Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER forty-four





MOGEN AWOKE suddenly. Lighting a candle, she arose to check the time. It was not late. Having fled to her room in the wake of Sir Edmund’s cruelty and Wyndham’s insolence, feeling the exhaustion of her anxieties, and of the sleepless night before, she had fallen asleep. It had not been her plan, and she felt a bit fevered by her sudden waking, and at such a strange hour, in the flame-disturbed dark. A fire had been laid and was now roaring away. Mrs. Hartup’s doing, no doubt. Imogen’s efforts there had born success, it seemed, and here was the proof. Was that what had awoken her, then? No, that could not be it, for the fire had been burning for some time already.

Wrapping her shawl tightly around her, she entered the dark and unheated corridor. Here she hoped to hear voices below, or perhaps from the direction of Sir Edmund’s rooms, anything that would signify Archer had indeed returned. There was nothing but stillness.

Disappointed, she returned to her own room. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed the stray hairs that had come loose in her slumber. Satisfied, she went to the window and looked without. He was there. Standing, as he had done before, below her window, cigar in hand and allowing it to burn away in the dark. Her heart fluttered for half a moment before falling. So he had returned. But he had not come to her. Instead he lingered in the yard, looking up at her in the cloaking darkness. If only she knew what he meant to achieve by such attentions. Surely he could smoke anywhere. In his room if he wished to do it. But no, he chose, of all places, to stand below, leering up at her as if she were some object in a shop window. Perhaps he had decided she was not to his liking after all. It was what she had expected all along. It was what she had endeavoured to protect herself from.

She left the window and crossed the room to stand before the fire. Inevitably he would come. For how much longer would she be required to wait? And how would she receive him? This last question frightened her, for it was the one she had some power to determine. Yet she could not do it.

She sat down to wait and to watch the door. She had closed and locked it before going to sleep. Should she unlock it? Open it as she had done the night before? That courage that had so inspired her then, had deserted her tonight.

At last she heard the outer door of his room open and close. The room’s warmth did not require it but, and as if by habit, she drew her shawl tight once more and began her busied and futile fingerwork at the well-worn fringes, waiting for the knock that must come, and growing more agitated as the minutes passed. Had he not thought what she might be made to endure in his absence? Had he not thought of her at all? Was he not thinking of her now?

Of course he was. But having returned home, wearing the same clothes in which he had left, having two days’ stubble upon his face, he was not quite prepared to face her as the ruffian he felt himself. And so he took a moment to change his shirt at least, and to wash before shaving. He had nearly done with this when he heard the key in the door and heard the lock unfasten. Hesitantly, he approached the door, drying his unshaven face with the towel that hung around his neck. He tossed it away and opened the door. Opened it wide. And stood there, watching as she looked at him, clutching her hands before her and twisting the ring on her finger. Her apparent agitation both pleased and unnerved him. Still he waited, and then, finally; “You’re going to wear the engraving off, you know.”

“Engraving?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t know. He had forgotten to tell her. Or rather had seen little point in it as she had ever been reluctant to believe in the sentiment he wished for her to understand and return. He took her hand.

“Don’t,” she said as he attempted to remove the ring, very gently, from her finger.

He had done it though, in an instant, almost too quickly for her to object. He kissed her hand, where the ring had a moment before rested, before presenting it for her examination. Etched around the inner circumference were the words, You and no other.

He watched as her eyes read it, and then, as she comprehended, a look of heartrending relief crossed her brow. He took the ring from her once more and replaced it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for leaving as I did.”

“You had every right to be angry with me. Have every right, I dare say.”

“Is that what you think? I didn’t leave because I was angry, Gina. Not with you, at any rate. Frustrated maybe, but not angry.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I’ve been to see a friend of yours,” he said eventually. “Claire is coming.”

“Claire?”

“Yes. Soon, I think. Or so I hope.”

Reminded of the reason for her coming, he asked the question he should have asked already. “Did you have any trouble while I was away?”

