Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventy-one





OGER RETURNED TO Wrencross Abbey to find it quite altered from when he had left the day before. There was no one about. The air hung heavy with the scent of charred wood and burnt wool and horsehair.

“Mr. Barrett!” came the voice from the landing above, and soon the face it belonged to appeared.

“Miss Montegue. I’m pleased to see you.” He bowed. “Has something happened?”

“There was a fire,” she explained as she descended the staircase and stopped to stand before him. “It was set on purpose.”

“On purpose? Who would do such a thing?”

“It is believed Wyndham is the culprit. The constabulary are searching for him now. Sir Edmund has taken ill and it looks to be the worst for him. And Imogen is preparing to leave.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I can’t stay longer. My grandmother, you know. You did deliver her safely?”

“I can assure you she is in good hands and well looked after.”

“I’m so grateful to you,” she said with apparent sincerity.

“Think nothing of it. It was a pleasure. Your grandmother is quite a woman.”

“Yes, she is. Only I do hope she did not tax your patience. She means well, but her counsel can be tiring.”

“How do you know she counselled me?”

“Well,” Claire said, standing straighter and reddening slightly. “I suppose I don’t.” And then, looking a little anxious: “Didn’t she?”

“She did. In fact, she chastened me quite soundly.”

Claire seemed instantly relieved.

“But what of Imogen?”

And concerned again.

“She has determined to leave him?”

“I know so little, Mr. Barrett, of the circumstances. Will you speak to her? She will tell you everything, I’m quite certain. Come,” she said. “Archer’s book room is empty. I’ll send her to you.”

* * *

Imogen was both relieved and anxious to learn of Roger’s return. What would he think of her trials? And in the state she was in, should he insist on her coming away with him, would she have the power to refuse him?”

“Roger,” she said upon seeing him, and nearly flinging herself into his arms.

He kissed the top of her head. “More tears?” he asked her.

She buried her head in his chest.

“Don’t try to tell me they are happy ones.”

She shook her head. Recovering herself, she released him.

With an arm around her, he guided her to the sofa and sat down beside her.

“Miss Montegue said there was a fire.”

“Yes.”

“And that scoundrel Wyndham set it on purpose. Will you tell me why and what it means? And why it is you are prepared to leave your husband while his uncle is on his death bed?”

“His father.”

“What?” he answered in apparent surprise.

“Sir Edmund is his father,” she said, and proceeded to tell the rest, all she knew of Archer’s family, all she had so recently learned with regards to his mother, and how she feared it must reflect upon his feelings for herself in consequence. She told him, too, of the difficulties inherent in the falsely signed names. And how, in order to escape the threat of Wyndham’s devilry, she was to be sent away.

“Archer believes he poses a threat,” she explained. “That he may seek further revenge when he learns that the documents he’s taken will prove nothing more than that Archer is Sir Edmund’s only legitimate son, by name and by birth.” She went on, relating the how’s and why’s of the deception as she understood them. “This morning the lawyers came,” she continued, “He set them upon me as if I were some witness on a stand, as if I were a truant wife and was there to be condemned.”

“Condemned?”

“No. Not quite condemned,” she conceded, “but it was horrible. Degrading. And they asked such questions, as though I were nothing more than…nothing more than…”

“Yes?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “He should have told me himself. It was his obligation to tell me! I did not want to hear it from them, so heartlessly, so unfeelingly, as though it were somehow my fault I had not made his house a home, his uncle into the loving father Archer always wished for. As if—”

“All right, my dear. I agree you have been wronged. I agree he should have told you himself. But, Imogen, did you ever think you might not have made him feel quite able to do it?”

She had no reply for this.

“Circumstances do indeed seem to conspire against you, but while he has struggled for the courage to understand the history he hardly knew, and to do what you wanted him to do, you have still insisted on withholding from him that which was equally his right to know, and his right to have—you.”

“But I—”

“You never told him your story. You never told him what it was he must do to win you. Yet it was patently clear you could not be made happy while you and Sir Edmund shared a roof. He never should have asked you to do it. But upon realising his mistake, he did try to amend it.”

“But it is his responsibility as my husband, his duty as a gentleman, to tell me such things, and considering the manner in which this marriage was arranged, and that I’ve never really reconciled myself to it, I haven’t felt myself quite prepared to tell him what I ought.”

