Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER sixty





MOGEN TAPPED AT Mrs. Montegue’s door. It was immediately opened.

“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you,” Claire said and pushed Imogen once more out into the hall.

“What is it? What is the matter?”

“Gran is unwell. It’s nothing serious, but she does get headaches and dizzy spells. I want to fetch the doctor.”

“Yes, of course. Shall I send someone?”

“No. I’ll go. I’d much rather go myself. Not anyone will do, you know. Will you stay with Gran until I return?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Once Claire was gone, Imogen approached Mrs. Montegue, who had been prepared for bed and now sat in that same comfortable chair, draped in a handsome dressing gown of embroidered silk, her head resting on the knuckles of one hand.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Montegue?”

Slowly the old woman looked up. “No. I’m quite all right. I have a headache, but it will go away.”

“Claire has gone for the doctor.”

“Good. Her energies were wasted here,” and she drew up straighter, appearing instantly stronger. “Besides, she’ll rest more comfortably knowing there’s a doctor in the house.”

“But you do have a headache, you say? And Claire mentioned something about dizzy spells. Are these not serious enough to warrant sending for a doctor?”

“It seems I forgot how very much I despise my cousin, Mrs. Hamilton. The very sound of his voice, never happy, never satisfied, always complaining about something…or someone. It’s quite the limit of my tolerance.”

“I’m sorry he wears on your nerves,” Imogen said. “But I am glad you came.”

Mrs. Montegue examined Imogen once more, and with a more acutely scrutinising air this time. “You cannot be happy here.”

“I suppose there is no point in trying to convince you that I am entirely satisfied.”

“Yet you do not seem to me to consider yourself a victim.”

“No. I would hate to think I do.”

“You might. You very easily might. The manner in which this business has taken place is regrettable; certainly Sir Edmund is reproachable. I won’t pretend that Archer is completely innocent, but where Sir Edmund is guilty of having abominably used you—and perhaps his nephew as well—Archer is only guilty of succumbing to weakness. All men must, at some point in their lives. He cannot be blamed for loving you, nor wanting to secure you for himself. You do not blame him for this much?”

“No. Perhaps I did once. But not now.”

“And you are in love with him, or would very much like to be.”

Imogen did not answer this. There was little need.

“What draws you to him in spite of all of the difficulties you know you have yet to face?”

Imogen hesitated only a moment. Then, at last answered the question. “I believe his heart is good,” she said. I think he wants to be good and strong and honourable, all the things his uncle is not. And yet there is great conflict in him as well. I see such a contradiction of gentleness and strength, but that gentleness, that enduring concern for others, it binds him as a slave to those who cruelly use him.”

“As you do by withholding from him that which would make him a man.”

Imogen flushed in answer and turned away.

“You’re afraid.”

In surprise, she looked to the woman again.

“It is true. You are afraid to open your heart to him, and your fear prevents you from helping him, and from helping yourself. He’ll need what comfort and encouragement you can give him in the trials he’s now facing, which trials will only get harder before they get better.”

“And if he makes this break, and he regrets the effort, regrets the sacrifices he made—for me!—how will I live with myself then? I couldn’t bear the guilt.”

“Because you bear too much already.”

“What?” Imogen said, looking to Mrs. Montegue with eyes wide.

“The only thing that matters in this world is love; love of a family, love of friends, love of a man. I think you’ve known too little of these things. But now you can have them all, if you’ll only allow yourself that privilege. You have a right to it. The only way the guilt you feel can be justified is if you accept the admiration of those who are not worthy of it and push away the love of those who are. Then perhaps you’ll have deserved all the hellfire and damnation you’ve heaped upon yourself these many years now. If you can summon the courage to take this chance—though it might be a great one, it’s too late now to reconsider that—you very well may find that you are able to rid yourself of past pain.”

“But what do you know of that?”

“Claire told me.”

“She told you? Why would she do that?”

“Because Claire has suffered under the same self-condemnation as you. Her story and yours are not entirely dissimilar.”

“Claire?”

“By helping you, she is helping herself. If you refuse to do this, to dare to love and trust again, you show Claire how futile is the effort. And she deserves some happiness too, does she not? Even if it’s only in the satisfaction of seeing her beloved cousin and her dearest friend find happiness together.”

Imogen was allowed to contemplate this for a few minutes before Mrs. Montegue went on. “Will you try? For her? For Archer? For yourself? Will you?”

“I will consider what you say,” Imogen answered honestly. And honestly, how could she not? But she could offer no further assurance than that. Not yet. Not until she understood for herself the burden Archer was presently bearing—which she must consequently share.

With her head against the wing of her high backed chair, the old woman rested now, her eyes closed. Imogen remained until the entrance of a servant roused them both.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” the girl said with a curtsey. “Miss Claire and Mr. Barrett have returned with the doctor.”