One end of the shawl in which she always kept herself so tightly enshrouded, fell from her shoulder, and the sight of her, for once not clinging to it as if for safety, in fact seeming to have quite forgotten it, melted something in him. Yet there was a look of veiled reproach in her eyes as she freed her hand and turned from him. She was hiding something.

“Imogen?”

She did not answer him, and he watched her as she returned to the safety of her own room, where she sat down before the fire.

“You’ve been made comfortable, at least. I am relieved to see that.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Hartup,” she said, glancing up tentatively. “I asked her to arrange to have the house properly staffed again. I did as you said.”

“As I said?”

“Yes. And Mr. Wyndham too. That I should take some initiative for my own happiness and comfort. It was my responsibility. As you said.”

“And she listened to you?”

“Well she had to, you know. It was either that or find a new housekeeper. Or so I told her. I only hope it will not cause trouble.”

“Why should it cause trouble?”

“I cannot help but feel that Sir Edmund liked things as they were. That his authority over the staff is not one he would like to give up to me.”

He was not entirely sure himself, but he wished to reassure her, and to encourage her if he could. He sat down opposite her. “You’ve taken all in hand quite brilliantly. As you ought to have done. As I knew you would do.”

She blushed and looked away, into the flames of the fire.

It was then that he had the opportunity to consider more carefully her words.

“Wyndham was here? You spoke with him?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered quite casually, almost dismissively, which manner betrayed an uneasiness that he too felt—and all the more so for Claire’s warnings.

“Will you tell me?”

“What he said to me?”

“Yes.”

“I’d really rather not speak of it.”

“Very well,” he answered reluctantly. He would not press her, but his anxiety was increasing with each question she refused to answer. “I do not like you keeping him company.”

Her eyes met his and something like anger flashed in them. “Company?”

Perhaps it would be wise to reword his request. Certainly she had not sought Wyndham out. Likely there was little need to go to such trouble. What a fool he was, indeed.

“I realise it is not always possible,” he tried again, “but I would much prefer it if you would avoid him.”

“I’m sure you would.” It had not worked. She was still angry, though she seemed, at the moment, to be trying to keep it under.

“Sir Edmund too accused me of welcoming Wyndham’s attentions,” she continued. “As though upon finding you had left, I had invited him for the purpose of taking your place.”

“Of course that was not what I meant.”

“Does it matter? I don’t see how it can. Your uncle’s wishes are your wishes. His displeasure, your displeasure. It’s as simple as that, really.”

Archer felt his jaw tense and in the same moment she went pale. He might have argued further, but something in her words reminded him of another part of Claire’s warning. One he might have supposed already, without her needing to remind him, had he possessed any whit of rational thought.

“You were not treated badly while I was away?” he asked her. “Sir Edmund was respectful?”

“Respectful?” she answered, indignant now. “Is he ever respectful? To you or anyone?”

“He was not unkind?”

“Did he not mention it himself?”

“No. No, I’ve not seen him yet.”

She exhaled a laugh and he felt the weight of it as it mingled with his growing sense of uncertainty.

“You did have words with him, then,” he said, determined now to have some answers. “What did he say?”

Imogen looked once more into the flames of the roaring fire. “Not much I dare repeat.”

“I would like to know.” He waited this time, hoping that the silence would persuade her to speak on. At last it did.

“He reminded me how unworthy I am to be here.”

Archer regretted this. He might have expected it, had he not been so wilfully blind to that which now seemed inevitable. “It isn’t so. You know that. You must.”

“But it is true. I was forced to this, and he knew. He understood my failings to begin with and yet condemns me for them still. I would not have presumed to a station so utterly beyond me.”

“It isn’t beyond you. I don’t believe–”

“You went to Town?” she asked, interrupting him.

“Yes.”

“Not only to Claire.”

“No. Not only.”

“Sir Edmund said you had gone because–”

“Because?” He saw then that her hand had begun to tremble and took it within his own.

“He said you had gone because I had sent you away… Because there were others who would provide for you what I had so far refused.”

She withdrew her hand from his and placed it on her lap, steadying her fingers within those of her other hand. But it too had begun to tremble.

