Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER fifty-two





HE SHORT INTERVIEW with Sir Edmund left Imogen hurt and anxious. And Claire fuming. The two women parted at the top of the stairs, Claire to write her letters and Imogen to go in search of the workmen. She found them without any trouble, and sent them, as she had been bid to do, to Sir Edmund’s library to await his instructions. Yet it was a sacrifice pulling them away from Charlie’s rooms, for it seemed to her so very final. But no, this was good news. It was all she had ever hoped for him. She had promised Miss Mason that something would be done for him, and now it would be. She should be happy. And she sincerely tried to be as she made her way back to the west wing and the relative comfort of her own room.

She was stopped, however, upon hearing a strange noise in the vicinity of Sir Edmund’s room. It was too soon for any of the men to have returned upstairs, and she knew that Sir Edmund was still in conference with Roger, and would likely remain so for some time. It occurred to her that Archer might have returned after all. It didn’t seem possible, but there must be some explanation. And so, uncertainly, she ventured in that direction. The door to Sir Edmund’s bedroom was open just a crack, and from within she heard the rustling and thudding of movement. Pushing the door open further, she peeked inside. She saw nothing unusual, only crates and boxes piled high, one on top another, some opened, some closed tightly…and then…she heard the sound of something heavy landing hard upon the floor. Then an oath.

She entered, looking around her though she saw no one. Not at first. But when she heard the rustling of papers, muttering, and then another expletive, she turned to find the lithe figure of a gentleman standing over a newly opened crate, a large book in his hands and his back turned towards her. She might have thought it Archer indeed, were it not for the exceedingly fair hair.

“Mr. Wyndham!”

Closing the book, he turned to address her with a smile casually insincere and self-incriminating. “My fair cousin.”

“Will you tell me what you are doing here?”

“I left something behind in the library,” he said. “I’ve not been able to find it and so I thought perhaps it had been packed up.” And he waved dismissively in the direction of the molested crates.

“You’ve found it?”

“This?” he asked holding the book a little higher before laying it aside. “No.” Yet he watched it almost jealously.

“It was important to you, whatever it is you’re looking for?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You could not have waited to ask after it?”

He hesitated.

“You must realise how strange it is to find you in Sir Edmund’s rooms. I could not have expected you here. Nor would he approve, I think.”

Wyndham’s smile, as he looked at her, had gone a little dry, but it twitched at one corner as though trying to raise itself back to life. “Lucky for me he is not at home.”

She was about to disabuse him of the fact, but he interrupted her, abandoning the book and drawing nearer as he spoke.

“The truth is, Mrs. Hamilton, what I’m looking for might be more useful to you than to myself.”

“And how might that be, Mr. Wyndham?”

He drew nearer still, his shoulders hunched forward like a cat on the prowl. This was his usual, too casual posture, but on this occasion the affect made him appear more than usually threatening.

“You’ve been wronged, my dear,” he said in so smooth and sympathetic a tone it made her skin crawl.

“What do you know of my circumstances?” she demanded.

“I know enough. Possibly a great deal more than you know yourself.”

His smile, too knowing and insipid, both frightened and enraged her. And yet a part of her—a very large part—wished to know what he knew. He took a step nearer.

“You can just stay where you are, Mr. Wyndham.”

Yet he continued to approach, leaving little more than an arm’s length between them.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to help you.”

“How can you help me?” she said, laughing bravely, though even to her it sounded rather weak.

“You are not satisfied in your marriage, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that.” She prayed that it was so, but there was something in his look that told her he was fully aware of the fact that her husband had not yet claimed her as his own.

“Experience has taught me that a woman’s needs are not secondary to a man’s. You are not happy. I can remedy that.”

Imogen backed away from him, and to her relief, he did not pursue, but leaned against a nearby dressing table and watched her for a moment or two.

“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked him at last. “Don’t look at me like that. You shouldn’t be here. You must go.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite ready.” And he drew nearer her once more. “Your husband has left you, Mrs. Hamilton. Again he has left. One would think he was not overly fond of his new bride.”

“You are cruel, Mr. Wyndham.”

“Do you know where he’s gone? Or why?”

“He’s gone to Town. For a day or two. Business, I believe.”

“Yes, business,” he repeated, an acrid tone hardening each syllable. “But for what purpose?”

Again she remained silent.

“Do you know?”

“No. Not really. I—”

“He’s gone to ensure his right to an inheritance that does not belong quite so surely to him. He only risks it the further by his foolish endeavours. You have no idea, Mrs. Hamilton, how far in over your head you have waded. There are things you do not understand—that you wish to know. I can provide for you the answers.”

“For instance?”

“His history. His heritage. The lies and deceit. Yes, his legacy is a great one, but it’s not one of which a man—or his wife—should be proud.”

“I’m to trust you?”

He laughed. “You’ll learn to. As the castle walls begin tumbling down, you’ll want to hear what I have to say. You’ll want to know what I know. What he has kept from you.”

“I believe you are bluffing, Mr. Wyndham. His past is as much a mystery to him as it is to me. How is it possible that you should know more? I won’t believe it.”

“I know what I know, Mrs. Hamilton. I have proof of the rest, or can find it. Right there in that book,” he said, pointing towards the table where the object lay.

From her place before a large armoire, she examined the book, but her efforts to approach it were frustrated by Mr. Wyndham’s increasing proximity. It was very old, large and well worn, the book was, with gilt lettering along the spine and a large cross adorning the front. A family bible, it appeared to be, the likes of which many a great family recorded its history and genealogy. What would it reveal of Archer’s?

“You said that was not what you were looking for.”

“It’s not that alone. That may help me. But it’s not all I’ve come for.”

“What are you looking for? Tell me. Some journal entries? Letters? Copies of late wills, perhaps?”