“That’s just it. You haven’t committed yourself to this marriage. You’ve done your utmost to resist investing anything in it.”

“But I have. How can you say I haven’t?”

“I didn’t. I only said you’ve tried not to do it. For the most part you have failed, but you’ve never given up that last little bit of your heart to him. You’ve protected yourself behind the shield of your untold secrets. He’s a good man, Imogen. He’s truly done all he could to make you happy. Yes, perhaps his efforts to separate himself were in vain. Perhaps he began the endeavour too late. But you cannot say he did not try. The result is the same. Better, perhaps, for all is no longer lost, you see? Is it possible you still cannot trust him? He cannot want you to go. I won’t believe it. Is it possible you only wish it were so?”

“Why would I wish him to be rid of me? I don’t want to go, I’ve told you that.”

“Have you told him?”

Again she was left speechless.

“Imogen, will you imagine for a moment that you’re going to tell him your story? Imagine it. You are going to do it today, straight away upon my departure. You will unburden your soul to him. You’ve done it before to others. Miss Montegue. Myself. Why not him? Are you afraid he’ll reject you?”

She offered no reply other than a stony face.

“Are you?”

“Yes, of course I am. As I should be.”

“Can he have felt so differently when his secrets stood between you? He’s being more than gentlemanly setting you free and not pressuring you to make a decision according to what he would want. If you choose him now, Imogen, you choose him for good. You might be very happy. And I believe, if you allow it of yourself, you will, in turn, make him a very happy man. Can you love him, Imogen? Truly love him? Does he require further proof?”

She offered no reply.

“Tell him, Imogen. At least give him the opportunity to accept you before you reject yourself on his behalf.”

He arose then.

“Where are you going?”

“You need time to think. And I want a word with your husband before I quit the Abbey.”

“You’re not staying?”

“I’m in the way.”

“What about Wyndham?”

“Hamilton has about three dozen men guarding the place. If you’re not safe here, you’re not safe anywhere.”

He bent to kiss her cheek. “Write to me, my dear. I expect to hear very soon that all is well. There’s been an earthquake to be sure, but it has only shaken down a few dilapidated buildings so that you can build better.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“Yes,” he said. “My analogies are always too complex. Still, if you need me, you know I’ll come.”

“Thank you,” she said and kissed him in return.

* * *

Roger reached the library and knocked at the already opened door. The lawyers, it seemed, had gone. Hamilton sat alone, his head bent studiously over a pile of letters.

“Good heaven!” Roger said upon entering. “This place is a mess!”

“Yes,” was Hamilton’s simple reply.

“What has you so engrossed?”

Hamilton appeared nervous for a moment, but at last replied. “Letters. Written between my mother and my…my uncle.”

“Sir Edmund is your father.”

“I see you’ve already been filled in.”

“Yes, I’ve just been to see Imogen.”

Again that nervous look, though there was a great deal of pain in it this time. “And how did you find her?”

“I’ve certainly seen her better.”

Clearly Hamilton regretted to hear this.

“I’ve seen her worse, though.”

This answer inspired a look of puzzlement.

“There is more, then?” Roger asked, nodding toward the letters.

“More?”

“Yes. More to learn. More dark history to uncover.”

“I’m just trying to understand her, my mother. To comprehend what it was she suffered. I want to know who she was. You might understand this.”

“I was young when my mother died, but I remember her.”

“I don’t have that good fortune. This is all there is.”

“You knew your father, though. That is no longer a mystery to you.”

“It is not a connection I’m proud of. Nor is it the relief I’d always hoped it would be.”

“Ah,” Roger said, comprehending. “You want to know that your family were good and honourable, pure and virtuous.”

“I suppose so.”

“But what can that mean to you now? Now you are beyond the reach of their influence?”

Hamilton drew a hand through his hair.

“This is all well and good, these letters. But isn’t it the family you have about you now that really matters?”

“I told you,” Archer said, “I’m not especially proud of the connection I have with my–” He took a great breath.

“It wasn’t he I meant. You have the opportunity to start over. Why dwell on the past when the future is before you?”

Still the silence continued.

