Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER forty-nine





OGER ENTERED THE breakfast room to find Miss Montegue preparing herself a plate. The covered dishes and platters welcomed him, though a wiser man would have waited until a more convenient hour. A wiser man would have breakfasted alone. He had never prided himself on wisdom.

She looked up as he entered. “You slept well, I trust?”

“Like a dead man.”

“I have no doubt of it. You had enough to drink to render the average bear insensate.”

“How do you know that?”

She glanced in the direction of the sideboard, whereon the brandy was kept.

“The decanters were full last night. Sir Edmund is not here, and as Archer—”

He cut her off with an exaggerated bow. “I beg you’ll forgive my intemperance, ma’am.” And he took his place at the table.

Claire sat down at the furthest corner opposite, a continent of tablecloth between them.

“My cousin has not yet arisen, I take it,” Roger asked of her.

“I’m sure she’ll sleep quite late.”

“She retired early.”

“Yes, but, according to Mrs. Hartup, she has not been sleeping well. She has much on her mind. I believe your interview with her yesterday gave her much to ponder, and she has Archer’s sudden departure to consider. And Gina—”

“Imogen.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Her name is Imogen.”

Claire laid down the toast she had been just preparing to eat. “Gina is short for Imogen?”

“Imogen is short for Imogen. She despises the other.”

“Then why—”

“Because at the time she left her uncle’s house, she despised herself.”

“So why Gina? What is the significance in that? If she despises it so.”

“The name was used by someone who was particularly loathsome to her. If you are not familiar with her history, you will not understand.”

“This Mr. Osborne? It was not he who called her this?”

“So she did tell you.”

“Yes, she told me of him. But she’s never objected to being called Gina. Even Archer calls her by it.” She stopped suddenly, seemed to consider, then looked up again. “Perhaps he should not.”

“No. He shouldn’t. And he knows better than to do it, too.”

“But he doesn’t know her history.”

“Not yet. No. But it was the name she used as a servant in his house. That should be enough.”

“I’m sure it’s just an innocent habit.”

“Then he’d best break it.”

“Yes, you may be right.”

“May be?”

“You needn’t be nasty, Mr. Barrett. I take your point. But my cousin, I assure you, means no disrespect in the use of the name he grew accustomed to in his earliest association with her.”

“Better that they had never met.”

Claire stiffened and raised her chin. “That is your opinion, Mr. Barrett, and you are entitled to it. But this marriage might do no end of good for my cousin, if he will only make the effort.”

“Well that’s all well and good for him, isn’t it? What a little money won’t do for the landed and titled.”

“That wasn’t my meaning at all. For the first time in his life he has something worth fighting for, something for which he must sacrifice. He’s a good man at heart. She will help him to realise the potential I have long seen in him. And he will do the same for her. She has been controlled and manipulated too long.”

“And this is different?”

“He loves her, Mr. Barrett. He may not have yet learned how to properly show it, and the way this has come about is indeed regrettable, but all is not lost. If he can teach her to love him, if he can persuade her that she is worth loving, think what good might come of it?”

“I think you greatly overestimate my concern for Mr. Hamilton’s well-being.”

“And insofar as it affects Gina’s—”

His warning glare served as the necessary reminder.

“Imogen,” she corrected. “You care nothing then for how his success or failure will affect her?”

Roger chose not to answer this, and yet he maintained that pointed stare.

“No. No. Of course you don’t,” she said, turning back to her toast. “So long as the ends agree with your ultimate desires.”

“My ultimate desire is to see her happy.”

“By your own terms. And at any cost?”

Again, he did not answer. He refused to think it out so far. His hope being so newly resurrected, he was not yet willing to stifle it for any reason. Worthy or otherwise.

“I suppose what you really mean to say is that had you married her, her happiness would have been guaranteed. You may be right. But would it last? When you went back to your former ways—”

“And what ways are those, Miss Montegue?”

“Again you interrupt.”

“You presume to understand me so well. Pray enlighten me as to my weaknesses, will you?”

“You are a man of the world, Mr. Barrett. Are you capable of changing in order to earn the right to the love of one woman? Or will you always be looking over your shoulder at what you left behind, and what you might have again?”

Roger, irritated, threw his wadded napkin onto the table. He was not quite the villain she supposed him, but what use was such an argument? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Neither can you, Miss Montegue. I’ll wish you good—”

But she stopped him. “I know what I have been told of you. By your cousin. By my own. And I know what I have seen.”

“And what, pray tell, have you seen?”

“I’ve seen you look at me, Mr. Barrett.”

“What?”

“You sit here and try to tell me that you are in love with my cousin’s wife and yet you make eyes at me, and you impose upon me when your company and attention are not wanted.”

He had been, a moment ago, on the verge of excusing himself. That she had detained him for this seemed implausibly ironic. “Is that so?”

“It is. And you pose and preen still, and under her very roof. Are you not capable of any fidelity or devotion? I doubt you know what the words mean.”

“Well aren’t you a fine piece of work.”

“What I am to you is of little concern to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Montegue. I would hate to think that one deluded woman’s fanciful perceptions should cause me any inconvenience. Believe me, I shan’t trouble myself with the thought again.”

