Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER forty-seven





LAIRE AND ROGER turned upon hearing Imogen’s cry of surprise. A moment of confusion followed as the four of them tried to decide whom to greet and in which order. Roger, ignoring Archer altogether, took his cousin’s hands in his.

“My dear,” he said, kissing both of her bright cheeks as the rain continued to drizzle down. “How are you, my darling girl?”

Imogen smiled but was not given the opportunity to answer before Claire, after greeting Archer tersely, turned to her as well, and with a curious look that asked more questions than one.

“You are well?” she said. “You’re quite sure?”

“Yes, of course,” Imogen insisted and felt her shame in having been so weak as to allow her fears and frustrations to get the better of her. Her equanimity was in tatters and she knew, by the careful way in which her two dearest friends greeted her, that it showed quite plainly.

“Let’s get you indoors, shall we?” Claire said, taking her arm. “You must be soaked through.”

“It doesn’t look as though you’ve fared much better,” Imogen said, keenly aware of the reprieve Claire’s sudden and unexpected appearance had allowed her. “Tell me you did not walk from the station?”

Claire looked, for half a moment, ashamed. “At least I had the benefit of warm wrappings.”

“You did walk, then?”

“Well, I was not going to share a carriage with a strange man.”

Imogen laughed. “And so you walked with him instead?”

“That was not my arranging.”

“No. I do not doubt it.”

They had reached the house by then and, upon gaining the protective shelter of the covered porch, the two women embraced. Claire stood back and once more examined Imogen. “I wonder what he could be thinking, allowing you to walk out without anything on.”

“I’m not sure he was thinking. That is,” Imogen continued in answer to Claire’s pointed and disapproving gaze, “I didn’t give him much opportunity. I left the house rather hurriedly.”

Claire’s look turned even more condemning. “You must tell me everything. From the time I left onward,” she said as they entered the house. “Well…not everything, of course. But as much as you can. As much as you will. I want to understand it all. I want to know how best I might help you in the short time I’m…” She left off. Standing in the main hall, she turned and looked around. “Dear heaven! You have been hard at work, haven’t you?” Claire’s face was full of wonder as she took it all in, the gleaming wood, the fresh paint, the newly hung papers. “You’ve not done this all yourself?”

“Shall I show you?” Imogen said in lieu of a proper answer.

“Yes, by all means.” And then looking to Imogen once more, Claire reconsidered. “Perhaps we’d best get you dry first.”

Half ashamed, Imogen laughed again. “Yes. Perhaps we’d best.”

With Imogen’s arm placed firmly within hers, Claire mounted the staircase, though she had to stop several times along the way to take in all she saw.

“You have worked miracles here, my dear,” Claire said upon entering Imogen’s bedroom. “I hope they appreciate it.”

Imogen could not answer this, and instead of making the attempt, selected for herself a change of clothes.

“No. No, of course they don’t. Come,” said Claire, and placed Imogen before the fire where she began to help her friend, now her cousin too, to change. “They will though, when once you open your doors to Society. They must.”

“I have improved the Abbey’s appearance. That is all.”

Claire, having divested Imogen of her damp dress and petticoat, laid these to dry and turned to face her. “That is no small thing. I will not pretend it is the most important thing. But it will demand notice of the right sorts, and that is what matters. At least at first. And if Sir Edmund does not thank you for that then he is an ungrateful scoundrel.”

“Perhaps. Your theory, it seems, is soon to be tested.”

“Is it?”

“We are to open our doors, as you say. Friday week.”

“You are to have a party? Here? So soon?”

“To celebrate the wedding. I only learned of it this morning. Only…”

“Only what, my dear?”

“Sir Edmund, I’m afraid, is not possessed of many illustrious or advantageous connections. I had expected the money would raise us, but…”

“You have seen the guest list, I take it.”

“Claire, the names included on it… I don’t know how I am to do it. Is there not something you can do? You have connections. Can you help me?”

Claire considered this for a moment or two. “A week and a half is hardly enough time to summon the cream from London to the country.”

“No.”

“I will see what can be done. And I will help you face the riff raff. It won’t be so bad. You’ll see.”

Imogen remained sceptical.

“It cannot be that bad, surely.”

“I’m afraid it’s the worst imaginable.”

“Mrs. Barton and her people, then?”

“Worse still.”

“I don’t understand.”

Imogen hesitated a moment more. “Mister. Lionel. Osborne,” she said, whispering each part of the name as though it were three wicked and heartless men instead of just the one.

But Claire, it seemed, could not place the name. Pleadingly, Imogen looked at her friend and, touching her arm, recalled Claire to the story told her some months ago. Her eyes got suddenly large.

“Not him? Not the man who—?”

“Yes.”

Claire gaped silently for a long moment. “We simply won’t do it. It’s too much to ask.”

