Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER sixty-eight





MOGEN STOOD IN her own room, not quite knowing what to do. Archer wished to speak to her. What to say to him? And what to do while she waited? It was late, and she was tired. But there was no waiting. Not long at any rate. She had not been there above a quarter of an hour when he knocked and entered. And stood, apparently as uncertain as she.

“How is the boy?” he asked her.

“Inexpressibly sad, but resting quietly.”

“You’ll stay with him tonight, I imagine.”

“No. I’ll sleep here.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“I’m so very tired.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. I suppose you would be.” He looked about the room. “You should have a fire,” he said. “I’ll get someone to lay it for you.”

“No,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “No. I don’t need one. You may leave your door open.”

He didn’t answer. Only looked at her.

“I would feel safer.”

“You could–” he said, and glanced in the direction of his room.

“What?” But she had understood him.

“Nothing,” he said. And then: “You leave tomorrow. With Claire.”

“I needn’t. I don’t like to leave Charlie.”

He seemed to consider this, but then, at last… “You’ll go.”

“You will follow?”

“I can’t say when.”

She had nothing to reply. It seemed his answer contained a veiled condition, and she did not yet understand it.

“We’ll start over,” he said next.

“Yes.”

“From beginning to end, it will be different.”

“Beginning?”

“I’ll not deceive you again. You shall have all the facts before you, and you will make your choice freely.”

“You have something to tell me.”

“I do.”

“Will you do it now?”

“What of your secrets, my dear? Are you ready to confess them?”

She didn’t and couldn’t answer.

“I’ve asked too much already, Gina. I’ll not ask more until I’ve earned the right to do it.” And he began to close the door between them.

“Archer?”

He stopped but did not look at her.

Yet she had nothing more to say, or, failing to find the courage, couldn’t.

“You’ll go tomorrow.”

She nodded and the door closed.

This was not the end she had wished for. Yes, she must go. She saw that. There was certainly no point staying if he did not want her here.

She thought to open the door again, but had not the courage. The warmth she desired from his room was as much a desire for the man himself. Such was not to be. Neither of them had, at present, what was required to give. Yet he provided for her as he had suggested he would, and very soon two maids came up to clean her grate and to quickly and deftly lay a fire. His determination to provide for her worldly needs, even if he could not provide for any other, was evidenced in this.

* * *

Archer lay awake in bed. He could not sleep and there was little point in trying. He contemplated the day’s events, and those of the night before—and just what it would take to put all these wrongs to right. Why had he made Imogen endure so much? Why had he refused to believe all she had already known, that even the greatest efforts would never win her the acceptance she sought? Nor him.

His gaze rested at the window, examining the leaded panes. A strange light was reflected there, and he found himself watching it, at first absentmindedly, then with growing interest. He had initially dismissed it as the reflection from the candle or perhaps the fire, but these were insufficient and at wrong angles to provide for such a curious effect. He sat up and considered the source. It seemed to be coming from outside, but when he went to the window he could see nothing but the dance of light from the library below as it was cast upon the lawn that surrounded it. Still, things didn’t seem quite right. Neither did he have an advantageous view of the room below. From Imogen’s window the vantage point would be better. Quickly he arose and dressed, and then entered her room.

His sudden entrance startled her awake, and she sat up in alarm.

“What is it?” she asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “What is the matter?”

He didn’t answer her but went directly to the window and threw open the curtains, and then the window too so he might gain a view undisturbed by the irregularities in the glass.

“What is it!” she asked again, this time rising from the bed and joining him at the window.

He tried to stay her but it was no use.

She gasped, comprehending the matter half a second before he did. She turned and flew from the room and out into the hall, where she stopped to bang and yell at every door that might have an occupant.

He stopped her in her frenzy. “You have to get out, do you hear me?”

“But the others! Charlie! Claire!”

“You leave that to me; I want you out!”

There was so little time, but he would not take the risk of sending her out on her own only to find out later that she had not gone. He walked her down the corridor, calling as he did, trying to wake everyone within hearing. He stopped at Sir Edmund’s rooms, as she moved on to Charlie’s. Sir Edmund was there, and fast asleep. Archer awoke him, then rang the bell, hoping to rouse anyone at all who might be able to get the others up and out of the house. Sir Edmund, cursing, raised himself and threw on his robes, while Archer went to find where Imogen had gone. She was in the hall, holding tightly to Charlie, who was wrapped in a blanket. She herself had not thought to take any wrappings.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Claire said, emerging from her own room and holding her dressing gown closely around her.

“There’s a fire,” Archer said.

A quick intake of breath answered this.

“Will you get a blanket or something for Gina? Anything. And get her out. Charlie too. Go to the summerhouse. And stay there!”