As he turned to leave the room, the door opened.

“Imogen.”

“Roger, what is it? I thought I heard raised voices.”

“It was nothing,” he answered casually. “Miss Montegue and I were just having a friendly chat over breakfast.”

She looked from Roger to Claire and then back again. “It didn’t sound very friendly.”

Claire, too, arose, and crossed the room to put a welcoming arm around her. “Come have something to eat, my dear—Imogen.”

Imogen glanced up and coloured slightly. “He told you. I’m sorry. I meant to. The opportunity never came up.”

“It’s quite all right, my dear. Gina Shaw never was. Imogen. Imogen Shaw Hamilton.”

“Everard.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Imogen Everard.”

“Goodness!”

“I am sorry.”

“Nonsense. Sit. I’ll prepare you a plate.”

Roger, still standing, watched on. As irritating, as infuriating as the woman was, that Miss Montegue treated Imogen with so much consideration was no small comfort to him.

“Mr. Hamilton has gone, then?” he thought to ask.

Imogen looked up at him and then to Claire as she handed her a plate. “Yes,” she answered. “Early this morning.”

“He told you where he was going,” Claire asked now. “And why?”

“London.” She smiled stiffly. “I haven’t the faintest clue as to why or for how long.”

“A day or two should do it, I think,” Claire assured her.

“Let us hope,” Roger answered.

“You know then? The two of you know where he’s gone?”

Claire grimaced, evidently uncertain what to say.

It was Roger who answered. “He’s gone to speak with Mr. Watts, my dear.”

“Mr. Watts?”

“He wants to see what might be done,” Claire answered and, observing Imogen’s reaction, sat down beside her and took her hand in her own. “You don’t look pleased.”

“When you say, ‘what might be done,’ what exactly do you mean?”

Her question, asked so tentatively, demanded a certain amount of caution in Roger’s reply. “It’s not certain that there is anything he can do, but it’s plain you cannot be made happy while you live under his uncle’s roof. He’s gone to see what might be done to establish his independence.”

She appeared quite alarmed. “He did not counsel with me about this.”

“He will, Imogen,” Claire answered. “He will, but first he must see if it’s possible. There’s no sense proposing such a scheme if it turns out that there is no way to do it. If the sacrifice will be too great.”

“For him,” Roger said, taking no pains to hide his resentment.

“And for you, of course,” Claire reassured her.

Imogen blinked hard and paled. Claire threw Roger a look. He was not wanted. He hated to leave her like this, but… Perhaps a woman’s touch was what was needed here. He obeyed and left them, uncertain what to do with himself. He would have to find something to occupy his time and his thoughts. But he would leave Miss Montegue to her work. She was clearly capable. Perhaps more capable than he.

* * *

“What is it?” Claire asked of Imogen. “What is worrying you?”

“I can’t ask this of him.”

“You do not wish it?”

“That’s not what I said. I hate him. I hate Sir Edmund. To be free of him… But Archer. Sir Edmund is the closest thing to family he has ever had. There is the money. I don’t care, but for him– He would be walking away from it all, the only home he’s ever had, everything. It won’t be easy. If it’s possible at all, it won’t be easy. I would never ask it of him. I can’t–”

“Go on. Why can’t you? Why won’t you ask it of him?”

“I can’t be beholden to him for such a thing.”

“Imogen, he would not expect—”

“Of course he would. There’s only one reason he is doing this. He’s trying to prove himself. I don’t know, after all, that I can be what he wants, that I can give myself quite completely to him, however much I may want to. He doesn’t yet know all he ought.”

She looked truly distraught now.

“If he is doing this for a woman he is soon to despise… I can’t bear it, Claire.”

“Shhh. He has not committed to anything yet. He has only gone to find out what might be done, should he decide to do it. But I think he must. That he’s not done something before now, I can’t understand. He simply took Sir Edmund’s word, I suppose, that it was no use.”

“Yes. And there may be no use at all, even if it is possible. Don’t you see?”

“Imogen, my dear, he has gone for a day or two only. When he returns you can discuss it. Until then, I think it will be best not to worry about it. You have a great deal to think of without fretting over what may or may not be possible long before anything is ever actually engaged upon.”

“Yes,” she said and took a deep breath. “Yes, you are right.”

“You have this party to plan for. Shall we get the invitations out this morning?”

“Yes, I believe we had better.”

“And we will send only the ones for those whom you are comfortable having into your home, yes?”

“Yes, all right.”

* * *

It was late in the evening when Imogen was at last free to seek Roger out. She found him in the book room.

“They are gone,” she said, upon entering. He had not heard her, his attention was so firmly fixed on the space of wall before him, though a book sat open in his lap.

“Imogen,” he said, rising and kissing each cheek. “What did you say? What are gone?”

“The insects. They were all over the walls.”

“The house was as bad off as that, was it?”

“No,” she laughed. “He collects insects. Or did. He had them displayed here. They were beautiful.”

Roger’s look was a questioning one.

“He thought I objected.”

“And did you?”