“But what of Sir Edmund? The intentional omission of one of his guests, and one of the few who bear titles— He will not be pleased.”

“But then he never is, is he?” Claire considered further. “He does not know…?”

“He can’t know the particulars, but he is aware of the rumours at least. He knew my uncle and understands as well as anyone what company he kept.”

“Well,” Claire said, brightening slightly. “Who’s to say, after all, that this is not some absurd test? Perhaps he means for you not to do it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Omit his name, and any others of whom you object. Blot them out. This is your house now, and if you’ve not established yourself yet, now is the time.”

Imogen was uncertain, and it showed.

“There’s something more,” Claire said in observation.

“No. No you are right. Surely if we can introduce higher Society, then the family will find its place in a more desirable sphere. If all come and admire and accept, then there can be nothing more to complain of.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“Archer has left it to you to make peace with his uncle.”

Imogen sank down into the nearest chair and rested her head in one hand.

Claire knelt beside her. “Gina, I’m sorry.”

“Even if it could be done, it would all be undone when Archer learns the truth.”

“You have not told him, then?”

“No, but I must. And the sooner the better, I think.”

“You’re certain Sir Edmund would not have told him what he knows, or what he suspects, at any rate?”

“I don’t think he can have. Nor do I think he would. He would leave that for me to do. But even if Sir Edmund never speaks of it, even if I somehow escape having to face my uncle’s former acquaintances, the fact remains that until I tell Archer everything, I condemn myself to live with the knowledge that I have not been completely honest with him. And the truth will reveal itself one way or another, I have no doubt of it.”

“Oh my dear. You are right. But when will you do it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can, after all. I see that I must. But when I try to imagine myself actually speaking the words, it seems impossible. I could not bear his condemnation. It would destroy me.”

Claire stood and turned toward the fire, her arms folded resolutely before her. “You would have married him anyway,” she said at last.

“What?”

“Regardless of the arrangement, you accepted his proposal.”

Imogen could not quite understand this change in manner. “Yes,” she answered hesitantly.

“If all had gone as you had then hoped, had Archer separated himself from his uncle, or had Sir Edmund condoned the marriage without interference, would you not have told him already?”

“I would have had to, but the fact remains that I cannot see how I would have accomplished it.”

“But you would have. I believe you would have found a way. You must have, you know. There would have been no obstacles to keep you from giving yourself to him body and soul. Everything. Every bit of you.”

Imogen was silent. There was no use refuting it.

“What is it exactly that has prevented you from doing it now?”

Imogen hesitated to answer this. It required a greater degree of introspection than she had so far allowed herself.

“His duplicity?” Claire asked.

“Duplicity?” It was as she feared, but to hear Claire speak the word was as good as confirmation.

“Is it his inability to fulfil the promise he made you that day?”

So she was not referring to Bess Mason. Confused, she answered: “He made me no promise.”

“Yes, he did. Of course he did.”

Yes, he had. What was it? She feared to remember.

“He promised you devotion.”

Yes. Perhaps that was it. In a way. He had promised his feelings would never change. But how could he know? Humans, so prone to human frailties, are rarely in complete control of their emotions, rarely in possession of their own minds in such matters. He could not make such a promise when he lacked the requisite facts on which to base it.

“He promised you at least that he would do all in his power to make you happy.”

“No. He said he would only like the opportunity to try.”

“And you gave him the opportunity. The promise is implicit.”

“Perhaps,” Imogen answered weakly.

“He has not kept his promise. He took you back to Mrs. Barton’s house where the particulars of your marriage—already known to him—were then and there made known to you.”

She did not need this reminder. She had lived it once. She had lived it, over and over, every day since.

But Claire went on. “You were informed of the plans made for you. After the fact. Without ceremony. Without any consideration for your feelings. Without tact or delicacy.”

Imogen let out the breath she had been holding.

“He has used you ill. That you cannot tell him your secret is quite understandable.” Claire knelt again beside her. “Yet I would beg you to do it. He loves you. Any fool can see that. And I think… I think you have begun to love him, yes?”

Imogen’s answer was a blink, which caused the tears to start anew.

“And so you must, you see? Or all is lost. Not many have this opportunity to be so loved, or to love in return. Don’t you see the risks you take in keeping your secret much longer?”

“What of his secrets, Claire? Will I be able to accept them when they are made known to me, or am I nothing more than a hypocrite?”

“The world is a hypocrite. You are better than that.”

Imogen arose to retrieve from her dressing table a brush. Slowly, thoughtfully, she returned to her place and began brushing out her now dried hair.

“Let me,” Claire said and took the brush from her.