Puzzled by this announcement, Imogen arose and looked to Mrs. Montegue, whose face bore the slightest trace of a satisfied smile.

Imogen entered the corridor to find Roger and Claire just arriving there. Claire stopped and turned to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrett,” she said. “I’m most grateful to you.”

In answer, he bowed his head and returned to his own room, without even seeing Imogen. Or perhaps ignoring her. She had injured him, she knew. It could not be helped.

The doctor joined Claire then, and she led him to her grandmother’s room, stopping only long enough to exchange a word or two of reassurance with Imogen, who then returned to her own room.

There Imogen sat down with a book, prepared to wait for Archer to return from his interview with Sir Edmund. Without a fire, with a rug over her legs and a warm shawl about her shoulders, she made herself as comfortable as she could. The cold night air, it seemed, had chilled her very nearly to the bone. Or perhaps it was the anxiety of not knowing what was to come, and everyone around her pressing her to do one thing or another to save herself—and perhaps Archer, too—from further infamy. From regret. But there were no easy answers. Whatever they should decide, together or separately, it would require sacrifice. And immense courage. If only she had it. Hope she had. Courage was far harder to come by. One might feed the other, given time and the proper opportunity, but courage… Well, she’d never had much of that.

Or had she?

A chill awoke her from her stupor. It seemed she was sitting just in line of a more than usually strong draught, and so she arose to find the source, going to the windows and checking each one to be sure they were fastened securely. She was just pulling the curtains closed upon the last of these, when suddenly a light burst forth. It was raised and then extinguished, and once more that familiar silhouette and the faint orange glow of a cigar could be seen. With the sight of the flame, a chill passed over her. She was already cold; this was something more.

Why must he pace the yard like that? And why did it frighten her so badly to see him do it? He knew she disliked it. And yet he seemed to make a point of his presence there. Angry, she threw the curtains closed once more. She checked the lock on her outer door. It was fastened. She crossed then to the one that stood between her room and her husband’s. It was a barrier, but for what purpose? What good would locking it do? It would keep him out, but was that truly what she wanted? She was not sure anymore. With the key in hand, she stood before the door, staring at the knob, and the keyhole beneath it. She had just determined to lock it, when the knob turned and the door opened. She started and dropped the key.

“What is it?” Archer demanded, not quite patiently.

She barely noticed. “I thought– But I saw you. Just now.”

“What are you talking about?”

She pointed to the window.

Archer, with a questioning look, crossed the short distance and threw back the curtain.

Half a second of silence, and then: “What the devil is that fellow doing here!”

“Who is it?” she asked but knew the answer already.

Archer returned to his room and reappeared a moment later with his coat. He was angry, and she was frightened.

“Where are you going?”

“To have a word with a gentleman about the impropriety of gazing into a bedroom that is not his own!”

“Archer.”

“I’ll be back,” he said laying his hand on her arm. His eyes snapped to her face, and then his hand raised to touch her cheek.

“Good heaven, why are you so cold?”

Both of his hands were on her now, feeling her face, her shoulders and arms. Her hands and fingers.

“Come,” he said and led her to his own room, where the fire had been blazing for some time. “Will you wait here?” he asked her

She nodded.

“I won’t be long.”

* * *

Imogen sat down by the fire and prepared to wait. And she did wait, for an hour, and then more. As she grew warmer she became increasingly conscious of just how tired she was. She arose and began wandering the room. Much smaller than her own, it was nevertheless comfortable. His great canopy bed did not quite match the lightness of the décor, but then his things had never been meant to stay here. Why had he not moved to that other room? Tonight, at least, she was grateful he hadn’t.

She continued to wander, poking about his books, the artwork that hung on the wall and stacked in odd and various places, waiting, she presumed, to be moved into the other room, whenever that might be.

As she warmed, she felt fatigue wash over her. At last she gave in to the temptation to sit down upon his bed; it seemed the only comfortable spot in the room. She remained there for a moment, uncertain of the wisdom in her choice—she was so very tired. She continued to examine her surroundings, taking in every detail, examining every item that belonged to him. There was so much about him she did not know. Her attention was suddenly arrested by what appeared to be some artwork covered haphazardly by a sheet. She arose from the bed and, drawing the covering aside, discovered the insect collection that had once hung in his book room. They seemed rather sad and harmless now. And sitting here, as they were, covered up and nearly forgotten, she saw them differently, as though they signified a life’s dreams and ambitions smothered, covered up. Forgotten.

Searching through the pile, she found the two that had meant the most to him, and perhaps, if she confessed it, they held some special place for her as well. The Atlas moth she propped up on the table on which she had found it. But the Blue Morpho she carried with her to the bed, where she could turn her attention alternately upon the two, wondering further at their significance and the changeability of the man who had once loved them.