Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER fifty-one





WAS WONDERING,” Claire said to Imogen, upon finding her in the drawing room, “if you had thought of what you would be wearing? You’ve discussed it with your dressmaker already, I presume?”

Imogen looked up suddenly from her writing and stared. She had not even thought of it.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Claire said and sat down beside her. “Not just anyone will do, you know. Not just anything will do.”

“I have the gowns you gave me. Certainly they will suit the occasion well enough.”

“You can’t be thinking of cast offs at a time like this?”

Imogen blinked helplessly.

“Oh dear,” Claire said. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve come, then. I know just the person we need. May I?” she inquired with a nod in the direction of the inkwell.

Imogen withdrew a sheet or two of fresh paper and pushed the ink and pen in Claire’s direction. Claire took these up and set to work, and when she had finished her letter, she blotted and folded it and placed it in an envelope, which she then addressed with great flourish.

“There,” she said. “Now onto the next thing.”

Imogen remained silent, but in her countenance she wore the question. “Which is?”

“What manner of entertainment is there to be? Will it be a musical evening, or dancing only?”

“You don’t expect me to play?”

“Do you sing?”

Imogen didn’t answer this.

“No matter, if my family will agree to come, you’ll have more musicians than you’ll know what to do with. But as to whether there is to be dancing or not, I imagine the question need not be asked. A party is hardly a party at all if there is not to be dancing. And to bring the guests all this way… Well, there can be no doubt of it.”

Imogen looked away, toward the window.

“You may be opposed to singing and playing, my dear Imogen, but you cannot be opposed to dancing. That was how you were reacquainted with Archer, is it not? At a party?”

“I never danced with him.”

“Well that is a shame.”

Imogen looked to her again, uncertain what to think or feel, besides apprehension.

“I hope you are not too out of practice?”

“The truth is, I’ve never learned. I don’t know how.”

“How can that be?”

“I’ve never been taught. I don’t know why. There was little need for it, I suppose. My uncle rarely went out into Society. Perhaps he considered it unnecessary. Certainly he would not have thought to take the trouble.”

Claire appeared disappointed at first, but quickly rallied with an air of obstinate determination. “Well then. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it but to remedy your family’s negligence. Come,” she said and arose from the writing table.

Imogen remained, obstinately seated. “Come? Where?”

“To the ballroom of course. But first to find that worthless cousin of yours.”

“Claire!”

Claire offered an apologetic and half shameful smile. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “But he really is the very limit of my patience.”

“Which I think is not a wholly remarkable thing, Claire, except in its limitations.” She almost regretted saying it, but Claire laughed. Well, she nearly laughed. She exhaled sharply, which was very nearly the same thing. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “My patience was never much. Particularly with charming gentlemen.”

“You find him charming?”

“Well, yes. Of course. I’d be a simpleton to deny it. But that’s what makes him so exasperating, isn’t it?”

“My aunt used to say he was ‘habitually charming to the point of irritation’.”

Claire laughed again. Harder this time. Imogen joined her and they had not quite finished when Roger entered the room.

“What the devil has you both so giddy?” He took a glance toward the sideboard. “You’ve not been dipping into the claret, I hope.”

Imogen arose to greet him. He was clearly in a fairer mood than she had seen him of late, and it pleased her. At least it gave her some relief. “Perhaps,” she answered him. “In seeing to the vast minutiae of necessary details, we have found it requisite that the available libations be sampled. We would not want to disappoint our guests by serving anything less than the finest.”

Roger glanced from Imogen to Claire alternately.

“The brandy is quite excellent,” Claire answered.

“Good heaven, you’re serious!” And he examined Imogen over more carefully.

Which sent both women into another fit of laughter.

When Claire at last recovered herself, she approached him. “I have a purpose for you today, Mr. Barrett. Are you game?”

He turned a suspicious eye on her. “I’m not quite certain, if you want to know the truth.”

“Come now, Mr. Barrett. Don’t tell me you are afraid of me.”

It was his turn to laugh.

“Good,” she said. And she slipped her arm through his.

“You might at least have the decency to tell me where you are taking me.”

“The ballroom, sir. We must teach our dear cousin to dance.”

Roger turned to throw Imogen a questioning look. “Surely she’s joking?” he seemed to say.

But Imogen’s only answer was an uncertain smile.

Together they reached the music room, and Claire went immediately to the piano to sift through the available music.

“You told me you didn’t play,” she said as she studied the collection.

“I don’t.”

“She used to,” Roger offered.

“Used to?”

“I quit. Didn’t I tell you?”

Claire looked to Roger and then back to Imogen. “Perhaps you did,” she said, and seemed confused. “But much of this is new. And no one else in this house plays, and so I thought…”

Imogen tossed her a dismissive look.

“Perhaps someone wishes for you to play again.”

“I hardly have the heart for it anymore, Claire. I—”

“I think you said we had come to dance, Miss Montegue?” Roger offered in an attempt at rescuing Imogen. “Can we not just choose something and get on with it?”

“Such impatience!” she said and rolled her eyes at him.

