Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER thirty-seven





ITH THE ARRIVAL of the workmen, Imogen adopted her labours with purposeful intent, determined to have something to show for her efforts upon Sir Edmund’s return. She began early and she did not stop until late, taking her meals in the ballroom as she made her plans. Occasionally Archer would join her, but he did not oppress her, neither did she encourage him to remain. And so he didn’t.

In truth, he had begun to see the futility in pressing her too hard. She would not be manipulated. If she warmed to him, and he knew she would—she must!—she would do it in her own time. He would simply have to be patient. But that was difficult to do, for she was a constant reminder of his frustrated longing. The sight of her, the sound of her, as she quietly worked and directed and turned, room by room, the cold and forlorn Abbey into a home, it was as if fate were mocking him before his own eyes. She was the mistress, busily fulfilling her obligations, he not quite the master, simply the procurer, the idle observer, the helpless vehicle for his uncle’s ambitions. Yet there were other obligations he knew he was meant to fulfil, and the idea of these threatened to drive him mad. There was no forgetting them. Not with her so near—and so out of reach. And she kept herself that way. Out of reach and too busy for him or anything but the project she’d been given.

* * *

“Dear heaven! What have you done to my ballroom?”

Imogen started and looked up to find Sir Edmund’s silhouette within the doorway. He had returned early, it seemed, and she wished she had been given more time. Or that she had taken better advantage of that which had been given her.

She stood to greet him, but found she could not move beyond the debris all around her. She’d been so consumed in her plans, organising her samples so that she could look at them all side by side as the rooms were arranged, she had not realised that she had created a veritable ocean around herself, and she the island.

Sir Edmund entered and approached her, warily eyeing her work and herself alternately.

“You’ve been keeping yourself busy, I see.”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry about the mess.”

“It had to go somewhere, I suppose,” he said directing his attention toward the far end of the room where the furniture and sundry items from the state, drawing, and sitting rooms had been brought for storage.

He returned his attention to the work before her—her sketches and plans, her collection of samples fastened neatly to small planks of wood—and examined it for a moment or two.

“I had thought red for the drawing room,” he said at last and with a questioning look. “I see you’ve chosen blue. Mrs. Barton was particularly keen on red. Every English house should have a room of red. Or so I’ve been informed.”

Imogen blanched. Mrs. Barton’s aesthetic was out of date, it seemed. But how to state her objections tactfully? Or should she dare to do it at all?

“You have your reasons, I expect, for making the choices you have.”

“Well, yes,” she said, gathering courage. “Red is the answer to the age old question of how to coordinate colours and patterns. One shade of red will match any other, but one could not say the same for another colour—for greens or blues, for instance.”

Sir Edmund raised both eyebrows.

“However, for a room that is meant to be the representative of the house, a guest’s first introduction, if you will, I’m afraid the colour would seem quite intimidating. Red has its place, but perhaps not here. At least not in the drawing room. That is my opinion.”

“Perhaps you are right, Miss Shaw. Excuse me... Mrs. Hamilton, I meant to say, of course.”

Until that moment he had been uncharacteristically civil, but a hint of derision seemed present in his countenance now, and it would have alarmed her more had she not had a sea of fabrics and papers protecting her.

“Do you know where I might find my nephew?” he asked. “Your husband.”

His emphasis of the word grated and sounded as profanity. Or a reminder.

“I’m sorry, sir, no,” she answered.

“You’ve hit it off as well as that, have you?”

He did not wait for an answer, but turned and left the room. With cheeks burning, she sat back down to collect herself before continuing on with the task at hand. And focussed every ounce of attention on it.

* * *

“Your little woman has been keeping herself occupied,” Sir Edmund said upon finding Archer staring out the library window. He had a book in hand, but was not reading it.

Archer laid the book down without closing it. “You’re home early.”

Sir Edmund picked it up and examined it. “Ovid! Philosophising again are we?”

“Not exactly.”

“How have you been getting on?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“But not as well as you’d like?”

Archer didn’t answer.

“Making a woman happy is a secret few men have ever discovered.”

“The fact that it was arranged causes some difficulty,” Archer argued. “I warned you it would.”

“I take it you’ve not made a success of it yet, then.”

Archer turned to face his uncle. “I think it takes a bit more than a week for that, sir,” he answered and then started as he realised his uncle’s meaning.

“Now you understand me.”

“We might have been allowed a little more time. We might have been allowed a holiday to ourselves. To bring her here straight away, so she can see how her money is working for us is not much of a wedding present.”

“You have to take the opportunities given you in this life, my boy,” Sir Edmund offered now.

“Seven days?”

“Long enough to make it a proper marriage.”

Archer had nothing to reply to this. The room had grown suddenly ten degrees warmer.

“It’s your duty to see the thing through. Assert yourself. It’s about time you learned to do that much. The sooner you can secure the legacy the better. A son, Archer,” was his explanation to the question upon the young husband’s face, though in reality the look was one more of incredulity than ignorance.

