Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER thirty-three





February 1882



MOGEN STOOD BEFORE the mirror, uncertain what to make of her reflection. She was really beautiful, with her dark hair falling about her shoulders in large, loose curls. She very nearly did not recognise herself, but the reflection that stared back at her was hers, there was no mistaking it, bruise and all. She raised her hand to cover the mark that was the only flaw in her appearance. Julia, too, had made the observation and crossed to the dressing table to retrieve the powder. As deftly as she could, she attempted to cover it. The bruise was not large, nor was it particularly dark, but the week or so that had passed since Imogen had received it had provided adequate time for it to change into a myriad of unnatural hues.

“I’ll keep my veil down,” Imogen said. “No one will see it. And so long as he doesn’t raise it…”

Julia gave her a dubious look.

“He needn’t,” Imogen insisted. “I’m sure he doesn’t expect to.”

“If you think he’ll have no desire to kiss his bride, then I’m afraid you don’t know men very well.”

All the colour, high but a moment ago, drained from Imogen’s face. Yes, she understood men well enough. Experience had taught her, after all. Yet Archer Hamilton’s smooth speeches and tender looks had fooled her as she had never been fooled before. She had believed him different from the others. How much would she be made to regret her folly? Once the ceremony was over, she would be his, and he might do with her as he liked.

There was a knock at the door, and Julia went to answer it, while Imogen continued to contemplate her reflection—and her future.

“I don’t suppose you’d allow a visitor,” she said returning with a bright smile.

“He’s here?”

“Yes, Roger’s here. He’d like to see you.”

“Roger?” Why had she supposed it would be anyone else? “What will I say to him? How will I explain?”

“He knows, Imogen. He understands. Let me tell him you’ll see him? It might be the last opportunity you’ll have to speak for some time.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but of course it must be true. “Yes. Let him in.”

Roger entered a moment later, and then, seeing her, halted before closing the door behind him. “Look at you!”

“Roger, I am sorry.”

He shook his head as if to say he understood, that it didn’t matter, but there was too much pain in his eyes for it to be convincing.

“What could I do?” she asked him.

“Did you truly have a choice?”

“Yes. That is–” She found herself unable to explain.

“Not much of one, Imogen, I’ll wager. Still. If only—”

“Don’t say it, Roger.”

“No. Some things are better left unsaid. I hope you’ll be happy.”

“Yes. So do I”.

“We won’t be strangers, I hope.”

“Of course not.”

“It won’t be easy to be what we once were.”

“Why should that be?” she asked, but regretted it the moment the question was out. What had they been, she and Roger? She had always been more to him than she had allowed him to be to her. And Archer knew it all. What husband on earth would allow for so much? Her gaze fell to the ground and tears threatened to give way once more.

Roger approached her and took her by the hand. “If things should prove to be unpleasant, Imogen, you will send for me?”

“Yes,” she answered, though she hardly understood what she was saying, or how she managed to say it.

“I can’t imagine how it will be for you.”

“Can’t you? You knew him well. Have you no idea?”

“That uncle of his—”

“Not the uncle, Roger. I don’t care about him. What of Archer?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Imogen,” he said. “I wish I could tell you he’s a cad and a scoundrel and you’d do better to come away with me. The fact of the matter is, I think—that is, I once thought—very highly of him. I don’t know how all this came about. Your aunt….and the uncle, I expect. And except for the fact that he allowed it to happen… I don’t know if I can forgive him for that. You won’t forget to send for me, if you need anything? No matter how large or small?”

“Yes, Roger.”

He kissed her then, on the uninjured cheek. “What do you mean to do about that?” he asked, pointing to the other.

“I’ll cover it. The veil you know.”

Roger gave her an odd look.

“It’ll be all right.”

“Won’t it get in the way?”

“Under such circumstances, such displays of–” she couldn’t bring herself to say affection. “They’re unnecessary.”

“Great day, Imogen! Can’t you see that the man is in love with you?”