“Must I dance, truly?” Imogen asked, almost pleaded.

“I don’t think there’s any escaping it. You will have to perform the obligatory waltz, I should think. One is not expected to dance with one’s husband beyond that. Surely you will want to make the most of this opportunity. Certainly he shall.”

Roger cleared his throat, and Claire took the cue. It wasn’t he alone she was making uncomfortable by her speech.

“Your favourite, Imogen? Have you one?”

“No.”

“Brahms, I think,” Roger answered for her. “Waltz in A flat.”

“Roger.”

“Brahms it is,” Claire said, and withdrew the piece from the stack. She sat down to play, but stopped again to observe the couple.

“May I leave it in your hands, Mr. Barrett? Or must I see first if you are qualified for the office?”

“Whichever you like, Miss Montegue, only do let’s get on with it.”

From the corner of her eye, she examined him once again, then glanced at Imogen. “Perhaps I should try him first.”

“If you really think it necessary,” he answered.

“I think it wise. One’s obligations are often in conflict with one’s desires. Duty is nevertheless duty.”

Roger laughed dismissively as Claire placed herself before him, and then smoothed her dress in preparation.

“Would you mind, Imogen?” she asked.

Imogen hesitated, for half a minute. Surely there was no harm in playing for such an audience as this. Reluctantly acquiescent, she sat down at the piano and began.

So too did Roger and Claire, he taking her almost forcefully in his arms. Perhaps he meant to challenge her, or to prove her wrong, or simply to see if she could live up to her great speech, but she kept up with him admirably. Imogen continued to play, and the pair would not stop until she did, twirling and spinning and gliding across the floor. If only she could do it so well. The song at last died out, and Claire and Roger came to a stop, then separated to stand several feet apart, breathing hard and staring each other down as though they had been locked together in some fierce battle rather than engaging in a mere social exercise.

“Well?” he demanded of her at last.

Claire turned to Imogen and approached the piano once more. “He’ll do,” she said, and took Imogen’s place.

“I’ll do,” Roger repeated. It was clearly not the praise he had hoped for. He turned to Imogen. “It’s good to hear you playing again,” he said to her. “I hope you’ll reconsider your decision to give it up.”

“Yes,” Claire said and took her place at the piano, as Imogen returned to Roger’s side. “So do I. Next I shall hear you sing. I’m determined to do it.”

“Claire.”

“There’s no point arguing. I always get my way. And now, as I said, it’s your turn to dance.”

Claire had not turned from the piano this time, but Imogen could see the evidence of her exertion on her profile. She was exceedingly red of face, and Imogen was surprised to find Claire so spent by the exercise. Or was it something else that had raised her colour? She looked to Roger then, who met her gaze, having only then removed it from Claire.

“Do take care, Mr. Barrett,” Claire called from the piano. “She’s not a bear to be wrestled.”

Roger rolled his eyes and took Imogen in his arms, his hand he placed firmly upon her back, holding her quite close. Her right hand he held in his left.

“I don’t know what to do,” Imogen said, and felt her face grow red in frustration and shame. “I can’t dance, truly.”

“You’ll never learn if you don’t try.” He held her a trifle closer. “Just follow.”

She nodded, and they began.

He took his first step, and she stepped forward as he pulled her gently towards him. He then took a step to his right, which was all very well, but she had not anticipated the turn and nearly tripped.

She looked up and found Roger struggling not to laugh.

“Again?” he suggested.

They repeated the steps in the same order. He stepped forward, she stepped back. He stepped to the right and turned. Then it was his turn to step back, but she did not follow, and then trying to catch up, nearly fell into him.

He released her and gave her an assessing look, though his eyes sparked with merriment. “Good heaven! You can’t dance, can you?”

He was laughing. But she was not. “I told you.”

Before she could object to trying again, he drew her to him once more, holding her so close he was almost carrying her.

“It’s a box, you see,” he said, as he held her, her feet barely touching the floor. “Back, to the side, together, forward, to the side, together. Simple.”

“If you say so,” she said and floated along at his will until her own feet began to make sense of the movements, at which point, he let go his hero’s grip and gave her a little more room.

He had begun with just a slight pivot in each step, moving incrementally counter-clockwise around the floor, but as her confidence grew, so did his exuberance, until they were floating together, spinning and gliding like clouds in an evening sky. She glanced up and smiled at him occasionally, but for the most part, she struggled to rest her eyes anywhere at all. There was so much movement.

“It helps to have something on which to fix your gaze,” he said. “Some find the waltz disorienting, but it helps to fix your gaze on something.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

“You might look at me.”

She glanced up at him, but the look on his face was too much. She looked away once more.

“My shoulder will do,” he said, sounding somewhat defeated. “Just where your hand rests.”

She glanced up at him in a combination of apology and gratitude, and did as he’d suggested, daring to look up only now and then as the room spun around them. And it was on one of these occasions that she happened to notice a figure within the doorway. She looked again and, startled, she stopped, pushing Roger from her. He turned as well to discover what was the matter.

“The celebrations have begun already, have they?” Sir Edmund said, stepping further into the room.

