Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seven





HE SUN'S RAYS, shining tentatively through the grime of her bedroom window, woke Imogen early. Sunday allowed her a half day off. With this one opportunity to be out of doors and on her own, she dared not waste a minute of it. Acutely grateful for the position God had granted her, she decided church was the place for her this morning. If only she had taken some time the night before to unstitch the trimming from her best dress. She hadn’t, and it was too late to think of such things now. It was all she had, after all, and it would have to do.

The distance between the church and the Abbey was no great one, a mile perhaps, and the road that lay between them provided an easy if circuitous route. She avoided this. As it was still early, and not wishing to be among the first of the congregation, she took her time. The meadow, as she traversed it, was sprigged with autumn wildflowers, and the clouds, as they scudded across the sky, cast great shadows on the waving grass. Amidst so picturesque a landscape, open meadow all around, her heart cheered. Though the work she had engaged upon was far harder than she had expected, she felt invigorated by it. It was not quite possible to shrug off all her sorrows and anxieties, but in her labours they were greatly diminished. Perhaps she might one day cast them off entirely.

The breeze, which had so far been a gentle one, suddenly grew more determined, rippling the grass and tossing the flower heads until it seemed the stalks must break. Was this Boreas, the meddlesome god of the North wind, come to mock her in her resolve? She laughed at him in spite. Still, she was not impervious. The mantle she wore was a light one, and though sufficient to keep her warm, it would not protect her should the clouds make good on their threat of rain. She drew it tighter and continued on.

Others could be seen now approaching the church. Though she had waited long enough to ensure that she would be among the last to arrive, still the novelty of her presence aroused a certain amount of attention. Quietly, she looked around for a solitary seat quite out of the way, and found one just as the parson arose to read the first scripture.

It had been some time since she’d been to church, having gone on occasion with one or another of her aunts. She had not paid much attention then. But now she listened to the words, understood them in a way she had never before been prepared to do.

Almighty and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.

It was quite true, for it was her vanity which had led her down the path to destruction. Those of her uncle’s patrons who had come to the house had certainly seen in her an attractive young woman. She had made sure it was so. And, as she had encouraged Roger, she had encouraged others, to pay her what compliments they might. If she had only known to what it would lead. If she could only have known how she would come to despise herself.

Restore thou them that are penitent; According to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesu our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life.

This was precisely what she had determined to do. She had lowered herself to a station more befitting her worth, and there she would remain, working away for her own redemption. Whatever it took. However long it took. Here she was content to remain so long as God would preserve her.

The hymn now. It was then, as the congregation arose that she began to truly reconsider her decision to come this morning. New and alone, she was a novelty impossible to ignore. They watched her as they sang, their faces turned towards her. Children’s faces, quite innocent but provoking in their unbridled curiosity. Gentlemen’s faces, some kind, some leering—or so she imagined. And the women, their eyes narrowed, examining her face, comparing her manner of dress to theirs and mentally weighing—and perhaps with some difficulty—in what manner they should regard her. Or if they should regard her at all. She felt the weight of their oppressive scrutiny. And shrunk from it.

As the hymn ended, she turned to look toward the door, to evaluate the possibility of an early escape. It was just possible, if… But the door was suddenly blocked from her view. As if from nowhere, a well-dressed gentleman appeared quite unexpectedly at her side.

She sat down.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward her pew.

Uncertain what to say, she nodded.

There yet being ample room on the bench, there was little need for him to sit so close to her as he did. She made more room.

“You’re sure it’s not an imposition?” he consequently asked.

“Yes, of course,” she answered, meeting his gaze for an instant before turning back to the parson.

It seemed she had no choice now but to stay, and so determined to listen to the sermon, shutting all other distractions out. The gentleman’s apparent preoccupation with her, however, proved an insurmountable obstacle.

“He’s new.” He said it almost as if it were a question.

In return, she offered the simplest answer she could think of. “Oh?” And only considered afterward that he might take it as encouragement to continue the conversation.

“That is, I believe so. It’s been some time since I was last here.”

