Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventy-two





RCHER SAT DOWN, the journal on the desk before him. He opened the cover and smoothed the pages before leaning back in his chair. The doors and windows, open still, allowed for the quickly strengthening breeze to enter, scattering the letters he had been reading but a few minutes ago. He let them go. The pages of the journal flapped in the breeze. Just as well. He hadn’t the heart to read it.

He closed the book again and raised himself to take a stroll out of doors. The smell of rain hung in the air as the clouds roiled across the darkening sky. The faint echoes of thunder could be heard in the distance. He looked up toward her window. Should he go to her as Barrett had suggested? Before it was too late to persuade her to stay? Or to go as perhaps she ought? The thought of this shell of a home bereft of her presence made his heart constrict. Yes, he would go to her.

He found her, sitting alone in the near darkness of her room, watching as the storm rolled in.

“Claire intends to leave within the hour,” he said.

Her gaze, which had been focused on the window, slowly shifted to meet his. She said nothing.

“She would do well to wait, I think.”

Still she remained silent.

“You have not packed,” he observed now.

“No.”

“Do you mean to stay?”

“How can I leave you now? No friend would desert you at a time like this. We are friends at least, I think.”

Slowly he approached her and knelt before her. “What it will take to straighten this mess out, I cannot presume to know. I can’t give back to you what I’ve taken. It can’t be done.”

She had nothing to say, it seemed, and, closing her eyes, she turned away once more. He stood to go. He had not accomplished his purpose, but if she would not speak to him, would hardly look at him…

But as he turned from her, she reached out and took hold of his hand, clinging to him as if he were life itself. He knelt once more before her.

“It’s true. You cannot give me what Sir Edmund took from me. But then I never wanted it, did I? But you can, if you will, give me back what they took. What he took.”

“He?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you? You said you knew, that you understood it.”

He blinked, only then to realising her meaning.

“You mean…?”

“Yes.”

“Imogen. I know the story in the very broadest terms. What happened the night your uncle died, Mr. Watts told me that much. What happened before it...” He shook his head. “I know no particulars.”

“Then I will tell you. I must. Only…” And she began to tremble at the thought. She released him, but he took hold of her hand.

“Roger gave me something,” he said to her. “It was personal.”

“Personal?”

“Not yours. Your uncle’s. A journal.”

“I– But how? They were burnt. I saw him burn them.”

“He did. All but one.”

“You have it?”

“I’ve not yet read it. I didn’t know if I should.”

She didn’t answer him.

“Should I? Do you want me to?”

“I want you to know and understand. Everything. Every part. And if you love me still… You have not stopped loving me?”

“No,” he said and framed her face in his hands. “Never, Imogen. Not ever. Nothing I should learn now can possibly change that.”

She looked at him, as if searching still for some reason to doubt or disbelieve. He saw her uncertainty and arose. The thunder was growing ever louder.

“If Claire is to go,” he said, “she should go now, before the rain begins.”

“You won’t make me go?”

“I do think it would be for the best. But no. I haven’t the heart to insist. I’m afraid I’m not quite so selfless as that.”

For half a moment she remained in her chair, and then, with a gust of the wind through the open window, she flew to him. He held her tightly. He could ask for nothing more, simply held her in his arms where she always had belonged, and where, by some miracle, she was content to remain.

* * *

Claire had made all the necessary preparations. She had lingered only long enough to be sure she was to travel alone. She had never had much doubt, and it was just as well. They were talking. At long last, they were really and truly talking. There was no point remaining. If she waited longer, she might be obliged to share the single carriage with Mr. Barrett. No doubt he had planned his departure to align with hers. But no. She would provide him no further opportunity to impose upon her.

She had not completed half her journey before the rain began. Lightly at first, but growing steadily more determined, at last persuading her to seek shelter beneath an oak tree. But a meagre shelter it was, for the leaves, though broad enough, were no match for the weight of the rain. Stranded, she waited, getting wetter by the moment.

Perhaps it would be best, after all, to make her way back to the Abbey. And though she would certainly be drenched upon her arrival, at least there she could warm and dry herself before setting out again. But what would be the chances of returning unobserved? She could not bear the humiliation should Mr. Barrett be there to witness her defeat. No, she must move on, and soon, before he should overtake her.

She had just decided upon her plan when she heard the faint rumbling of wheels. Or was it thunder? No, not thunder. For she soon heard the jangling of the harnesses and the snorting and breathing of the horses who accompanied them. At last she glimpsed a sight of the carriage through the haze of the rain. She moved to hide herself behind the tree’s trunk, and thought she had done it. But, to her chagrin, the carriage stopped before her. Humbled now, but relieved still the same, she emerged from her hiding place just as the carriage door opened.

Roger Barrett stepped down.

“Wait, Miss Montegue, if you will,” he said, his hand held out to stay her.

Opening his umbrella, he approached her. And then, without so much as a question as to the liberty he was taking, he drew her out from beneath her shelter—having adequately provided his own, and led her to the carriage, where he handed her in before following. Embarrassed, wet and breathing hard, though she didn’t know why, she sat.

“Let me take your cloak,” he requested of her next.

“I’ll freeze.”

“You’ll freeze if you do not give up your wet things.” He removed his own coat and handed it to her.

“What am I to do with this?” she said in that same haughty manner.

“You’re to wear it, Miss Montegue. What did you think? That I wanted a button sewn, perhaps?”

She laid it across her lap and lifted her chin.

“You are exceedingly obstinate,” he observed with a disapproving look.

“So I’ve been told, Mr. Barrett. And you are exceedingly presumptuous.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. To presume that a woman stranded in the rain might actually desire the comfort and protection of a vehicle is rather audacious of me.”

“It is,” she said, and refused to smile, though it was a struggle.

“Well, I suppose it fair to warn you that I intend to raise your ire further.”

“Pray tell me, Mr. Barrett, that you do not intend to follow me all the way to London?”

“Certainly not, Miss Montegue.”

“Well,” she said and hoped her disappointment did not show. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“The truth is, I intend to see you as far as Southampton.”

Her gaze met his. “You can’t be serious. It’s so very far out of your way.”

“I suppose that all depends on what my way is.”

“And do you know it yet? Or do you mean to work it out as you go?”

“I have a vague idea,” he answered her.

She lifted her chin once more and turned to the window to hide her smile. It was no use. He saw it and took courage, whether or not it was meant that he should. He was that presumptuous.