The music stopped, and Claire stood.

“You’ve returned early,” was all Imogen could think to say. “You know my cousin, of course. Sir Edmund, Mr. Roger Barrett.”

Roger put forth his hand, but Sir Edmund ignored him, his icy glare fixed on Imogen.

“We were making preparations, sir. You see, I—”

“I know what I see.” With a lightning glance, his gaze flashed to Roger and then back to Imogen. “A little impatient, aren’t we?”

“Sir?”

“My nephew? Where is he?”

No one answered.

“The workmen,” he said. “Where are they? Surely you can answer me that.”

“As they had finished with their assignments in the library,” Imogen answered him, “and as I knew not what else they should do there, I sent them upstairs.”

“To Archer’s old room?”

“To Charlie’s, yes.”

“You can give up on the idea of Charlie ever having a place here. He is not yours to tend. I’ve made arrangements to send him away—to school.”

Shocked by this, she stood speechless. This was what she’d always wished for him, and yet there was a suddenness to Sir Edmund’s pronouncement that alarmed her. Why should Charlie be sent away now?

“You have arranged for him to go to a good school, I hope? One that will do justice to his natural talents?”

“Yes. He’ll have to work hard to keep up, but–” And he abruptly stopped, as he had stopped once before. As if recalling who she was, what she was—or had been—and that he had no need of explaining such things to her. “The workmen,” he said with a wave that dismissed her as something only slightly higher than a common housemaid. “Go fetch them. Send them down. I want the library finished today so that the unpacking can be done tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and turned to go.

Roger remained.

“And if you can find my nephew,” he said, stopping her. “I should like a word with him. I’m surprised to find him so liberal with his prized possessions. I had thought he’d guard them a little more jealously.”

Cautiously she turned to face him. “Sir?”

“I did not expect to return home to find you in the arms of your cousin. If that’s the way you wish to carry on then you will at least I take some care for discretion.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Roger intervened, stepping forward.

“I’ll have something to say to you in a minute! Mrs. Hamilton has been given orders, and now she will go attend to them.”

She hesitated.

“Go!”

Without another word, she quit the room, Claire following.

Sir Edmund then turned to Roger.

“Mrs. Hamilton invited you, I take it.”

“I’m here by Mr. Hamilton’s invitation, actually.”

“Perhaps you might then tell me where he is.”

“He’s gone.”

Sir Edmund’s face was now quite pale. “Gone? Where?”

“To Town, I believe. I can’t be sure.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He left in rather a hurry,” Roger said. This, at least, was the truth.

“Do you know when he means to return?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I do not.”

“Very well, then. I see I’ll have to bide my time, but I’ll take this opportunity, Mr. Barrett, of warning you, that as an invited guest in this house, you are expected to remember it. I’m aware of your former intentions toward your cousin, and I’m not fool enough to suppose those intentions were laid to rest upon her marriage. But you’ll not make a fool of us or you will both live to regret it.”

Roger was not one to be cowed by threats. “Just what is it, if you don’t mind telling me, are we celebrating? It isn’t the marriage, whatever the invitations may say.”

“That shouldn’t require explanation. Not to you.”

“Your methods are curious to me. You mean to establish yourself once more in Society, and yet you have made it nearly impossible for her to succeed. I will not stand by and watch her be humiliated in front of a crowd of people she sacrificed everything to avoid.”

Sir Edmund raised his chin suspiciously.

“Yes, I know who was on that guest list. And I believe you knew what you were doing when you made it. What I want to know is what you meant to achieve by placing her in the same room as those who knew her in her former life?”

“It’s not often I’m at a complete loss to understand my own language, Mr. Barrett. If there were names on that list who were common acquaintances of her uncle, it should be no very great surprise, for he and I were close friends at one time. However uncomfortable the mutual association may be, she’ll have to hold her head up. She will be expected to welcome all of her guests. Our success depends upon it.”

“On her?”

“She has much to do to prove herself yet.”

“What in heaven’s name can she have to prove to you?”

“Her value, Mr. Barrett. I’m not yet certain she’s prepared to adopt her new role, or if the price I’ve paid is too high.”

It was always money with these people. She was nothing to them without it and yet nothing again now they’d bought her. It was all he could do to keep from throttling the life out of the man. “The price you’ve paid?” he hissed. “The price you’ve paid?”

“All of my expectations were founded upon my nephew’s making a good match. Practically, he could not have done better. But if her character should be the weight that holds us down, then she’s not worth thrupence!”

“With all due respect, sir, I feel it necessary to point out that it was she who brought both money and character to you. Without her you’re no better than a—”

“Now you listen to me!”

“I’ve listened to you long enough. As far as your purposes go, they can go to the devil. If she can do for you all you wish her to do, and if you will reciprocate in kind by treating her as the lady she is, then so be it, but I will not stand to see her ill-used. Nor will I stand by and watch as she relives even a moment of her life with her uncle. And if you think I will, sir, you are very sadly mistaken.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Barrett?”

“You may consider it as such, sir.” And Roger turned from the room.