She acknowledged his statement by a glance only, not intending to encourage him further but neither wishing to be rude. She no longer felt quite so awkward as she had a moment ago. The heads that turned in her direction now did so in consideration of her companion as well. He returned these gestures with a polite nod and an expression that bespoke both kindness and dignity, and too, something of a challenging air, as though he meant to defend her from the judgments they had moments ago been prepared to cast upon her.

When their privacy had been somewhat restored, he turned to her again. “The congregation has grown as well, though it’s perhaps a bit of a lopsided one.”

She gave him a puzzled look, and he answered her unspoken question as though he’d intended to induce it. Likely he had.

“There are considerably more young ladies in attendance this morning than I remember there ever having been when old Parson Bailey had the living.” His gaze swept around to present his proof and then landed on the parson as the cause.

She laughed and then blushed at the irreverence of his statement, and of her own reaction, but she was quick to recover and quicker still to observe that they were not the only ones distracted in conversation. In fact, a significant amount of tittering could be heard in the adjacent rows, providing further proof of the accuracy of his statement.

“It’s not his oratorical expertise that has brought them, surely.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered, indicating that she had not come for the purpose he had suggested, and, at the same time, pointing out that she was hardly being allowed the opportunity to decide if his supposed powers had any merit.

“Forgive me,” he said, and squared himself in his seat. He remained silent for many minutes before he cleared his throat to speak again. “You are a stranger here.”

“Yes.”

“You have come to visit family, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

She shook her head.

“Then what, may I venture to ask, has brought you here?”

He seemed truly curious to know. And he was charming. Too charming. She felt a surge of that old vanity rise up as if to challenge her newly formed resolve. She answered him as honestly as she knew how. Yet, and almost as though it were beyond her control, that lilt of former flirtatiousness carried in her voice and wove itself within her simply chosen words.

“I’ve come, sir, to hear a sermon. Is that not what has brought you?”

His mouth drew into a crooked smile. “I’m not sure I know.”

“I believe you don’t,” she said, and desirous that he would not see the obvious proofs of the pleasure she took in this repartee, she turned her attention to the parson once more. Yet she could feel the enduring weight of his gaze, and, as it lingered, she grew increasingly conscious of her own folly. How wicked she was to encourage him! It seemed vanity was still alive and well in her, and she was ashamed. Straightening, she determined to pay more astute attention to the words she had come expressly to hear. She had come, after all, to receive some much needed spiritual uplifting, not to fraternise with the townspeople, or worse, to make fun of the new parson. He was very young and nice looking, the parson was, but that was hardly anything to laugh at. The gentleman beside her was handsome too, in his own elegantly roguish sort of way, his brown hair curling at the ends as if to suggest that beneath the refinement, there was something a little wild, after all. Yes, he was handsome. There was little point denying it. But neither was there any point in carrying on this futile banter. He was far above her. Impossibly far. Yet, even in his silence, she found his presence strangely comforting and disquieting all at once. And it was in the way he turned his grey-blue eyes upon her that both these qualities were displayed to their greatest effect. If he would only stop staring at her!

He was equally determined, it seemed, to persist in his aim, whatever it was. He sat quietly, very still and self-possessed as the quality are bred to do, and do without thinking, while it took everything in her to keep from fidgeting with the frogs on her cloak, or with the buttons on her gloves. He turned toward her again. She dared a glance, and the warning look she had intended to offer melted into a hesitant smile in the warmth of his enduring attentiveness. She felt the heat rise in her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sermon came to an abrupt end, and the congregation was invited, once more, to sing.

One hymn book existed between them, and he quickly took it up, holding it before her and standing as close as propriety would allow. She found she had to turn toward him slightly to keep her arm from brushing against his. In such a posture, it was quite convenient for him to watch her instead of the hymnal, making his occupation apparent when he faltered and fumbled the words.

She ought to feel ashamed. She knew it quite plainly. Yet she found herself thrilling at the compliment he paid her in his pointed attentions.