Claire ducked into her room and returned a moment later. She threw a dressing gown around Imogen and took Charlie from her, expecting, or so it seemed, that Imogen would follow her through the east corridor and out through the cloisters. And yet Imogen remained, staring at him as though she were paralysed.

“Go!” he said, angry now, and prepared to walk her out of doors and watch until she had got to safety.

Sir Edmund emerged then from his own room and rushed down the flight of stairs, spitting and flinging expletives as he went.

Archer took Imogen’s arm and led her downstairs. She clung to him, afraid, perhaps, to go without him. How unlike a few hours before when she was so complacent about the idea of leaving.

At the base of the stairs were the bleary-eyed and hastily dressed footmen. He did not like to put her in their hands, but he knew she would not go unless taken. And though he needed the help of every one of them, her safety was paramount. More important to him now than anything else in the world.

He gave his instructions and left her with a regretful look but no words. He did not have them. Not at such a time as this. Sir Edmund had entered the library already, and Archer opened the door to follow, but stopped upon hearing the light, quick footsteps.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded with fear wild in her eyes. “Come with me.”

He ignored her, hard as it was. She was clinging to him now, but he had not the time for this. He motioned for the footman, Roberts, to retrieve her and take her away as he had been bid. He approached, and taking her by the arm, began to lead her off, as she struggled and protested. Making one last great effort, she freed herself, only to trip in the hem of Claire’s too long dressing gown.

Seeing her crumpled on the floor was more than he could take. He knelt and, raising her, held her to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her tousled hair. “For everything. I’m so very sorry. But you must get out of this house. And I have to stay. Do you see? I have to stay and fight.”

She fell silent and still. At last, and with his help, she raised herself.

Her face plainly showing her heartbreak, her fear, her anxiety. But truly there was no other choice.

Mrs. Hartup appeared then. “Let’s get you out of here, dear,” she said gently and taking Imogen by the arm.

“Are the others awake?” he asked the housekeeper.

“Yes, sir. They’re coming. What’s happened?”

“There’s a fire, but I don’t know more than that yet. Take Mrs. Hamilton to the summerhouse and see that she stays there. Claire is there, and Charlie. Go.”

Assured now of her safety, Archer joined Sir Edmund in the library, where he found that the fire was larger and had been burning longer than he had supposed.

The men appeared, and more every minute, with buckets and pails in hand. Water was brought from every available source. From the kitchen, from the pantries, from the pump in the yard. From the fountain in the centre of the drive. Wherever they could get it.

The smoke was thick, and made it difficult to see. Harder still to breathe. Great flashes of light were accompanied by clouds of darkness. All seemed a great conflagration. The books, the bookcases, the desk and cabinets smouldered. The wool rugs were singed, and the pungent odour of burned hair hung all about. But here, at least, the flames crawled slowly and were soon enough dowsed. But the curtains! The flames were climbing these now, and climbing quickly. Archer gathered them and yanked them free, dislodging the fixtures as well, which tumbled down upon him. He tossed these aside and smothered the flames, stomping them and folding the rich velvet fabric in upon itself until they were safely extinguished. He went then to the next window to do the same. Then to the next and the next. At last, the fire conquered, Archer stood, breathing hard and looking around him. At the damage done. At the newly restored and now ruined library. At his uncle, who sat, soot begrimed and coughing for want of air.

“I suppose there’s no need to ask who did this.”

“Wyndham!” Sir Edmund answered, spitting the name out as though it were a fleck of bad tobacco on his tongue.

“But it wasn’t just revenge. He was looking for something. What? And did he find it?”

Sir Edmund slammed shut the drawer he had been looking through, and which he had looked through twice already. “He found it. But it’ll do him no good.”

“What? What is it?”

“Proof.”

“Of?”

“That he’s my son.”

“But he found that already. The letter from—”

“No.” Sir Edmund shook his head and coughed again, clutching at his chest.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Archer approached the desk, crossing the sodden and soot stained carpet.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Archer turned to see Roberts.

“No, Roberts,” Sir Edmund said.

The footman turned to go.

“On second thought...”

He returned again. “Yes, sir?”

“If you would be so good as to fetch the doctor. Not the chap who was here before. The other one. The usual fellow. You know.”

“Yes, sir,” and he bowed and left.

“What is wrong with Hendricks? He’s a far better physician than Davis.”

“I need to speak with him anyway. And Hendricks, for all I know, may refuse to attend me.”

“Why? You are not truly ill, are you? It’s just the smoke.”

“Yes, yes,” and he waved the question away. “Hendricks though. He blames me. Or will.”

“For?”

Sir Edmund looked at him pointedly and coughed. Harder this time.

“Bess’s death? But why should that be?”

“She was ill, you know?”

“Yes.”

“I paid the doctor to see her.”

“I’m glad of it, but I still don’t understand.”

“I paid him to give her the laudanum. As much as she wanted.”