Reluctantly she answered him. “I suppose, in a way.”

“In what way?”

“I just could not stand to see something that was supposed to be wild and free, however beautiful, caged and pinned in boxes of glass.”

“I understand your meaning. But if you want to be free, it requires only a word, my dear.”

“Roger.”

“This business of freeing himself from his uncle. He can’t do it. He won’t.”

“You don’t believe in him, and yet you persuaded him to go?”

“He cannot right the wrongs he has done you, however he may pretend to try.”

“That’s enough. You are speaking of my husband.”

“Devil take the man! You love him. I’m sorry for it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Speak another word against him, Roger, and I’ll leave you once more to your book. You were quite consumed.”

“I was, as a matter of fact.”

“Perhaps you want to get back to it, after all.” And she turned to go.

“Stay.”

She stopped at the door, and looked back.

“I’m sorry. I’ve not seen you in an age. Can we not speak of pleasanter things?”

She smiled tentatively and re-entered the room. “All right,” she said and placed herself on the sofa adjacent to the chair in which he had just been sitting, the chair in which she had once fallen asleep. It would smell of another now. Would she mind? She blinked and dismissed the thought. “Can you suggest a pleasant subject? What you were reading, perhaps?”

“Dash it. You know I wasn’t reading.”

She smiled again, more broadly this time, and he, seeing her joke, at last returned it.

“Tell me of this party for which Miss Montegue is helping you to prepare.”

“Well,” she began, hesitantly, “we’ve made a few alterations to the original plans, but we think that by Thursday my aunts will arrive, whereupon we shall have a private dinner with the family—”

“His and yours?”

“And Claire means to invite her people, but whether they will come—and when—remains to be seen.”

Roger lifted his brow contemplatively and sat back in the chair he had so recently re-occupied.

“Friday will be the formal party.”

“To host Sir Edmund’s guests.”

“Yes. And, with any luck, we’ll have the Abbey once more to ourselves come Monday.” She released a heavy breath.

“And reciprocal invitations pouring in shortly after.”

“I… I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Hadn’t you?”

“If we succeed, then I suppose it’s inevitable, and yet…”

“Yes?”

“Truly, I hadn’t thought that far. I was only considering what it would take to get through the next several days.”

“Surely in so public a setting, with so much at stake, all will be on their best behaviour.”

“It’s not him alone, Roger, but those like him who will gather to celebrate.” She paused and glanced up at him. “Mr. Osborne has been invited, you know.”

“What!”

“Claire has determined that we are to cross him from the list.”

“I hope you mean to listen to her.”

“Whatever the consequences, Roger, yes. I cannot have him here. I only hope…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Sir Edmund is likely to find out, and…it may not matter, after all. If he offers his own invitation… And there are others, besides. I cannot hope to escape my uncle’s former associations quite completely, it seems. If I can escape the worst of them—Mr. Osborne—then that is as much as I dare to hope for.”

“Great day, Imogen! I’m supposed to support this?”

“To support me. I hope you will. You will not abandon me?”

“He has no idea what he is asking of you, does he?”

“Sir Edmund?”

“To the devil with Sir Edmund! It’s Hamilton I mean!”

“He can hardly be blamed for what he does not know. And I can go nowhere until I’ve exerted my utmost effort. You must see that. If Archer is trying what he can to ease our burdens, then so must I.”

Roger turned from her and tried to calm himself.

“Don’t be angry with me,” she said at last, which brought him round once more to face her.

“I’m not angry, Imogen. Not with you, at any rate. But it is more than I can take to watch as you are once more employed as the device for someone else’s selfish aspirations.”

“But think, Roger. If I should succeed. If we should succeed. It’s my responsibility to see that we raise ourselves. This party is the first step. I cannot do it alone.”

“No. And I’ve no doubt of your ability to do it. Do not mistake me. Under one circumstance or another you are likely soon to leave, so what connections you secure on this occasion are likely the most important of your life. Miss Montegue’s family are expected to come, you say? Tell me about them?”

“Her grandmother is Sir Edmund’s cousin. Claire’s relations are, to my understanding, much respected and admired. If they are any of them at all like Claire, then I think they must be, but it’s been some time since they were received here. They’ve not been anxious to maintain their connection with this side of the family.”

“Miss Montegue once meant to take you away herself.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose she would do it again.”

“She has proposed as much. If he makes the break, I will very possibly go to her for a time. Or if I find I cannot endure it here… If she deems it unsafe for me to remain.”

“As exasperating as she is, I cannot help but be grateful to her. She has been a good friend to you.”

“Yes, she has. And loyal, despite her fondness for Archer.”

Roger returned once more to his seat. “Well, she is not without her virtues, it seems.”

“No. I think you will find more of them the longer you look.”

“What makes you think I mean to take the trouble?”

She did not answer, but gave him a knowing look.

“Nonsense,” he said and took up his book once more. He skimmed its pages, then put it down again in frustration. “You know, she is the most infuriating woman I have ever met.”

Imogen raised herself from the sofa to kiss him affectionately on the forehead. “Yes, Roger, I know,” she said, and left him once more to his book.