With a frustrated sigh, he lowered his head to his hand and rubbed his forehead. They were both silent for a long time. He was so tired. So very tired of trying to convince her of something she simply refused to believe. And yet she must be made to believe him. Slowly he looked up to find her twisting her ring once more. He looked then at her face, at her eyes full of tears that would not fall, full of fear and hope. It was the hope that reawakened his own.

“Imogen,” he began.

But she was up and out of her chair, and walking away. He stood too and caught her around the waist. She turned to him in surprise but did not resist. He held her before him now. At arm’s length, but he held her. His fingers, resting against the small of her back, gently explored the fine cut of her bodice.

“If I have to say it a hundred thousand times, Imogen, so I will. There is no other. There never was. There never will be.” His gaze which had lingered on the elegant curves of her body, only carelessly covered by a faded shawl, rose now to her eyes which flashed with something so wholly unlike anger it nearly unmanned him. He pulled her toward him. Again she did not resist, and he felt, for the first time since that day in the park, that she was his, or might be. He was by now beyond thinking. She was in his arms, where she belonged, and, come what may, he would keep her there. His eyes fastened on her lips and they were the target of his immediate intent.

A knock then, and the door opened. “Mr. Hamilton. Forgive me, sir.”

Imogen freed herself and was across the room in an instant. Reluctantly, collectedly (though just barely) Archer turned.

“Mrs. Hartup?”

“Excuse me, sir. Sir Edmund would like to see you.”

“Can’t it wait?” He heard the hardness in his own question.

“He says it’s quite urgent, sir.”

The bitterness was there still in his reply. “Yes, of course. Of course it is.” He looked to Imogen, who had now arranged her shawl to fit as it usually did. As armour. The door closed again, but the spell had been broken.

“I think I must go to him,” he said.

Her answer was little more than a whisper. “Of course.”

* * *

Archer knocked, and entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I wanted to know where you’ve been.”

That was it? This was what he’d been sent for? He shut the door behind him. “I went to Town, as I often do.”

“Now you’ve got something to risk, I suppose, you mean to risk it properly.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”

“The gaming tables, was it?”

“I’ve done with that, sir.”

“Ah,” Sir Edmund said, knowingly. “And so you go tearing off out of here for what, then?”

“I simply needed some time to think. That’s all.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“Sir?”

“You say you needed to think. You must have had something to think about. And so I ask what conclusion you’ve come to?”

“None. At present. I went to see Claire.”

Sir Edmund was clearly unprepared for this. “Did you, now?”

“She is coming.”

“When?”

“I can’t say. Soon, I believe.”

“For what purpose?”

“I believe she wishes to renew her friendship with Gina, and to ensure my negligence has not caused her any undue hardship. It has not, I trust?”

“I don’t know if it has or it hasn’t.”

“You had words with her?”

“One or two.”

“And Wyndham was here.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve been caught up on all the news already.”

“I expect you to consider very carefully the consequences of the alliance you have formed. I’m grateful to you that you saw fit to grant me my choice—or something very like it—but remember, will you, that it was ultimately your designing that brought her here. You cannot punish her for that. You will make her feel welcome.”

“And if she’s not?”

As calmly as he could, Archer answered. “Then I am forced to consider my alternatives.”

“Alternatives? To what!”

“To subjecting her to your cruelty. It’s my responsibility to provide for her happiness as far as I’m able. If you insist on being the source of her greatest trouble, then I have no choice but to remove her from it.”

“A separation?”

Archer laughed stiffly. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”

“It must have been, because you’re not going anywhere. Where do you think you’ll go? And with what?”

“As much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, Imogen’s fortune is rightly mine.”

“To restore home and family, not to squander at will!”

“I have done everything you have asked of me. I have been more than patient with your caprices and demands. Granted, you have raised me, provided me with—”

“With everything, you ungrateful bastard! What do you think this is? Some kind of club, where you can come and go as you like? The money’s yours, is it? Well, you should have thought of that before you made your promise to me.”