“Archer is a good man, Gina,” Claire eventually continued. “He’s been made to suffer much. He’s been taught to appreciate his dependence and to believe in it. He has made mistakes. Of course he has. But I think you and you alone can persuade him to move past them. Yes, there yet remains his own story, of which he barely understands. And perhaps fears to. What if it proves to be too monstrous for you to bear? Have you considered his own fears in that regard?”

She hadn’t. Not really.

“Which is why he has never taken great pains to understand them for himself. It’s far easier to lay the blame for his unhappy childhood at the feet of the mother who conceived him out of wedlock, and who then abandoned him.”

“She died, Claire. She didn’t abandon him. She died.”

“Yes, of course. But it is always easier to pass responsibility onto another than to take the burden upon oneself. And if Sir Edmund blames her, why should not Archer in turn?”

“It’s not fair.”

“I never said it was. But the fact remains, until he knows you can love and accept him unconditionally, he is not likely to take much interest in uncovering his own history. But he must. It’s a missing piece of him, and without it he’ll never be quite whole.”

“So it’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“It certainly seems that way. I am to love him so that he can find himself. I need to know he will do the same before I can have the courage to reveal all that I must, and therefore give him cause to despise me. It does seem rather impossible.”

“Yes,” Claire said, examining the brush she still held in her hand. “I suppose it does.”

They were both silent for a moment or two, before Imogen once more dared to speak. “I am glad you have come, Claire. It is such a relief to me that you are here now. You will stay? You will not leave me to bear this burden alone?”

“How could I?”

Grateful, Imogen embraced her friend.

“And now I think we should go down,” Claire said when once Imogen had recovered herself. “Your cousin is no doubt anxious to see you.”

“You met Roger on the road to the Abbey?”

“No,” Claire said, laughing dubiously in her apparent irritation. “We travelled together, if you can believe it. From London onward.”

“That is an astounding coincidence. But what did you think of him?”

“I know you think much of him, dear…”

“Go on.”

“For myself... Well...” She hesitated a moment more, but at last found the words. “I have never met such a presumptuous, pig headed, self-satisfied–”

Imogen laughed.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You seem to have learned him quite well.”

“But you adore him.”

“How can I help it?”

“When he has been less than true in his devotion to you?”

“Yes, Claire. But he has never lied about it. And he does know my history, after all, and loves me still in spite of it.”

“But you chose Archer over him, did you not?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. And I pray every day that I will not learn to regret it.”

“So do I, my dear. But that’s enough of that. Shall we go down?”

Imogen nodded, though she wasn’t truly sure she was prepared, after all, to face both men at once.

* * *

Archer, at a loss for any more appropriate place to welcome Roger Barrett, had invited him into the best state room, and had endeavoured to make him both welcome and comfortable. A task which was predictably difficult.

“You’ve come after all, then,” Archer said to him, and taking no pains to disguise his irritation.

“You doubted it?”

“No. Not really. In fact I’d almost expected you to be here when I returned.”

“I meant to be. Possibly I should have been. Something came up.”

“Nothing serious, I trust.” Archer didn’t really care, but it seemed the logical response.

Barrett’s pointed glare indicated he understood the level of his companion’s interest.

They were quiet for some time as Barrett sat and Archer stood drying and warming himself before the fire. At last he thought to offer his guest a drink. Barrett declined but Archer poured one for himself, desperate for anything at all to occupy his hands and thoughts in the awkward silence. And that silence persisted until, at long last, the door opened and Claire and Imogen entered.

Barrett stood to greet his cousin once more and properly, and Archer was left to watch and to envy the warmth of their reunion and the easy and familiar manner with which they received one another.

“You are well?” Barrett asked her.

Imogen nodded and, blushing, looked away.

Claire had by now approached Archer, but he was not yet ready to break his vigil over the scene taking place before him. But it must be broken, and at last it was when Barrett begged Imogen to escort him upon his own tour of the improvements, for which Archer knew full well Barrett could not care less. He was helpless, however, to do other than watch them leave the room. Together.

“What do you mean to do?” Claire asked him once they had gone.

Archer looked at her, uncomprehending.

“She told me about the party. And the guest list.”

“It’s just a party, Claire. An important one, yes, but a party all the same.”

“I don’t care two straws for Mrs. Barton’s social ambitions. Nor your uncle’s. What you will be doing a week from now is presenting Gina to Society as your wife. What happens thereafter, whether she is accepted or ridiculed, is as much your responsibility as hers. Your uncle has stacked the odds against you once again.”

“Ridiculed?”

“And it was not the party alone to which I was referring. It was your uncle, as well. What do you mean to do about him? How do you mean to shield her?”

“I am here, aren’t I?”

“But is that enough?”

“Isn’t it?”

“You are so naïve, Archer. You have a responsibility, don’t you see? The product of an arrangement or not, you wished to make her your bride and you’ve done it. What will you do now to ensure her happiness and safety?”

“You make it sound as if I’ve made no efforts at all in that vein.”