Archer sat down, hard, onto the nearest chair. It was wet, but he only took a passing notice.

“Are you saying you killed Bess Mason?”

“No. It was an accident. I kept her medicated, comfortable and quiet. That is all.”

“On an opiate? An addictive and dangerous opiate? Davis did this for you?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! You are a monster, aren’t you?”

“I’m many things, Archer.” He looked, for once, as though he actually regretted it. Sad, stupid old man!

“Wyndham,” Sir Edmund said now. “We were speaking of Wyndham. He would have found the letters and bills. He already blames me, but this is more. And he would have found the letter, the one I answered to the lawyer. Telling him I mean to formally recognise you as my legitimate son.”

The blood was suddenly pounding in Archer’s ears. “Legally, you mean. Not…”

“You should be glad of it, you know. I thought you’d be happy.” His cough this time nearly felled him from his chair.

“That you denied me my name, the right to be respected…? Why would I be happy? You may have married my mother, that doesn’t make me your son. Not really.”

“I had hoped you were Magnus’ child. I told myself it was so. You weren’t. Aren’t. I’ve always known it. I married her, yes. I married her because it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to deny a child his birthplace? You married out of obligation, then? You did not wish to do it.”

“Yes, I wanted to! Of course I wanted to or I never would have done it! But I wanted her, you see, and she…” He shook his head again, and coughed.

“Perhaps we should go outside, where the air is—”

“No!” It took a moment for him to recover from his coughing this time. At last he did and went on. “I had met her, had tried to make her mine by whatever designs I could, but she was reluctant. And then she met Magnus. It was over for me then. Oh, she was a tease! And Magnus bought it. He bought it utterly. But then, you see, he would, for he wanted her too. He offered to marry her. She accepted him. But she was destined for better things, her family protested, than the son, heir or not, of an embarrassed baronet. They had nothing for themselves, but they would not budge. She was equally determined, and so, defying her family, she came to live here. Then Magnus died and she was left alone. Only not quite alone.”

Sir Edmund fell silent. Archer waited, an ominous air pulsing through the atmosphere around him. “Go on,” he said at last.

“I thought I’d been given a second chance, you see? Only it was too soon. She was not ready. But I’ve never been a patient man.”

“What do you mean to say?”

“I thought there was only one way to secure her to me. I did offer to her. She would not have me. That left only one choice.”

“To wait! To wait and see if you might earn her regard in time, when she was fit once more to bestow her own.”

“As I said. I have never been a patient man.”

“Don’t say it. You cannot mean to say you—”

“I presumed. It was not the best decision I have ever made.”

Archer was too livid, too disgusted to answer.

“She avoided me, sought refuge in my father’s company. He was dying you see, and she remained to nurse him. And because she had nowhere else to go.”

“A consideration you took advantage of!”

“I said I was not proud of my decision!”

“You did not say you regret.”

“I do, for what it’s worth! Of course I do. Why else would I have–”

“What?”

He shook his head in answer to Archer’s question and went on with his narrative. “She avoided me, as I said. Until she realised her condition was a dire one. She told me. In tears and bitter regret, she told me. I offered to her once more, and she agreed.”

“That did not make up for the wrong you did her.”

“Don’t you think I know it! I learned it at any rate! We married, but she would not have me again. Not anywhere near her. I thought to force her once more, to establish my right over her, but…I couldn’t.”

“So you have some scruples after all!”

They were silent for a moment. At least they did not speak, but Sir Edmund continued to cough, fighting still for air.

“So you rejected me because she rejected you, is that it?” Archer asked eventually, when Sir Edmund had somewhat recovered.

“I could not bear the guilt. I could not bear to look at you. You were so much like her. You are…so very much like her.” His voice was ragged and weak as he finished. His confession had cost him dearly, it seemed.

“Why, then? Why was it so important that I force myself upon Gina? And you were right to say I wanted her, do want her, have always wanted her. But I want her heart with it. I cannot give her further reason than I have done already to despise me.”

“No. I see that. Only–

“Only what?”

“There were complications.”

“Yes.”

“Wyndham’s conniving, and the fact that I have never confessed the truth of your history.” He glanced up, the slightest hint of regret on his face, only it was not enough to placate Archer in the least. Sir Edmund went on. “And I knew if your marriage was not consummated, then it might be contested by your menacing grasper of a brother. Or dissolved by her, should she find us not to her liking. The difference in a name was never meant to be fraud. If she sued for separation, or worse ... an annulment... What would I do then? I could not risk the scandal. I could not risk the loss of the money. Nor can you for all your high ideals.”

“Yes, fine! But still. An heir. Always pressing for an heir.”

“It would make an annulment impossible and a separation at least improbable. However she may feel about you, or me for that matter, she would never leave her child.”

“You are truly unbelievable! So that’s why you have treated her with such resentment. You would have her despise me as my mother despised you.”