“Promise? What promise?”

“Have you forgotten already? You promised to cooperate, with all the arrangements, with everything! And that included those that involved your wife’s fortune. It was meant to pay the debts, and it has and will continue to do. It was meant to restore the Abbey, which it has and will continue to do. And it is meant to restore us, which you have not made a single effort to do!”

“Which is what I mean to do now. If I have to fight for it, I will.”

“Chancery, do you mean?” Sir Edmund laughed and laughed hard. “Yes, well… That would be quite a feast for the papers and the gossipmongers, wouldn’t it? Your sad history brought to light along with hers. Do you know what her life was like before we found her? Do you?”

“No,” Archer answered very quietly.

“And you don’t want to know, I can assure you. But more than that, you don’t want the world to know. You’d not have a chance then. Not a chance! Do you think she’d thank you for publishing her life’s story? Do you?”

“Well, something must give, sir!” Archer stopped and forced his temper down. “There must be something left. Something I can claim.”

“You can claim it all when you produce an heir!”

“What’s left, will you tell me that?”

“What’s left is presently tied up in Wyndham’s affairs.”

“Wyndham’s?”

“We’ll call it a loan, though I’d be interested to see what your wife would make of it.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“She’s been quite the industrious little busybody while you’ve been minding your horses and your Town trips and whatever it is you do when you’re not here. Not only does she have the house in order—”

“Which you should be grateful for.”

“We shall see about that. Not only has she taken the matter of the staffing in hand—”

“Which she ought to have done already.”

“Possibly. Possibly not. But what she ought not to have done is to have promised Bess Mason she’d provide for her and her boy.”

Archer was stopped cold. “What?”

“She has promised to provide for Charlie. And to help Bess as far as she is able. She’ll fulfil that promise, too. By sending him away.”

“Away?”

“To school. St. Luke’s in London.”

“This is her decision?”

“No, it’s mine. But it’s her money, or yours rather, that will fund it. The best of the best for our boy Charlie,” he said with a sneer. “With the boy gone, with her work on his room ended and an open door between yours, I expect there to be some joyous news to deliver rather sooner than later. Because if you cannot provide me with an heir, I can make another of the boy—or of his father.”

Archer was speechless.

“If you want me to play the gentleman, I would advise putting your lady in her place. Whether she’s stepped out of it this time or whether it’s that she hasn’t been properly put in it to begin with I’ll let you decide. You’re home now. I suggest you make her know it.”

“You brought me from my rooms—from our rooms—to tell me this?”

“Yes.”

Archer laughed, but he was not pleased. Not in the least. “Have you ever considered that your aims might be better fulfilled by leaving us be? You might have gotten your wish—and I mine—had you been willing to save this conversation till morning.”

Sir Edmund sat back in his chair. “Is that so?”

He instantly regretted having said anything of it, and to avoid having to answer further, simply turned from the room. But Sir Edmund stopped him.

“Your Mrs. Hamilton felt the weight of your absence, did she?”

“Perhaps. And with you to exaggerate it… And Wyndham pestering her as well.”

Sir Edmund was suddenly serious. “Yes. It seems he’s taken an interest in your little woman. He considers her not quite claimed property, you know.”

Archer saw an unusual pallor cross his uncle’s face. “You didn’t tell him.”

“He knows.”

“And the money?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“What of that?”

“You don’t plan on leaving again in the near future, I take it.”

Archer felt a chill run through him.

“I wouldn’t wander too far from hearth and home, if you know what’s good for you. Or for her, for that matter.”

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t.”

“Good. I’ll dismiss you to get back to your business, then,” he said and turned away, as a long crooked smile drew across his thin lips.

Archer, at last free of his uncle’s company, returned to his room, dark and cold. Imogen’s was warm at least, and so he kept the door opened. She was sleeping soundly. He watched her for a moment or two, breathing deep and even breaths. Had his uncle not requested his presence for another of his pointless interviews, Archer might be lying beside her now. But no. He must return to his own room, with disappointment and longing once more firmly fixed in his breast.