Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER forty-five





MOGEN HAD NOT been sleeping when Archer returned to her room. The even and measured rhythm of her breathing was an exercise in self-possession—and self-preservation.

She heard him enter. Heard him—or rather did not hear him as he silently lingered until, at last, he left her to return to his own room. But the door remained open. After a little while, when it had grown still once more, she turned toward the now darkened doorway. And thought of him. Was he sleeping? Or was he lying awake thinking of her? Was he wondering, planning perhaps, how they were to resume where they had left off tonight?

She sighed and, determined not to think more, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But the effort was pointless while that gaping hole stood before her, reminding her of the emptiness that was a marriage solemnised for the exchange of a fortune. Reminding her that while her secrets had yet to be revealed, she had no right to encourage him to expect more than she was prepared to give. Only she was becoming increasingly less certain of the latter sentiment. Still, she had an obligation. How was she to tell him what he must know? When would she find the courage to do it? It seemed impossible. If he were to return…tonight… What would she do?

She arose to quietly shut the door, and to lock it. Certain now of her safety, she returned to bed. But the peace she had expected to feel was not there. Uncertainty, fear of being disturbed by a husband so far deprived of his marital rights, these were now replaced by lonesome darkness. The fire was burning yet, but so low that it provided little light and instead threw gruesome shadows into every corner of the room.

Covering her head with her pillow, she determined to shut these out. She closed her eyes to the night, and her mind to the looming and ever present fears that haunted her. At last she began to doze. In the dark haze of disturbed and peaceless dreaming, her fears persisted. She felt them before she saw them, the grasping hands and leering eyes. The smiles turned up in menacing self-satisfaction. She tried to turn from them, to run but she could not get away. They faced her from every corner. Turning from one set of outstretched arms, she ran into those of another, and falling, was embraced. There she stayed, unable to get away, tired of struggling. Thus captured, she watched, breathless, as the others slid off into the darkness. It was then that she looked up to see Archer’s face smiling gently down upon her. Grateful for the comfort he offered, and feeling the soothing warmth of him, there she remained. And there, for a time, she rested. When the darkness began to dissipate and to grow into a vague and hazy lightness, she looked up again. To find it was not in Archer’s arms she had been lying at all, but those of Lionel Osborne. She started from him and screamed. Which awoke her in earnest, and, indeed, awoke not herself alone.

“Gina?” she heard from the other side of the door.

She did not answer.

“Imogen!” The voice came more earnestly this time. “Are you all right?”

“It was only a dream. I’m fine.”

“Open the door.”

She felt so foolish. No, she did not want him now. She would have to explain herself and she was not ready. There had been a haunting, prescient quality to her nightmare too. She did not, after all, know Archer completely. She did not know the colour—darkest black or hazy grey—of his secret history.

“Gina?”

“I said I’m fine. Leave me be.”

And then she heard that which she had not expected. His fists pounding against the door. “Gina. Open the door!”

She did not answer this time, but waited for him to give up. At last he did—only to start anew from the door in the hall.

“Let me in, Gina,” he said more gently now, but still that desperate tremor remained. She was just about to tell him once more to leave her when she heard the polite inquiry of a servant. Mrs. Hartup. Archer answered her, though Imogen could not hear the words.

A gentle rapping followed. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hartup. It was a nightmare. That is all.”

“Might I come in?”

Imogen did not answer her right away. She knew Archer was still there, waiting. But she knew just as well that Mrs. Hartup kept the keys and that she had never before been afraid to use them. Imogen crossed the room and carefully opened the door. Archer, the moment the opportunity was his, placed his hand on it that it would not shut again upon him.

“What the devil is going on?” It was Sir Edmund this time.

“Mrs. Hamilton has had a bad dream,” Mrs. Hartup answered. “It’s nothing to worry about.” And then turning to Archer, “Just leave it to me, sir.”

Reluctantly, Archer withdrew his hand.

“A bad dream? Is that all?” The derisive tone of Sir Edmund’s question escaped no one, and Archer was then summoned to attend his uncle.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Mrs. Hartup asked her once the door had shut again.

“Perfectly, Mrs. Hartup.”

The housekeeper looked to the door and scowled.