This seemed to hit harder than Archer had expected.

“I suppose I thought that if you asserted your rights, and she wanted you all the same, then it would prove that Ethne’s failure to love me was her fault as much as mine.”

“Her fault? Hers?”

Sir Edmund offered no answer.

In the silence, Archer rested his head in his hand and rubbed at his aching forehead.

“There was Drake Everard to consider as well, you know,” Sir Edmund said at last.

“What has Drake Everard to do with any of this?”

“All that money gone, wasted, the debts, the interest always accruing and compounding. It was mine, the money. He’d gotten rich off me and a hundred others like me. And I saw a chance to get it back.”

“It always comes back to money, doesn’t it?” Archer said. “That blasted money! I almost wish she’d been the pauper we always believed her. But then I suppose you knew from the beginning.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“And they proved true, to your good fortune.”

“And yours, my son, don’t forget. That you wanted her was no small consolation.”

“Your son.” Archer scoffed at the phrase “So you are my father. By blood and by law. And you are now prepared to confess it. As the house of cards comes falling down and you have no other choice? This is what you are trying to tell me?”

“You must have had some idea. It cannot come as a complete surprise.”

“You raised me as your illegitimate nephew!”

“I am not proud of what I’ve done. Do you think this gives me pleasure? I might have, through you, done more to amend for my wrongs, but you remind me so much of her. I’ve always told myself that had she lived I would have been able to prove myself. But it’s a lie. Magnus’ death destroyed her, and I finished her off.” He choked and coughed and leaned heavily into one corner of his chair, a shell of the man he was an hour ago.

Archer stood and paced the room. “And Imogen?” he asked at last.

“What of her?”

“Last night. What were your intentions? Had you not been interrupted, what villainy would you have committed?”

Silence for a moment. Then: “I was drunk.”

“That does not answer the question!”

“I don’t know. I was not thinking.”

“Did you mean to strike her? To harm her? You cannot have meant to force yourself upon her! My wife!”

“Of course not!”

“All the leering looks and impertinent remarks that I have ignored, turned a blind eye to, in the name of keeping peace! I should have left you to rot alone long ago. I should never have subjected her to this. Had something happened to her! And now I understand that besides your cruelty, she’s had the threat of Wyndham’s insolence to contend with! Heaven above! Am I not as guilty as you?”

“You have not lost her yet.”

“No,” he said more calmly. “No. Not yet. But I’m a long way from winning her. And I’m not sure, knowing what I now know, that I ever can. Who would want this?” he finished with a gesture that took in all the ruin around him.

Sir Edmund, once recovered enough to stand, arose from his chair and crossed to his safe. From it he withdrew a stack of papers, a leather folio and a box. He opened the box and placed it on the desk before Archer.

“Take it,” he said. “It is yours, after all.”

Money. And a great deal of it. “I don’t want it.”

“What do you propose to do without it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. She never wanted it, went to great pains to escape it. And now I see why, and what it can do. No.”

Sir Edmund shrugged and replaced the money, then closed and locked the safe. He returned to his desk, took up a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper. He handed it to Archer. It was a series of numbers. A combination.

“In case you change your mind,” he said. He then opened the folio and withdrew a piece of paper. This, too, he handed to Archer.

“What is this?”

“The missing pages. All the documents necessary to prove that you were born to Ethne and myself, that your name is Barry. And that you were married. To Imogen Everard with honest intent. You signed your name as you have always known it. In case it helps.”

Then, and lastly, Sir Edmund took up a packet tied with a ribbon and handed it to Archer.

“Letters?”

“Yes.”

“Not to you.”

“To Magnus.”

Archer examined Sir Edmund suspiciously.

“Even after he died she wrote to him. She refused to believe he was really gone. And then, in the last days of her illness, she continued her writing. I never read them. You wish to know her. It is the best way I can think of.”

Archer nodded his gratitude and took these up.

“I wish I were a loving man, my son. I wish I could tell you how much I regret, that I could change what has been, that I might give you what you really wanted from me.”

So that was it? That was all he was to get by way of apology? By way of any admission of affection or respect?

“All I want, sir,” Archer dared to say, and only barely choked out, “is a proper sense of who I am. And the freedom to pursue my own happiness.”

Nothing. No answer. Not even an attempt to reply. Sir Edmund dropped once more into his chair, coughing and tired. Archer hated to leave him, but he could not bear to remain any longer with this lecherous, deceitful, murderous man who now, twenty-five years later, called himself his father.

He turned and left the room, nearly running into the footman on his way out. “The doctor has come, sir,” he said.

“Good. Very good.” Now he could leave him without a shred of guilt or misgiving. “Will you tell my wife, and the others, that it is safe to return to the house? And if Mrs. Hamilton is willing, I’d like the opportunity of speaking with her.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said and left.