Archer rose to leave the room. He needed some air. Desperately.

“She has taken all of her other responsibilities in hand, I take it?”

“Not quite all. She’s having a time of it, I think, with Mrs. Hartup.”

“Little wonder. Mrs. Hartup won’t want to give up the power she’s had these past twenty-odd years. And to a former servant, no less. I cannot blame her. Perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Sir?”

“I brought her here to restore the place, not to take over in fact, and so perhaps matters are best left as they are.”

Archer wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned by this, and he had no intention of remaining to hear more.

“I suppose we might start on the library,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him once more.

Archer turned but did not answer.

“We can begin with the removal in the morning. See that the men are gathered, will you? We’ll start early.”

“Yes, sir,” Archer answered, and left to attend to his errand.

* * *

Imogen was awakened the next morning by an unusually great commotion. She dressed herself as quickly as she could and went out to investigate. What she found surprised her. Man after man after boy after man was busy in the occupation of carrying box after box after crate after box from the recesses of somewhere below and into Sir Edmund’s bedroom. Imogen entered the west wing cloisters, where she could observe in safety the activity in the yard below. From here she could see that those who entered the old library from the main hall, returned by way of an exit private to Sir Edmund’s rooms. She watched for a moment more before proceeding to make her way down, and then into the courtyard itself. She stopped again upon hearing her name.

“Miss Shaw! Miss Shaw, you’ve come back!” was the cry as a young boy ran toward her.

“How are you, Charlie?” she asked him.

She might have embraced him she was so happy to see him, but feared his gentleman’s ego might suffer under such an open display of affection.

“Have you come to stay, Miss Shaw?” he asked her.

“I have, Charlie. But my name is not Miss Shaw now.”

A look of confusion was on young Charlie’s face as he tried to contemplate the meaning of this. “No longer Miss Shaw, you say?” he asked, as though he was not at all sure he had heard her correctly.

Shaking her head, she laughed. “No.”

“Then what am I to call you?”

“Miss Gina, I suppose, as you have done, or if you’d rather, you may call me by my married name.”

He waited for the rest.

“I am Mrs. Hamilton now.”

His pale blue eyes grew very large at this. “Oh, Miss Gina,” he said. “Or–” and shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“No, nor can I, to be quite honest with you.”

“How happy he must be,” Charlie said with a brilliant smile. But something in his manner changed as he looked at her. The hopeful gleam in his eye frightened her just a little, as though he wished for something more from her yet, something she would not deny him, though it broke her heart to think of it. Just how much a part of her life would this boy become? She had believed wholeheartedly Archer’s declaration that the child was not his, and yet some doubt remained, and would remain until she could find out the truth.

“Have you been working here this morning?” she asked him, changing the subject.

“Oh, yes. Sir Edmund means to have his library done over, you know.”

She took a quick look toward the house, surprised by the news, though she had no right to be. Surely she would not be wanted there. “You are come to help?”

He nodded.

“Oughtn’t you to get back to it then?”

“I suppose so, yes,” he said, looking a little reluctant to leave her. “I’m so very happy you’re here though.” And he ran off to return indoors and to his work.

Imogen followed him at a steady pace, curious to learn what demands his current occupation required. She stopped as he entered the library. Archer was atop a ladder, handing down books which were subsequently placed into boxes and then carried out. There were seemingly hundreds of boxes too, besides which were the desk and chairs, the rugs, and pictures and numerous other items that all required removal to the room upstairs, or airing, or repairing, whatever the case might require.

Imogen observed as a box was handed to Charlie, and that he took it, and, furthermore, that it was far too heavy for him to carry such a distance. She was considering asking Archer about it when he met her gaze and welcomed her to come in. He descended the ladder as she made her way around the men and the piles of miscellany they were either arranging or preparing to carry away.

“I think we must have woken you early this morning,” he said.

“Not too early.”

“Sir Edmund’s study is next, you see.”

“Yes. And Charlie is here to help. He’s not quite a match for these other men, you know. Is there not something more appropriate to his age and size?”

“He wants to work alongside the men. I think you know that,” Archer answered, half-defensively.

She did not like Charlie being classed with the servants, more especially by Archer, and took an equally defensive tone. “Does he have a choice?”

“Perhaps you could find something for him to do.”

This pleased her. “He can help me as he used to, I’ve no doubt.”

Archer relaxed a little in consequence of her hopeful manner. “A gardener’s been hired,” he said now. “Will you meet him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Come,” he said and did not hold out his hand.

“Now?”

“Yes. Will you?”

“Very well.”

They walked out together, toward the garden where an older gentleman and his two helpers had begun their work. The introductions had been made, and Imogen was explaining her wish that the gardens might be restored to their original design, when a commotion of voices shouting and speaking in alarmed and hurried tones arrested her attention. Archer ran to the house, and Imogen, uncertain what to do, followed.

