Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventy





MOGEN HAD RETURNED to her room unprepared for sleep. Her shame and confusion were indescribable. Her anxieties unbearable. She sat herself down upon her bed, the tears streaming and the blood rushing. In her wish to offer comfort, she had been prepared to let down every wall. And, if only for a moment, she had done it. All this time she had been waiting for her fears to subside. What she had not expected was that an overwhelming desire would overcome them. But it seemed, after all, he did not want her.

She looked at the trunks laying around her bed, indistinct shapes in the darkness, mouths gaping wide. The thought of leaving him now, with such burdens to bear as were presently his, whatever they were, it seemed impossible. Yet he wished for her to go. And so, go she must.

* * *

It was very late when Imogen arose the next morning. And quiet. Hastily she dressed and left her room, checking first on Charlie. He had gone out, she was told, for a long walk with Miss Montegue. She went next to Sir Edmund’s rooms. The doctor was there still, had sat up with him through the night. He assured her that the man had sustained only the most minor of injuries, yet his coughing caused the doctor the greatest concern. A draught had been prescribed, and regularly administered. Still, Sir Edmund’s coughing persisted. He did not sleep, only lay there, his head turned toward one blank wall, unwilling to speak, hardly answering when spoken to. A brief glimpse of his profile revealed a man two decades older, careworn and spent. It was as if a shadow rested upon his countenance, darkening his eyes and casting an unhealthy pallor over his skin. But there was nothing she could do here. He wanted no one and would only allow Mr. Davis and the faithful Mrs. Hartup to attend him.

Imogen went downstairs to the library, where several men were busy removing the soiled and damaged rugs, curtains, and sundry items of furniture so they might be cleaned, aired and repaired. Or discarded, as circumstances required. Every window and door in the room was opened wide. The smoke had mostly dissipated, though a smell of charred wood and wet ashes remained. Archer was sitting at his Sir Edmund’s desk, carefully studying a stack of letters. His head he rested on one hand as his fingers rubbed at his temple.

“Did you sleep?” she asked him.

He started and looked up, only then realising her presence. “Yes,” he answered. “A little.”

“How is your shoulder? Do you need the bandages changed?”

“Mrs. Hartup has already seen to it,” he answered and returned his attention to the letters before him.

She was a little disappointed for this. “You have seen Sir Edmund this morning, then?”

“Yes,” he said, through a jaw firmly set.

She entered the room and shut the door as the last of the men left them. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“I’ve told you already.”

“Yes, you told me there was a fire, that it was deliberately set. But there is something more you have not told me. I want to know what it is.”

“You have packing to do, I believe.”

“You insist I go?”

“It’s for the best.”

“Have you learned to despise me so much?”

His brow lowered. “I’m trying to protect you, that’s all.”

He did not look at her, simply stared at the papers before him. Yet she waited for more. For anything more.

“It seems I have wronged you at every turn. I won’t be guilty of repeating the sin. When we have all the facts before us, your history, mine, everything—no more secrets, no more lies… Until then I have need to protect you from myself as much as Wyndham or my–” He cleared his throat. “Or Sir Edmund.”

“He has told you, then.”

He turned his head to her but did not quite meet her gaze.

“He’s told you about your parents. Who they were. What your history is.”

Archer released a mirthless laugh.

She approached the desk to stand just beside him. “Will you tell me? I want to know.”

“He has sent for his lawyer. You’ll hear it from him.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“You cannot ask me to explain what I can barely comprehend.”

She had no reply to offer. Yet the semblance of so much formality seemed to auger a sense of doom.

“I’ve sent for Mr. Watts. I hope the lawyers will be able to come together, but that I’ve had to leave in his hands to arrange.”

“What does this mean?” she asked him.

“I’ve told you. I mean for you to understand all. I cannot presently do it. But you must know. You have a right to know.”

“Archer, please.”

He did not answer her, and no further amount of pleading would move him. She turned and left him, as he no doubt wished for her to do.

Imogen returned to her own room, to wait, unable to concentrate on anything but the passage of time. At last the lawyers arrived, and arrived together. It was another hour or more before she was summoned, once again, to the library.

The gentlemen arose as she entered. Mr. Watts took her hand and greeted her warmly, and did not let her go once they were seated. This too seemed an ill omen. Archer and Mr. Graves remained standing.

“I was informed I would find some letters and papers?” the lawyer said to Archer.

Obediently, Archer handed him a portmanteau.

Mr. Graves opened it and pulled out the contents. “Have you read these?”

“Only the one addressed to me.”

Mr. Graves looked this over and then returned it to Archer, who, in turn, gave it to Imogen. She read it, but she knew not as yet what to make of it outside of what he had told her earlier. It was merely instruction, telling Archer to expect the lawyer and to send him at once to Sir Edmund, from whence that man had just come. Except for a rather veiled apology, the remainder of the letter was written so cryptically as to prevent her understanding it.

Archer had now fixed himself at the far side of the room, leaning against the mantle of an empty fireplace. Mr. Graves took his position at the desk and, sorting through the papers, began to examine them, one by one. At last he put these down and, removing his glasses, he looked alternately from Archer to Imogen.

“Last night,” the lawyer began at last, “an intruder entered the house through this library and carried away with him some documents. He appears to have been both discriminate and calculating. What he took, however, cannot benefit him in the way he believes it will. This would be of little concern were it not for the fact that he has already shown a tendency toward violence, and this inspired by jealousy and an appetite for vengeance. There’s no doubt, judging from what he did manage to take, that he means to do Sir Edmund Barry, as well as yourselves, some considerable harm. At the very least, he means to publicly ruin you. But I would not hesitate to speculate that his intentions may be far more villainous yet.”