“Not the right ones. Sir Edmund. He has made her time here unpleasant.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“There’s no supposing about it.”

“She told you, then. She would barely speak of it to me.”

“Why should she? What are you prepared to do about it? But to answer your question, no, she did not mention it. And I knew better than to ask. But I know him. I know how he feels about women. I know how he has always treated you, with a mixture of callous tyranny and jealous dependency—and he does depend on you, every bit as much as you depend on him—though he resents it with everything that’s in him. Did you really think he would treat her differently? Do you really believe he might still be persuaded to do it?”

Archer did not answer this.

“You’re a fool if you do.” Claire turned to leave him.

“Claire, please.”

She faced him again. “I don’t care what it takes, Archer. You will set yourself apart from him. If you have to live in poverty, so be it. The better for you both. And you know– You know I will do all I can to help you, but you must help yourself first.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“There is no more time to play the coward.”

“Coward, Claire? That’s very hard.”

“That’s what it amounts to. There is more to this party, I fear, than simply the opening of a house to its rightful opportunities. I’ve come to fulfil my promise to her, Archer. I expect you to do the same. If harm comes to her, if she is made to bear any indignity, any unreasonable hardship while I am here, I will take her away, and you will be on your own until you have proved your worth. And by then, I suspect, it will be too late.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I? Someone must take her under their protection, and if you will not… I bear a responsibility for this as well as you, you know. Had I not interfered, had I not proposed to take her away to begin with, who’s to say any of this would have happened? But Archer, consider your other guest. Do you think he’s come for a different purpose? If Roger Barrett takes it upon himself to play her rescuer, and I have no doubt he is only waiting for the opportunity… If she takes it—and she may—she’ll be irrecoverable to you, then.”

Archer was struck dumb. It was a party. How had the stakes suddenly been raised so high? He could not understand it and, restored once more to his own loathsome solitude, he endeavoured to make some sense of it.

* * *

“How are you truly, Imogen?” Roger asked once they were well and safely away from the state room and those within it.

“You’ve asked me thrice now, Roger.”

“Yes, but you’ve not given me a proper answer yet, and I won’t relent until you do.”

“I’m well.”

“You mean to say you are in good health. He’s feeding you, at least.”

“Roger!” she said and laughed.

“I only meant that he is not, by any obvious means, mistreating you.”

“No. Archer’s been very kind. Truly.”

They made their way through hallway and corridor, gazing here and there upon the walls and the portraits that hung there, though Imogen seemed to take a greater fascination in them than did he.

“You are happy, you say?” Roger asked, pressing on with his purpose.

“I am perfectly well,” she said in her most assuring tone.

“Is that so?” he answered. “Then would you mind telling me what combination of circumstances provided that, upon arriving, I should be met by my teary eyed, red faced, drenched to the skin cousin?”

She didn’t answer, and he approached to stand very near her. Near enough to whisper. “Imogen, this is ridiculous. It’s a sham of a marriage. This cannot be what you want.”

“What I want?” she answered tentatively, her voice quavering and her eyes flashing. “What happened to ‘Let yourself love and be loved. Let yourself be happy?”

With a huff of breath, he looked away.

“You, at least, will not accuse me of not trying.”

“And are you happy, then?”

“I want to be,” she said in what was very nearly a whisper.

Roger reached out, and in an instant clutched her to him. And Imogen, once more in familiar arms, made no effort to resist, but sought solace in his embrace.

“What did you think? That you could change him? That you could change his uncle? Do you think now that you can make this house a home, make peace where none ever before existed?”

“What I think does not matter. It’s what is expected of me. I have no choice, for my sake, for his, but to try.”

“And what am I to do? Am I to stand by and observe it all as a not quite disinterested, but ultimately selfless friend?”

“Yes,” she said and looked up at him. There were no tears. They had been spent already. “If you are here, I cannot despair utterly, can I?”

“Don’t ask that of me. You have this party to host. If it does not accomplish what you hope, don’t think I’ll leave you here to suffer the consequences.”

She seemed to consider this for a minute. At last she laid her head once more on his shoulder. “Truly, Roger, I’m so glad you have come. Without friends, I’m not sure how much more I can endure.”

And that was what he had all along been waiting to hear. He thought to offer one last word of warning, and of encouragement, when the dining room doors opened.

“Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said, restoring the proper distance between herself and her cousin.

Mrs. Hartup cast a menacing glance in Roger’s direction before returning her attention to Imogen. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, would you come inspect the applicants?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She turned to follow.

Roger reached out to catch a wrist and stopped her. “Think about it, will you? You are responsible for your own happiness now. All others have forfeited that right.”

She looked at him a moment, nodded and then left him, standing, alone and lost but nearly found—possibly found—in the great hallway of the vast and echoing Abbey.