Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER sixty-five





MOGEN, CAUGHT IN the chatter and babble all about her, could do little more than accept Archer’s appreciative look. She wanted to be with him, to join him for a quiet half hour’s walk. By the time she was able to free herself, however, she had lost sight of him. Standing in the middle of the moonlit lawn, she looked about her. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Brava, my dear Imogen!”

She turned to find that Claire had followed her.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said and embraced Imogen warmly.

Imogen smiled in gratitude and returned her gaze to the gardens beyond.

“You are abandoning your guests,” Claire said, recalling her.

“I need just a moment to catch my breath. I’m not possessed of your indefatigable energy, I’m afraid.”

“No. Of course. Shall we walk?”

“Yes.”

And so they did, though little was said between them. Imogen needed a moment to collect her thoughts, and Claire seemed prepared to allow her that. Yet there was something Imogen wished to know of her friend. In light of yesterday’s conversation with Mrs. Montegue, in light of the decision she had come to that tonight must be the night—to tell him all, to give herself completely—she required one thing more.

“Claire, I want to ask you something.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’m afraid it’s rather personal.”

Claire glanced at her furtively, perhaps nervously.

“When I told you of my degradation, of my–”

“Yes,” she said, interrupting her.

“When I told you, you said that you understood. I believe you do. You said you would one day tell me. Will you do it now?”

Claire glanced at her, but did not answer.

“Please, Claire. I know you would much rather forget it, but I want to know.”

A long silence followed, but Imogen was prepared to wait. At last her patience was rewarded.

“I have a brother,” Claire began. “Did you know?”

“No.”

She sighed heavily and went on. “We are estranged. He is–” And she shook her head. “I’ve not heard from him these past five years.”

Another pause before Claire went on, more earnestly now.

“My brother, was—I imagine still is, for they never change once they have gone wrong, I think—of an infamous character, and he had friends equally deplorable. One of these fancied himself in love with me. He called at the house very often, and our acquaintance improved. But when he learned of my affections for another, he became jealous. He offered to me. I refused him. But my refusals, it seemed, only drove him on. He presumed upon me in every conceivable manner, at every opportunity…until…”

“Until?”

“Well… Until he took it upon himself to take from me that which I would not willingly give him.”

Though Imogen half expected this conclusion, it was still shocking to hear. “And the other? He would not have you?”

“I never gave him the chance. For the same reasons as you, I feared to give him the opportunity to reject me and to despise me. At the time I considered myself unworthy of him. Now I see that I should have given him, and myself, the benefit of the doubt.”

“Would you give it to another?”

Claire stopped and turned back toward the house. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps someday.” The slightest flame of hope sparked in her countenance. And then extinguished as she averted her gaze from the house and toward the gardens, flushed and not quite herself.

Imogen was puzzled. It did not last long.

“My dearest, Imogen,” Roger said and stopped to kiss her on the cheek before turning to Claire. “Miss. Montegue. Won’t you come back in? The dancing is about to begin. I know you’ll be very much missed if you remain any longer.” This last he said, and rather pointedly, to Imogen alone.

“Yes, do go in,” Claire urged her.

“Will you not return as well, Miss Montegue?”

“I think I’ve had enough of your manhandling, Mr. Barrett, to last me quite some time.”

He laughed. “You were under the impression I meant to ask you to dance?”

She looked away, embarrassed, and Roger gave her a long moment to contemplate her presumptuousness.

“If dancing is too much for you,” he said eventually, “then perhaps you’ll walk with me instead?”

She turned to him, not quite as humbled as perhaps he had hoped.

“Very well, Mr. Barrett. If you think you can behave yourself.”

“I can only promise to try.”

Imogen returned to the house, both eager and trepidatious for what must come next. She had nearly reached the protection of the music room when she heard, or thought she heard, a voice call out. Like a child’s. Familiar and pleading. She looked about her, but she was quite alone. Well…nearly alone. Archer was standing just within the music room doorway.

“Will you come in?” he said, and held out his hand to her.

She hesitated, looking about her still for the voice she was not quite certain she had heard.

“I’ll carry you if I must, but you will dance with me.”

Recalling herself, she laughed and took his arm. “Roger had to do, so I suppose it seems right that you should.”

“Barrett?” He looked puzzled, though, to her relief, not angry.

“He taught me, you know. While you were gone.”

“You didn’t know how?”

“No.”

“How is it possible?”

There was no time to answer. At least it seemed unimportant as they reached the centre of the floor, where their guests parted the way to look on, and to wait for their turn to join in.

The music began. Brahms, of course. Such beautiful music. Such a beautiful room. Claire had gone all out. The servants, too. The candles in the chandelier winked and threw sparkling light upon the cherub bestrewn ceiling. Little archers everywhere. She blushed at the thought.

“Are you all right?” Archer asked, placing his hand, warm and gentle, on her back.

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You look a trifle flustered.”

“Well, that’s because I am.”

“Have I told you how beautiful you look? And your song, Imogen… I did not know you could sing. Not like that. I had no idea.”

She felt that spark of flirtatiousness rise up. Only now there was no shame in it. It was right and good. “I thought perhaps you disapproved,” she said. “You left so soon after it.”

“After you, there was nothing worth seeing or hearing.”

“Archer,” she said. “If you keep this up, I’ll be persuaded to believe you.”

He laughed and held her a bit closer. “I wish you would,” he said. “I truly wish you would.”

He held her closer yet as they danced. In his arms, just now, she felt so safe. She felt as though she belonged, and she rejoiced in the exhilaration she felt. If only it could always be this way. If there were no uncles to navigate, nor leering and licentious cousins to avoid… If there was not his past to fear. Nor hers to reveal. No mysteries to uncover, no secrets to tell, she imagined she might indeed find herself truly happy. It might yet be so. Tonight, the obstacles before them seemed not so insurmountable. She felt the prick of happy tears.

“You are a puzzling creature, aren’t you?”

She dared a glance at him.

“You are one minute frightened nearly to tears, the next minute conquering them as though they were nothing. Now tears again. Would you mind telling me what these are for?”

She meant to answer him, if she could only find the words. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, a flash of sudden and hurried movement caught her eye. She craned her neck, this way and that as they turned with the music, trying to see over, or through, or around the crowd, into the courtyard beyond.

“What is it?”

She did not answer, did not even hear the question.

“Gina, what is it? Will you tell me?”

“I saw something. Or thought I did. Wyndham would not come? Would he?”

“He had best not if he has any sense of what is good for him. But then sense is asking a bit much from him, I think.”

There was movement again. A shock of unruly grey-white hair. Sir Edmund. He was looking for something, it seemed, just beyond the conservatory doors. Something or someone. Was Wyndham here? Please no. She could not face Wyndham’s insolence. Not here. Not now with a crowd to watch. Not when the evening had so far gone so well.

“Is something the matter?” Archer tried again.

She heard once more the cry. A child’s cry as Sir Edmund reached and grabbed for something. He caught it, it seemed, and now struggled to hold on.

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

Still she ignored him. Her efforts were at last rewarded as the crowd parted just enough to allow a clear view to the outdoors. There, just within the conservatory garden, Sir Edmund stood, and clutched within his arms was not a man, not Wyndham, but a child.

“Charlie,” she whispered, more to herself than in answer of Archer’s question. She attempted to break from him.

He did not wish to let her go, but she was insistent. And unprepared to struggle with her in the midst of a crowd of curious onlookers, he released her and watched as she fled the room. Leaving him to bear his humiliation as the guests looked to him for the answers he could not give. Politely he made his excuses, and hers. And followed in pursuit.