Imogen looked to Archer, who had turned his attention out of doors.

“This is why I must go?” Imogen asked of him.

He made no attempt to recognise her question, nor to answer it. His gaze remained fixed upon the glass panes of the window, and what lay beyond.

“There is more, Mrs. Hamilton. Mrs. Barry, I should say.”

“Barry?” she answered in shock. She had drawn the conclusion before now. At least she had considered the possibility. She had not thought what it would mean to her personally. To share the man’s name… She swallowed hard and tried to look unaffected. It was difficult to do.

Mr. Watts held her hand all the tighter, which did not inspire the confidence it seemed was his intention to bestow.

“I have a letter here I would like to read,” said Mr. Graves. “I beg your pardon beforehand. It is not quite delicate.”

“Go on,” she said, anxious to get the worst over and to know where she stood.

Mr. Graves read, relating, in Sir Edmund’s own words, the story she had heard already from Mrs. Montegue, only slightly altered, of Sir Edmund’s dealings with Archer’s mother, and confessing that, as a result of the greatest of wrongs performed upon a woman by a man, Archer was conceived. And that, in his shame, Sir Edmund had endeavoured to hide his misdeeds by bestowing upon his son a name—and a position—that was not rightly his own.

So much made sense now, why Archer should be referred to as Sir Edmund’s bastard nephew, despite the obstacles, the heartache it must naturally have caused him. Better Archer should suffer for the wrongs imposed upon his mother than that Sir Edmund should bear any responsibility.

Mr. Graves went on, explaining that, in this lie, and unable to recompense earlier, when he easily might have done, Sir Edmund married his nephew by coercion to the girl of his choice. Under a name that he had been known by for five and twenty years, but which was not his, Archer had taken out a marriage licence. In ignorance, he signed the certificate and registry in that same name, leaving he and his new wife open to be preyed upon by any opportunist with a great enough desire to see them destroyed. Such an opportunist was already in the making, by way of Sir Edmund’s truly illegitimate son, Miles Wyndham, who now, realising his error, bereft of his mistress and having his son veritably removed from his reach, had every reason in the world to wreak havoc and revenge. And there could be no doubt he would. Indeed, he had already struck the first blow.

Imogen looked up as Mr. Graves finished. Archer had not moved from his place beside the window. The tears she had fought to keep back came now, but they were mixed with anger as Archer refused to look at her. Why must he treat her so indifferently now? She had resolved to let him in, and she thought she had done it. But it seemed that with every effort, every success to draw nearer him, circumstances must drive them apart.

“The facts of the matter are these,” Mr. Graves continued. “As far as any inheritance is concerned, property and fortune go to Mr. Barry, the recognised son. You were forced to this marriage, Mrs. Barry. You have been rather infamously treated. If not by Mr. Archer Barry, then by his father—for whose benefit the marriage was arranged. Coercion is adequate grounds for an annulment. In this case, the offending parties resorted to violence to achieve their aims.”

“Violence?” Imogen repeated, confused.

“You were struck when you raised objection to the plans, were you not?”

She turned to Mr. Watts with a questioning look. In answer he pointed to her cheek. She raised a hand to the forgotten injury.

“Furthermore, there is no reason to believe that any children might issue from this marriage. Such is not imminent, I believe.”

Imogen, speechless, only shook her head in answer.

“You have not consummated your marriage?”

“Is this manner of questioning really necessary?” Archer protested.

“No,” Imogen said, answering the lawyer.

“Then there should be little difficulty.”

“There is certainly some difficulty,” Imogen said, with tears swimming.

“Well, of course it cannot be as if you were never married. You have lived together for these many weeks. You very recently held a party to celebrate the marriage. These are certainly worth some consideration, but these are hardly your greatest concerns.”

“It’s out of the question,” Imogen said.

Mr. Graves cleared his throat. “If you object to an annulment, you might instead wish to consider a separation.”

Again, Imogen was speechless. Is this what Archer had been preparing her to accept?

As if in answer, Mr. Graves went on. “Mr. Barry is prepared to be quite considerate in the provisions he’s willing to make for you. The scandal will fall upon his shoulders. He will shield you as far as it is in his power to do. You may reside where and how you like. He will return to you what he can, and will provide for you in whatever way you may require.”

Imogen arose and turned to Archer. “Your mind is made up?”

He looked at her, but only when she had come to stand just beside him. It was a glance only.

“This is for the best, Imogen. You need time to consider.”

“There is nothing to consider.”

“You need time. So do I.”

There was hardly any argument she could make. “Yes. Of course,” she said. “If that is what you want.” And then: “Perhaps I should have Mr. Watts explain to you my history. You will want to take that into consideration as well.”

She turned from him, but he stopped her, taking her arm and turning her once more to face him. He was angry and she was tempted to cower. But she had done with being afraid. She would stand her ground.

He spoke. His words were whispered. Confidential and deliberate. “It doesn’t take a great genius to understand what will keep a woman from giving herself to the man who would love her, to the man whom she might love if she would only let herself.”

“This is my fault?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying.”

“You are saying that having learned the truth about the mother you have learned to despise, you now despise the wife who is too much like her.”

He hesitated a moment. Then released her and turned back to the window. “I don’t know what it means yet.”