Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER thirty-four





N HOUR LATER, Archer was standing in the chapel. There were few guests; no one who really mattered. The cold stone structure, though beautiful, felt empty and barren in light of the heartless ceremony about to take place. No, not quite heartless.

An approving nod from the rector provided the signal that the ceremony had begun. Archer turned to see Imogen being led down the aisle by a stately gentleman he understood to be her family’s lawyer. It seemed a shame there was no one else to do it. To have a solicitor lead her to the altar, to “give her away” was all too harsh a reminder that this was little more than a business transaction to some. He closed his eyes to dismiss these thoughts, and when he opened them again, she was beside him. She looked like an angel as beams of sunlight shone down upon her through the leaded glass windows.

Her attention rested resolutely on the rector who stood before them, but Archer could not take his eyes from her. If only they could start over. To be here, now, it was all he’d wanted, and yet…he felt a man condemned. He wanted her, yes. Perhaps she had wanted him. Once. If for a moment only. But now… Great day, what a mockery they had made of it all! But whatever it was, whatever it might yet prove to be, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish—or to loath and to despise—she was now his, and he, wholly and utterly hers. But it was not done yet. If only Archer could focus his attention on the words. The rector had asked of him a question. What was it? The question, it seemed. The only one that mattered. Would he? Would he what? Would he have her? Would he love her, comfort her, honour her, keep her, forsaking all others? Yes. Yes of course!

“I will.”

But would she? The question was put to her. How slowly the man seemed to utter the words, as if she were a child and could not quite comprehend them. And then he waited for the answer. The rector nodded. Had she given it? It seemed she had, though so quietly he had not heard.

What must she be feeling? Was there even an ounce of hope fluttering in her heart? He wanted to reach out and touch her. And as if his thoughts had been uttered aloud, or read by another, the glove of her right hand was drawn off and her bare hand placed within his. He held it quite carefully, as though it were fragile as an insect’s wing. Soft and delicate. And his!

The vows were said, and Archer spoke the words as though he had written them himself and they had been meant for her alone. But when it came time for her to repeat the same, he could barely make out her voice. At long last she accomplished it. He ought to have felt relieved, were it not for her reluctant manner. If only he could see her face, to see for himself what emotions played upon it.

Next the ring was handed him. He almost dropped it, but caught it at the last minute. Perhaps he ought to have let it fall. Such was considered good luck but for the risk of losing it. He laid it on the open book of scripture, and it passed to the rector and back again before he placed it on her left hand, now ungloved and naked as the other. For him.

He said the words: “With this ring I thee wed…” And he meant it. “…with my body I thee worship…” Dear heaven, how he meant it! “…and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” And he felt a villain. A cursed and abominable villain. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He whispered the words. They might have been a prayer indeed, were he not so ashamed. “Amen.”

With her hands in his, they knelt, and the blessing was given. But he could not hear. He could not think. He wanted only for the world to go away so he might draw her to him, to beg her forgiveness and to make her understand how much he wanted her and how he would make her happy. Whatever it took. He had made the promise and he would fulfil it.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

It was done. Now he might have his wish. To see her face. To draw her to him at last. He raised his hands to lift her veil, but she displayed a reluctance to have it drawn away. He had revealed enough to see the emotion in her eyes. It was that which he dreaded most to see. Fear. Fear and resignation. But this was not the cause of her hesitation. The bruise, now fully formed in all its many colours, was shielded by his hand from all but him. He had no more desire than she that others should associate the presence of her injury with the product that was this day. To think she was brought to this point by coercion and violence—it was almost more than he could bear. But surely she would accept from him the sign he wished to give her, that this was something far more to him than a merging of blood and position with the wealth that should by rights accompany it. His eyes were on her mouth, full and blushing against her pale skin. But as he raised his gaze once more to meet hers, he knew this was not the place to offer that sentiment. Not with all eyes upon them. He made a compromise. He laid his token, very gently on her injured cheek.

In gratitude, she tried to smile. The futility of it—for the effort only caused a ripple across her lips and did not touch her eyes—might have brought him to his knees had he not been kneeling already. He arose and raised her to stand beside him. Her hands, still uncovered, cold and trembling, wrapped quite tightly around his arm. There they remained until they reached the vestry, where it became necessary for her to release him.

The register lay open on a large table, a pen and inkwell beside it, and this marked the last of the official ceremony. This made it real and binding. Archer signed his name and then watched as Imogen, hesitating for only a moment, signed away her own.

They left the church then, arm in arm together. She clinging to him still. He was encouraged. To have her always thus… He drew in a great breath and only reluctantly let it out again, afraid to lose that feeling, aware that his elation would be brief.

The door of the carriage stood open, the step had been lowered and a footman in full livery stood waiting to shut them in. She faltered at the step. Archer took her elbow to help her and the look she gave him was a pleading one. Was she thinking of escape even now?

“Come,” he said.

She looked at him, as if trying to determine the meaning in that simple word. He might be claiming her as his property, stating the command with the expectation that she would obey. Or he might be calling her home to him. And he was, if she would only see it.

At last she entered. He followed and the door was closed upon them.

Imogen removed her veil and set it aside before daring a glance in his direction. “To think it all began and has ended in a church,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes.

He reached forward and took her hand. “Not ended, Imogen. Don’t say ended.”

She did not answer, and he watched as the first tear left its glistening trail on her bruised cheek.

“Have you no hope at all?

Still no answer.

“None?” he pressed.

“I have some. Of course I do.”

“I will do whatever it takes to convince you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” she said. The cold certainty in her voice chilled him.

“It’s not about the money for me, Imogen. You must know that. I love you, have loved you since the first time I saw you. Tell me you believe me.”

She turned once more to the window.

“Tell me at least you will give me the chance to prove it.”

He waited and at long last her answer was given. It was a silent gesture, but unmistakable. Her hand, slight and trembling, squeezed his. He drew her to him and held her. He would ask no more of her for the present. She had hope. What he had was something surer. He would prove himself, he was absolutely determined. Whatever it took. However long it took. He had made her a promise. And he would keep it.