Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER fifty-eight





MOGEN SPENT A good hour or more before dinner resting and trying to calm her nerves for the evening ahead. Her aunts had done little to soothe them after all, and Claire, in her enduring selflessness, had undertaken to make sure that all was ready and as it should be for the evening, and for the one that would follow. As difficult as tonight would be to bear, with Sir Edmund and the aunts, Mrs. Barton too, all present to discuss and survey and to cast their suppositions upon the fate of the alliance they together had made, tomorrow would be far harder.

And what of Archer? Imogen had seen him all of ten minutes since he had returned home. He had much on his mind, and more on his shoulders, and she regretted that there was so little she could do to ease his burden. If only he would share it with her. First however, she must persuade him to talk to her, but in order for that to happen, they must be given the opportunity. And when might that be? She had no way of knowing and did not dare to speculate.

Imogen stood, examining herself in the mirror. She could not be more pleased with her gown, nor with her appearance, and she only prayed that Archer would approve. Standing still and silent, she continued to watch herself, trying to guess what others might see. Could she affect a happiness and satisfaction she did not feel? Was a silk gown enough to disguise all the anxiety and uncertainty that lay beneath the facade?

She started with the knock at the door, and turned as it opened. Archer entered. He hesitated a moment upon seeing her, then advanced slowly, an appreciative smile playing with one corner of his mouth.

“Look at you,” he said.

“Look at you. Your tie is not right.”

“No. I was in a hurry.”

“You have to do twice the tasks you rush, you know.”

“Yes,” he said as though he were truly considering it, and perhaps a trifle more seriously than she had meant him to do.

He was standing beside her now, looking into the mirror as she looked at him. She lifted a hand tentatively toward the loose ends of his tie as he fought with them. She hesitated half a moment. Then: “May I?”

His hands dropped to his side. His gaze dropped to her face. “Would you?”

She set to work, very carefully tying the knot, all the while trying to decide how best to bear the weight of his gaze upon her.

“There,” she said at last and smoothed it. Only then did she look up at him. He was watching her still, though every so often he would glance at the mirror before him. Then he smiled.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, dismissively. “But where I stand, I can see all of you at once. And I’m not quite sure just where to look.” Then he laughed, very softly.

She turned her head to observe herself from behind. Her dress was a work of art, especially in the back, where the train was gathered and the trims bound it into place, and then crissed and crossed as they were intricately woven along the hem of her skirt. She laughed too, and blushed.

“I am so very sorry I left.” He kissed her cheek. “And that I was gone so long.” He kissed the other.

She looked at him, wondering what she might expect next. What she might dare to hope for.

The question was mirrored in his eyes as he placed a hand on the small of her back, and then as he drew her nearer.

There was a knock at the door.

“She’ll be entering next,” Archer said, frustrated.

“I took the keys.”

His brow furrowed in curiosity and surprise.

“She is always entering at the most inopportune times.”

“She is, isn’t she?”

The knock again.

“Is that why you have no fire?”

“Yes. But it isn’t particularly cold.”

“No not yet.”

And yet again, though this time louder.

“What is it, Mrs. Hartup?” Archer demanded.

“Your guests have gathered, sir. Dinner awaits your arrival.”

“Very well,” he answered, and then turned back to Imogen. “I suppose we must go down, then.”

“I was hoping,” she said, as he gently turned her to stand beside him, they both looking into the mirror now, “that we might have the chance to talk. I’d like to hear about your trip, what you learned, what Mr. Watts was able to tell you.”

She was still looking at him, not through the mirror, but at him. She understood what he was doing, but could not bring herself to gaze at the image of them both, side by side. She did not wish to see herself but in the reflection of his eyes. Would that reflection change…tonight? Tomorrow? When she told him her secrets? And begged him to tell her his? For if they were truly going to embark upon a life of their own, there could be no secrets, no mysteries. She would be an open book to him, and he to her. There was no chance otherwise.

“It’s rather a shame we have to put on some ridiculous façade, a show for all to scrutinise and speculate upon.”

She started from her reverie, her courage gone now.

“It’s ridiculous, really. Especially tonight. Everyone knows what this is truly. And they could not care less whether we’re getting on or not.”

“Not Claire, I think. Nor Roger.”

“No,” he said, sobering. “No, I suppose not.”

“A little honesty would be refreshing, wouldn’t it? No doubt Sir Edmund will be honest. Perhaps we ought to go down with the full weight of our uncertainties plain upon our faces.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, Gina.”

“I am reserved and aloof, hardly worthy of the opportunity I’ve been given. You are reconsidering your decision now you think it may cost you your comfort.”

“Stop. That wasn’t what I meant at all. I did not think before I spoke.”

“We should go down now.”

“Gina, please.”

But she did not answer, simply stood at the door waiting for him to open it.

“Great day, what a mess this is.”

“Well that at least was truly stated.”

“Imogen, I did not mean—”

“It’s all right. Forget it. Sir Edmund won’t be happy we’ve made him wait.” And she quit the room, leaving Archer to follow behind.