t. She hadn’t. She raised her fingers to her mouth, recalling that gentle kiss. She had never realised she could feel that way. She had believed he loved her. A part of her believed it still. How could he speak so? How could his touch stir her as it did if it were all artifice? And yet, had he really loved her he would not have lured her just to spring the trap. But she was captured now, like any other of his winged insects. Pinned, she was soon to be placed in a box for all the world to see and to judge and to despise as she deserved to be. To think she had believed he wanted her! Not the money. Her. Would she never learn?