They arrived in the central hall to find a crowd at the base of the stairs. Archer pushed past the men and, directly upon discovering the trouble, called for her to come. The men let her through, and she was soon at Archer’s side, looking down on little Charlie who had fallen and now lay unconscious on the landing of the staircase. She knelt beside him, begging him to wake, to speak to her. There was no response.

“What the devil is going on down there!” Sir Edmund bellowed from above, but he was stopped cold upon seeing the boy lying motionless. “What has happened?”

Imogen could not tell if his displeasure was for the boy or for the smashed crate that lay in fragments amidst the books that had spilled and lay scattered. A few had been ruined, it seemed, for there were pages and loose papers fluttering down toward the floor below.

“What has happened, I say!”

Still no one was prepared to answer the obvious.

“Bring him up here,” he ordered and turned away, but the way he led was not the direction Imogen was prepared to follow.

“Can he not be taken to your old room, Archer?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered as he lifted the child. He carried him, as Imogen led the way, to the east wing.

“Where do you think you’re going with that boy?” Sir Edmund bellowed once more.

“He needs quiet, sir,” Imogen argued. “You would not want him in the way, I think. And a doctor must be sent for.”

“Smith!” Sir Edmund’s valet appeared. “Send for the doctor will you.”

The orders given, Sir Edmund followed Archer and Imogen into the room that had, not long ago, belonged to his favoured nephew. Charlie was laid upon the bed, and it was only as Archer moved away that Imogen observed the blood that stained his shirt, dripping from his hands, from Charlie’s hair and which now spread over the pillow on which his head lay.

Archer’s face drained of colour. Sir Edmund stood dumb and helpless, as Imogen, strangely calm despite her anxieties, quickly gathered a towel and tried to stanch the blood that poured from the gash in the boy’s head. A crowd had by now gathered about the bedroom door, and Sir Edmund, in his uselessness, was recalled when Mrs. Hartup entered. He left the room that he might get the men working once more, as the housekeeper, wringing her hands, looked down at the child.

“Here! Let me,” she said at last and with a valiant effort to push Imogen aside.

But Imogen would not be moved. “I think we’ll need more towels,” she suggested. “And some fresh water.”

The housekeeper appeared deaf to her request. “What happened to him?”

Imogen began to explain, but not before Archer quit the room. She blinked in frustration but told the story.

“Those men!” Mrs. Hartup declared. “They work him like a slave at times. Pumping him, they do. Feeding him his lessons and then putting him to work as though he were one of the servants.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said as she felt the blood seeping through the towel and wetting her fingers. “Some rags, whatever you can find. And some water.”

Still the woman didn’t budge. Her attention was fixed wholly on the unconscious boy.

“Mrs. Hartup!”

Her eyes then flashed to Imogen’s, and with a reproachful glare, she left the room.

Archer returned a few minutes later, having changed into a clean shirt, though he had not taken the time to button it to the neck, nor to replace his tie or waistcoat. With him he brought the necessary items, given him by the too proud housekeeper. Imogen watched him enter, but had not realised her gaze had been so solidly fixed upon him until he turned to her with a sheepish look.

“Is it very bad, do you think?” he asked.

Though she had been angry with him a moment before for the weakness she believed she had seen, she realised, as she looked up at him, how sick with worry he was. “Head wounds always appear worse than they are. Still, I do wish the doctor would hurry.”

“Let me,” he said, and with a clean towel he replaced the soiled one and took her place.

After washing her hands, she took a rag and wetted it, then crossed to the other side of the bed, where she began wiping Charlie’s forehead. They remained quiet for some time before Archer at last dared to glance up at her again.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I should have listened to you.”

“No.”

“Don’t. Don’t try to make me feel better.”

“Archer,” she whispered as he looked at her with guilt written quite plainly on his face. She wanted to comfort him, but knew not what to say. If only she understood what this boy was to him. Who this boy was to him.

Mrs. Hartup soon enough returned, the doctor following, and Sir Edmund behind them both. Imogen made room for the doctor, while Archer removed himself to the far corner of the room, where he and his uncle carried out an apparently heated conversation in whispered voices, of which Imogen caught only fragments.

“She should be told,” she heard Archer insist.

“I do not want that woman here.”

“Think, sir,” and Imogen could hear no more as Archer turned his back to shield the sound of his voice.

“Archer, I’m warning you,” Sir Edmund answered him.

But Archer was no longer listening. He threw a glance in Imogen’s direction before quitting the room. Sir Edmund soon followed.

Imogen, puzzled and anxious, returned her attention and the greater part of her concern to Charlie. The doctor was nothing if not thorough, taking his time as he examined the child, checking his pulse, listening to his heart, examining the wound. He checked his eyes, his reflexes, took his temperature, and then went through the process once more.

Imogen moved to the window, and, looking out, saw one of the servants running with a letter in hand across the meadow and toward the village.

“He has a slight concussion,” the doctor said, calling back her attention. “He’ll require a few days’ rest and careful tending. And I’m afraid I’ll have to sew up the wound. Have you the stomach to help me, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes,” she answered boldly. “Yes, of course.”