The hymn ending, they resumed their seats as the second sermon began. Though she tried, she could not hear the parson’s words. She could only think of the gentleman beside her as she wondered when and if he would speak to her again—and, against intention, hoping he would. But this was wrong. Very wrong. She tried harder still to listen. She heard the words Vanity and Pride. And these, in the wake of her selfish and ill-conceived wishes, rang as a death knell, a warning of the dangers she was once more welcoming with arms open wide.

She had forgotten herself. Wearing the costume familiar to her in her former life, she had too easily resumed former ways. She was misleading him and quite openly defying the proper rules of caste. Yet she could not deny the satisfaction of being admired for what she might have been had fate not stepped in to deny her her proper place. His manner toward her was respectful. But the moment he learned the true nature of her circumstances that would end and he would despise her as the charlatan she was.

He bent towards her to speak again. Feeling now the awkwardness of her predicament, the weight of her self-castigation, she closed her eyes against him and folded her hands in prayer, where she remained until the sermon had ended and all were invited to kneel.

* * *

Archer Hamilton, completely baffled by the woman’s sudden change of manner, knelt but did not pray. Instead he watched her in fascination. In fact he’d been watching her for over an hour now, though she could not have known it. He had just left the house this morning on his way back to Cambridge, when he’d caught a glimpse of a young woman meandering through the meadow that lay just beyond the Abbey. The wind whipped her wrappings and her hair as she walked, and as she occasionally stopped to take in the view, or to examine the flowers that grew wild. It was, he was not ashamed to say it, a rather romantic picture. He was intrigued. A woman, an attractive woman at that, and a stranger… These were rare sights, to be sure, in Manchelsea.

Curiosity persuaded him to follow her, and when her destination became apparent, he tied his horse and entered the chapel, at a safe distance, and keeping to the shadows. From a remote corner he watched her, and observed, in time, a sort of metamorphosis take place. Others had begun to watch her too and, as she grew aware of it, her confidence waned, her manner became more agitated, less sure. She had grown pale, had begun to look about her as though she wished only to take flight.

It was then he had stepped forward. No one would dare assault her in look or word if he were by her side. And he was happy to place himself there, even if his desires were not entirely altruistic. She had seemed grateful for it, comforted. He was encouraged. With some added effort, he had managed to draw her out just a little from that chrysalis of self-awareness. But now, with her hands folded before her, her eyes tightly closed so that her lashes rested against the fair skin of her cheek, she seemed to be folding herself back into that safe, dark place. And he regretted it.

Many of those who had followed the parson’s invitation to pray were looking up now, peeking over their folded hands, commenting surreptitiously to their neighbours on various aspects of his agreeable person. Still others took up once more their former curiosity and turned to examine the stranger, and perhaps wondered at the connection between herself and the gentleman beside her. Let them presume what they might. He did not care.

The irritation Archer felt for the insincerity and hypocrisy he saw all about him was halted as he returned his gaze to her, consumed in her devotions. He looked at her lovely face, the tip of her nose just touching her forefinger as she held her hands in prayer. She was terribly pretty. Distractingly pretty. Any moment she would raise her head, and he would try once more to draw her out. One more smile was all he needed. Such would last him the week, would buoy him through his last exams at University. And perhaps, with any luck, she would still be here upon his return. And then…?

He began to search for some witticism he might offer, some humorous and charming quip to bring the spark back to her eyes and colour to her face. Having seized upon just the thing, he smiled, satisfied with his own cleverness. He turned to her in anticipation and was suddenly brought up short. All light-heartedness, irreverent now it seemed, was struck dead by the sight of a tear slipping down her cheek, rolling along the soft lines of her finely gloved fingers as they now covered the greater part of her face. What he had needed from her, indeed! As usual he had thought of nothing but his own desires. And as if that tear had been meant expressly to awaken his conscience, he arose. Cut to the quick by the sight of so much unexpected sincerity, by the sight of a beautiful woman sorely grieved, and by the guilt of his own persistent cynicism, he found he could remain no longer. He was gone before “Amen.”





He placed himself beside the churchyard gate.