Roger found a chair and after clearing it off, he sat. “She says the lawyers told her all. That you had them do it. Which is all well and good, but you do see you perhaps ought to have told her yourself.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Cowardice perhaps.”

“You’ve proved you’re no coward.”

“Have I?”

Roger waited for his own question to be answered first.

“I should never have entrapped her as I have done. As I allowed in my selfish desire. Had I told her, I would not have had the strength to offer her that freedom that is her right to have. It’s all she’s ever really wanted, after all.”

“Perhaps her desire for freedom was no more than a desire for the freedom to grant her heart where she might.”

Hamilton blinked. He looked like a man come undone. Or just about to.

“She believes you want her to go.”

Hamilton turned back to his letters. Then, massaging his forehead, looked up and out the window. A storm was gathering.

“Do you?” Roger pressed.

“I won’t make her feel obligated to stay.”

“You think she’ll willingly leave you under these conditions, with the house a wreck and your uncle—excuse me, your father—on his death bed?”

“Which is why I’ve told her it’s dangerous to remain.”

“Is it? With the royal guard standing post?”

“There is always a chance.”

“Have you considered what you risk by forcing her to go? Will she trust you again, do you think, if you reject her now?”

“I’ve not rejected her! How can you say such a thing?”

“It’s what she believes you mean to do. Or must, eventually.”

Hamilton looked to the letters once more and shuffled through them, turning to one of a later date than the others.

“Tell her to stay,” said Roger.

“Is she likely to listen now?”

“Make her.”

“And how am I to do that?”

“She has just learned the whole of your history. Do you think it has made a difference to her?”

Hamilton glanced at him.

“She was angry only in the manner of the delivery. Not in the facts themselves.”

Still, he offered no answer.

“Will hers make a difference to you?”

The slightest hesitation followed this, and then, at last, and only after another long look at the letter before him, he answered: “No.”

“You are quite certain?”

Hamilton met his gaze directly, and his answer was a firm, “Yes.”

With this assurance, Roger opened his coat and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. He tossed it onto the desk that stood between them.

“What’s this?” Hamilton said, looking at it but leaving it to lie where it was.

“Imogen inherited her uncle’s house, the prison wherein she lived for nearly a decade. Her aunt wanted it, insisted upon having access to it, and so, in desperation, Imogen asked me to take her there. She wished to remove from it any possible proofs of the manner in which her existence there was carried out. In her uncle’s study were a collection of journals. We took these from the house with the understanding that I would burn them. I tore them up and threw them into the nearest bonfire and gave some poor beggar an hour’s fuel. Except this one. This is the last, and in it is his confession.”

“I think I’ve had enough of confessions to last me some time,” Hamilton said.

“Read it. By all means, tell her I gave it to you. Let her know you have it and that you’ve read it. But you must make her understand that what you learn here makes no difference in the way you feel about her.”

“Why are you doing this, Barrett?”

“Because I love her. I want, more than anything in this world, for her to be happy. I can’t make her so. I believe you can. And so I’m asking you to exert every last effort.”

Hamilton continued to contemplate the black leather covered book as it lay on the table. After a few moments he leaned forward and, sliding it toward himself, opened to the first page.

“Read it. Tell her you’ve read it. Tell her you still want her. And make her listen to you.”

“She told you about the legal questions?”

“About your marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Change your name. Or ask her to change hers,” Roger suggested now with a sly smile.

It took Hamilton a moment, but he eventually got the hint. “Ask her to marry me again?”

“Why not?”

“It sounds a bit romantic,” was his answer, though whether it was in derision or doubt it was impossible to tell.

“You’re giving her a choice to leave. Perhaps it would be more to your advantage to give her a reason to stay.”

Hamilton sat thinking over these words for some time.

“I’m going now,” Roger said at last.

“Yes, all right.”

Yet Roger remained.

“You mean you’re leaving the Abbey?” Hamilton said, suddenly grasping the extent of his meaning.

“Yes.”

“Does she know? Gina, I mean?”

“Her name is Imogen. Innocent, pure. That’s what the name means. Gina is a common name. Someone who works in the dirt and the mire. And one she despises. Remember it. And yes. I’ve a train to catch.”

“Very well, Barrett. Best of luck to you.”

“And you, my friend,” he said, taking the hand Hamilton held out to him.