Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER sixty-nine





RCHER SAT IN his room, facing the doorway that led to the room beyond. Hers. He needed to see her, to speak to her. But what to say? How much could he tell her, now, as she was preparing to leave him? How much dared he hold back? To form the words, though… It was beyond his ability to imagine. Before he was quite ready, the door opened and there she stood. He looked at her, saw the anxiety in her eyes and looked away, unwilling to accept that he deserved such sympathy from her. Not now, if ever.

She entered and stood just before him. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“And the fire?”

“Deliberate.” He glanced to see her reaction. There was none.

“Wyndham.”

He should not have been surprised by her answer. “Yes.”

She knelt beside him. “What next? Who next?”

“Shhh,” he said, his brow lowered and still avoiding her gaze. “You’re safe. Or will be soon enough.”

“I believe you.” And as if to offer some evidence, she laid her hand on his arm.

He released a self-deprecating exhale of laughter but said nothing more.

“You are hurt.”

“No,” he said again.

“Yes, you are. Look!”

He did look, and found that his shirt had been torn and the exposed skin of the shoulder beneath had been burned. Having now realised his injury, he began to feel it as well.

Imogen immediately fetched the wash bowl and the water, and then a few rags, and having wetted one, and holding it, hesitated.

He looked up at her. She appeared anxious still, and yet a trifle abashed.

“I’m afraid I’ll need you to–”

“What?”

With a gesture, she indicated his shirt.

“Ah, yes,” he said, and began to unbutton it. Only his hands trembled and he could not quite manage it.

“Let me,” she said.

With uncertain fingers, she freed the buttons. He removed one arm and then attempted to do the same for the other, but the fabric stuck to the recently formed and lacerated blisters.

“One moment,” she said, and turned back to her room.

To return a minute later with scissors. And with a steadying hand at the base of his neck, she endeavoured to cut away the shirt. Quickly and carefully she worked, while he focused his attention on the cool hands that touched his fevered skin.

“It is very bad, I’m afraid,” she said now that the greater part of his shirt had been removed.

“You needn’t do it if you don’t want to. The doctor’s come, after all.”

“No,” she said, and went on with her work, placing the wet rag that she might persuade the wound to give up the last remnants of his ruined shirt.

While she worked he returned to his thoughts. Inescapable now, they sucked him under, interrupted only when some sharp jab of pain recalled him. The touch of her hands on his skin soothed him once more, and reminded him that his battle had only begun. What more must he endure? He considered this for a time, while she finished her work, cleaning and then dressing the wound. And he remained considering until he was recalled by her voice.

“Is Sir Edmund all right?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he answered, taking no pains to disguise his bitterness. “If he needs anything he knows how to get it.”

Her reply was offered softly, regretfully. “Very well.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking the hand that rested on his shoulder and drawing her around to face him. “He was not injured. He inhaled a great deal of smoke, though, and suffers in consequence. The doctor has come, as I said. He’s in good hands.”

Tentatively, she reached to him and laid her fingers on the bandages just placed there. She smoothed them, straightening and checking her work. He observed her trembling hands, the anxiety in her eyes, higher now than half an hour ago.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

Her smile was sweet, but it was clear she was only just holding together.

“I should be asking you the question,” she said.

“You have already. And I’ve answered it as best I can at present. It’s your turn.”

She didn’t answer him, and recalling how distraught she had been to have him enter into the flame engulfed library, he realised how his shocked and troubled silence had only magnified her concerns. He reached out to her, to comfort her. To comfort himself as well. To assure himself of the reality of her presence, now, when she should be fleeing him and this confounded prison of a house.

Not quite in full possession of himself, his fingers touched the silken material of her gown, Claire’s gown. No. He wanted her. He loosened the tie of the robe and it fell open. Beneath she wore only a chemise, low at the neck and cut well above the ankle. She did not shy from him as he raised his hands, both now, to spread the robe wider, to feel the warm softness of the woman beneath. As the folds of her linen chemise gave way to his touch, he felt his anger and bitterness melt away. And he ached. He stood, drawing her toward him. He thought to kiss her, really kiss her, and in her forget his pain and anguish, his rage and confusion, to find his home, his sanctuary from the world. To find her. How much would she allow? How much did he dare ask of her now? He searched her gaze, and finding there an uncertainty only, an anxiety but no objection, he drew her closer to him and pressed his lips to hers, infusing into himself just a bit of that soul’s courage she seemed so willing to bestow. And he needed it, needed her like it was life or death. He explored her unrestrained body, the curves and contours. He could feel her heart pounding, her chest rising and falling. Her breath caught suddenly as his hand grazed her breast. She stiffened. She did not pull away, but she was right. Now was not the time for this.

Recalled now to the reality that was a nightmare, to all the secrets and lies and misdeeds he could not bring himself to speak of, and of those she had yet to confide, he stopped. And held her from him.

“You should go.”

“I—”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes rested at her slippered feet, at her bared ankles. He dared not raise them higher.

“Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

His heart broke. How could she ask such a question? Harder still, how was he to answer it? “No,” he said, nearly whispered. “Never.”

“Then why?”

“I’ve wronged you. I wrong you more by asking this of you now.”

Her look, still stoic, yet betrayed some tremor beneath, as though her equanimity were only on the surface, just ready to give way.

“You’ll go tomorrow,” he managed to say. “As planned.”

A tear spilled and he turned away from her to hide his own. He held it in and did not release the great heaving and shuddering sobs until he heard the door close and latch between them.