“You are as clever as you are beautiful, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She ignored him. “And the book?”

“What’s in it concerns you more than anyone, for it bears record of the family’s dealings. On any other day, this book would be locked up safely. And, alongside it, what I need to establish myself. Your husband is not, after all, the rightful heir to Sir Edmund’s fortune, Mrs. Hamilton. He is not, let me say it this way, the undisputed heir.”

“What right have you over it?”

“Well that, my dear, would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

His eyes danced appreciatively over her, he raised a hand as if to touch her—her face, or her hair…something. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She didn’t want him anywhere near her. She moved to avoid him and backed into the armoire, hitting her head and sending the door creaking and clattering on its hinges. She closed her eyes against the sound—and the pain. “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you would keep your hands to yourself.”

“That’s asking a great deal, considering you are just wanting to be touched. And if your husband won’t do it…” He tried again.

Furious, she slapped his hand away.

For a moment, he appeared angry, as though he might actually strike her, but at last his hard look softened into one of patient bemusement. He raised his hand once more.

“If you touch me again, Mr. Wyndham, so help me God, I’ll scream.”

“And who is to hear you?”

“There are the servants.”

“Mrs. Hartup?”

“And Sir Edmund has returned home this afternoon.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“It’s no lie, Mr. Wyndham. With one scream, I can summon the proof.”

He seemed to consider this. A look on his face told her he didn’t believe her. But the sound of Sir Edmund bellowing commands from the lower floor provided the necessary evidence. Wyndham appeared suddenly alarmed, the more so, perhaps, for all the noise he had foolishly and carelessly made.

Imogen turned from him, anxious to be far away and safely in her own room before Sir Edmund should discover them here, or before Wyndham dared to presume upon her further. She had nearly reached the door when Wyndham took hold of her once again, grasping her arm and swinging her around. He held her tighter, drew her closer. Too close.

“I’m warning you, sir.”

He seemed to find some vile pleasure in her challenge, his head lowered so that his lips were just at her ear. “You’ll tell no one you saw me here, do you understand?”

She did not answer at first. His hands were on her, one at her back, holding her firmly to him, the other on her bodice, exploring the boning underneath, and searching, it seemed, until he found what he was looking for, that unique resiliency of softer flesh.

“You have five seconds to take your hands off of me, Mr. Wyndham, before I scream.”

“But you won’t do that, will you? I think you dare not take the risk of provoking me. Not when I know where you sleep. How you sleep. Alone.”

She struggled once more and he at last released her. Free of him, she left the room and did not look back until her door was closed and locked behind her.

Throwing herself against it, she cast her eyes to the ceiling and attempted to catch her breath as the tears rolled silently down her face. Where was Archer? And why had he left her again, to defend herself against Wyndham? Against Sir Edmund? How much more would she be made to endure before he should come back?

In time Imogen heard the sound of feet on the stairs and in the hall without. Many feet. A dozen or more. She heard them enter the room, but again, as on the former occasion, they did not return the way they had come. Eventually they would discover Wyndham’s tampering. But would they know it was he? Or would Sir Edmund suspect another? Archer, perhaps? Herself? Yes, of course. And what good was her word against Wyndham’s? She released a great shuddering sigh and sank down onto the floor. Where she remained, waiting for Sir Edmund to make his discovery.

An hour passed, then two. At last she raised herself, only to begin pacing the room. Dusk began to fall. The house grew quiet. The workmen left, and with them, all trace of Wyndham’s endeavours, fruitless and otherwise. Sir Edmund had never gone to his own room. He had never seen the damage Wyndham had wrought. Yet he must discover at some point that something was missing. But for now it seemed the storm had passed.

Still, there was Wyndham’s threat to consider. Did she dare keep his secret? Did she dare reveal it? Perhaps she ought to go to Claire. Claire had harboured her before, after all. Certainly she would do it again. But it was still early, and Claire would be downstairs, entertaining, fulfilling the responsibility Imogen had so far neglected. Certainly she would come to check on her, in time. Imogen would tell her then. And yet…if there was any chance Archer should return… No, she would remain here. Archer must return tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. And she would be here, waiting for him.

A knock at her door startled her. She arose and opened it to find Mrs. Hartup, who had come to ask after her. Sir Edmund, it seemed, had locked himself in his library, organising and preparing to have it all put back in order tomorrow, and so would not be at the table tonight. But Imogen was not feeling up to company. Nor was she prepared to face Sir Edmund’s wrath when he at last discovered his belongings had been tampered with.

“I’m afraid I have a headache, Mrs. Hartup. I think I’d prefer to rest quietly this evening. You will make my excuses?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup replied, and turned to go.

“Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said, stopping her.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Have you the only other key to this room?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Would you be so good as to give it to me?”

Mrs. Hartup hesitated. This was an unusual request, and Imogen understood what it suggested, that she did not trust the housekeeper. It was regrettable, but she was helpless to explain herself. Or nearly so.

“My nightmares, Mrs. Hartup. I find I cannot sleep. If I knew I held the only keys to the room, I might feel more secure.”

Still, the woman hesitated.

“Please, Mrs. Hartup. I’ll not lock my room while I’m away from it. But I would like to know that I can secure myself within it when I am here. You do understand?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Obediently, though reluctantly, Mrs. Hartup brought forth the key.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup answered respectfully, though her manner had visibly chilled. “Do you wish for anything more?”

“No, Mrs. Hartup. Thank you.”

The housekeeper left and the door closed behind her. With the key in hand, Imogen secured her room, and sat down to take up, once more that lonely vigil. Determined to wait. Determined to be the first to greet Archer upon his return, to hear from him what he had learned, and what he was to do with that knowledge. And to unload her burden on him—if she could but find the courage.





There was a chance, albeit a small one.