Imogen straightened. How could Roger know? “Did he tell you that?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing! You live in this crazy, mixed up world where no one means what they say. All the conventions and traditions that are so set in stone for others mean nothing to you, or mean something completely different than what they should. You flew from your fortune as if it were the death of you. Most people die chasing one. You stooped, and quite happily I might add, to the position of a servant, when most aspire to be served. And whatever efforts have been made to convince you otherwise, you will insist you’re unworthy of the affection of those who would truly and deeply love you. Good heaven, Imogen! Won’t you let him try?”

“You want me to marry him?”

“I want you to be happy. I think he can possibly make you so. But will you give him the opportunity, or would you rather he despise you as you despise yourself?”

“You are cruel!”

Roger took both hands in his now. “You know I love you. I’ll always love you. Your problems are likely not over. I do see that. But you have a choice to make, and it’s possibly the hardest you’ll ever face. Choose to be happy, will you? Let yourself be happy. Allow yourself to love and be loved.”

“But if he’s marrying me for the money, Roger...”

“It can’t be that alone. Not if I know him at all. If I’m wrong, at least I know you have the power to make him reconsider.”

She had no reply to offer for this, and they stood staring at each other for a moment or two before the silence was broken.

“I have to go,” he said. “So do you, I think.”

“Yes.”

Roger turned to leave.

“I will see you later?” she said to him.

“No.”

“But you’ll be there. Mr. Watts is going to give me away. I would much rather have you to do it. Will you?”

“You ask too much, Imogen,” he said, and the look he gave her prevented her from protesting further.

* * *

Archer stood before the mirror in his room on Hamley Lane, fumbling with his tie and trying not to think what the next twelve hours would bring him. He was having less success in the endeavour than had Imogen.

Sir Edmund knocked and entered the room. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing with that tie?”

“I wish I knew. I can’t seem to get my fingers to cooperate.”

Sir Edmund approached him and straightened the mess out himself. “Nervous, are you?”

“Very.”

“It’s all right you know,” he said, standing aside and allowing Archer to examine the improvement. “You’re all nerves now, and will be for a little while. It’ll all change in the blink of an eye. Too soon you’ll find you’ve been married twenty years, and there’ll be a brood of children at your heels to prove it.”

Sir Edmund was quiet long enough for Archer to imagine what ceremonies of familiarity were required in order for such a thing to come about. If he meant to keep his mind off of those particulars, his uncle was not helping.

“Has Claire come?” Archer asked. He had not been sure she would. She had been so angry when she left him last. But if she would not come for him, mightn’t she come for Imogen?

“She wasn’t invited.”

“She wasn’t invited?” Archer echoed, turning to face his uncle again. “Why ever not?”

“It didn’t seem necessary to go to all the trouble.”

“Considering the way all this has come about, I think we owe it to each other, to Imogen at least, to make every effort.”

“Bah!” was Sir Edmund’s only answer, but there was a hint of remorse on his face. Such expressions were traditionally followed up with more than usual acerbity, but he was not himself today. He played with something in his hand, looking at it contemplatively. At last he presented it for Archer’s inspection.

“Here,” he said, handing it over.

Archer took it and examined the small, gold object. “What’s this?”

“It’s a ring. It’s the customary thing you know.”

“Yes, I know what it is. Whose though? Not yours.”

“Yours.”

Archer laid it on the table, uncertain what to make of his uncle’s odd manner.

“It was your mother’s.”

“And she was never married,” he said as he fiddled a little more with his tie, and then with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“She was meant to be. It was their intention.”

Archer, still staring into the mirror, did not answer.

“Have you an alternative?” Sir Edmund asked.

“I have.”

“Can I see it?”

Archer reluctantly withdrew it from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to his uncle.

“It’s very simple,” he said, looking up at his nephew and then back down at the ring. “The engraving’s a nice touch, but women like jewels, you know. Take the other.”

“I prefer this one,” Archer said, taking it back from his uncle.

Sir Edmund stared at him for half a moment longer, and then left him once more to himself, and to his conflicting emotions.