“It’s nothing. Just foolishness. I did not want to worry him.”

Mrs. Hartup, with her scowl now firmly fixed, shook her head.

Imogen did not care if the housekeeper did or did not understand. No one would. She was not going to explain herself. Not to her. Not to anyone. Not at present.

“If you’re sure you are all right then, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said and turned to leave her. But Imogen was not quite ready to be alone.

“Would you help me to dress, Mrs. Hartup?”

This won from the housekeeper another suspicious look, but she returned to Imogen’s side, prepared to do as was asked of her.

“I’m afraid I’m still too shaken to manage,” she said and presented her trembling hands as proof.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“I have a great deal to do today,” Imogen said, nervously filling the silence as she was divested of her nightclothes and helped into a day dress. She felt some explanation was in order, after all.

“Of course, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup answered her, a slight air of resentful resignation detectable in her voice.

“I do not mean to take you from your work. I am sorry to trouble you.”

Mrs. Hartup did not answer, but buttoned the bodice of her gown nimbly and quickly.

“I would like to see that the house is finished. I think I ought not to waste any more time about it.”

“No, ma’am. No indeed. I think there is little time to waste.”

Imogen thought this a curious answer, but went on unheeding. “And you should perhaps see to the advertisements, as well. We could certainly do with the extra help.”

“There’ll be no getting by without it, ma’am. It seems neither have I any time to waste.”

“I did not mean to suggest, Mrs. Hartup, that we are in any great hurry.” She realised by now that her desperate attempts to busy herself once more with housework of any and every kind were rather obvious.

“We are in a hurry though, ma’am. If we are to be ready to entertain next week, the house must be properly staffed and without delay.”

“We are to entertain? Next week?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I had not heard of this.”

“It has only just been decided upon, ma’am. This morning, I believe.”

“This morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. And Sir Edmund is off today for London.”

Imogen was silent for a moment. Then: “Will Mr. Hamilton go with him?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t believe so. I believe Sir Edmund intends to leave it to you, to the two of you, to oversee the preparations.”

“Not without you, Mrs. Hartup?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll do all I can, of course. But you are right to say there is much to do and little time to do it.”

“Then we had best get started.” Grateful to have a valid and worthy excuse to avoid her husband, she finished dressing and set to work immediately, inspecting the rooms, the dining room and guest rooms, and making an inventory of all that must be done before their company should arrive, whoever their guests might prove to be. Claire, of course. But who else besides? She could not imagine, and so gave up trying and went about her business as earnestly as she could.

* * *

Archer had entered Sir Edmund’s rooms to find him packing his travelling bag. In confusion, he watched, and waited for the explanation he did not dare to ask for.

“I find I can no longer tolerate the chaos,” Sir Edmund said at last. “It’s too much trying to work out of boxes and not knowing where anything is.”

“The library has taken longer than expected.”

“Owing to your Mrs. Hamilton. She’s got the men all working for her, and they follow her around, obeying her every whim like a pack of hounds on the scent. Which no doubt is her design.”

Archer ignored this.

“As you said you only need a little privacy in order to get things moving on your end... Well, I thought I’d go up to Town for a few days. You’ll have everything in order by the end of the week, I trust.” His uncle gave him a knowing glance. “Though it’s too bad about the dreaming, you know. I had hoped your explanation would be a trifle more colourful.”

“Sir!”

“It is time to see what Mrs. Hamilton is truly capable of. We are to open the house up. Entertain. You might think of it as a reception party, really. I trust you can oversee it all. Or she can. As Mrs. Hartup has promised to assemble some likeness of a staff, it should be a small matter. And Friday week, a handful of friends, family and business associates will come to give their approval of the match and of our improved circumstances. Do you think she’s up to it?”

“You know I do.”

“Are you?”

Understanding the real question, Archer once more chose not to answer.

Sir Edmund finished packing his portfolio, and seeming still to be looking for something, took a passing survey of the room and of the confusion of unmarked boxes and crates all around him. And, perhaps deeming it a lost cause, he turned back to his nephew.

“You’ll see that the library is finished and ready when I return?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll make up a guest list before I go.” And he looked up with a smile that made Archer uneasy.