Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventy-four





MOGEN AWOKE THE following morning having slept well considering the persistence of her remaining fears. No longer in doubt of Archer’s regard, no longer haunted by secrets too terrible to be told, still her anxieties remained.

She lay in bed for a little while, considering the day, and days ahead, and feeling just as much like a bride on the eve of her wedding as she had done so many weeks ago. Only there was no sense of dread. Uncertainty, yes. Doubt and anxiety were her ever present companions, and she held onto them perhaps by mere habit. Still, in her heart of hearts, she knew she had nothing to fear, save of allowing herself to be made very, very happy.

Unable to rest more, she arose and dressed and then threw the curtains wide to let in the glorious sunlight of an early spring day. The translucent glass, criss-crossed by the leading, reflected on the floor in a pattern of tessellated diamonds. While the light danced in the refraction of irregular glass, the pattern was interrupted further by some fluttering and bumping obstacle, like a flame in shadow. She looked up once more toward the window, and wondered upon observing a butterfly, beating itself against the window as it fought to be free. Eventually it stopped to rest, its wings raised and folded high like a sail atop its back. Browns and beiges, a smattering of white and a dozen or more circular eyes decorated the surface. It seemed to her vaguely familiar. Archer would know. Perhaps she should catch it for him. But then, remembering that his collection had been destroyed, she thought better. No more cages, he had said. No more boxes. No more pins.

She opened the window, but instead of releasing the butterfly out into the open, a breeze entered, thrusting the insect further into the room, where it fluttered and gambolled and made its way haphazardly toward the door opposite. She opened it, allowing the butterfly passage into the hallway beyond. Following, she watched as it reeled and soared, dipped and fluttered along its curious path. Upon reaching the staircase, it floated gently downward, through the stairwell itself. Imogen followed, trying to keep level with it, though it remained a foot or more above her and always just beyond arm’s reach, as though teasing her, luring her onward. Its course became less certain as it reached the entry hall. As if considering its choices, it wheeled about for a moment or two, before at last deciding on the dining room. Imogen, following still, swung the great panelled doors open and they entered together. Toward the glass doors opposite it swooped and glided, and these too Imogen opened.

For a moment, the butterfly rested on one opened door, as if in limbo, uncertain of its purpose. There it remained, pulsing in the open air, gathering its strength. Then, as if taking in one last great breath before departing forever, it lowered its wings, revealing as it were, its secret. For though it had appeared to her before now a plain, drab creature, for all its wondrous charm, she saw it now as she had not seen it before. Trimmed in black, the top side of its wings were set ablaze in the sunlight. Iridescent blue.

She ran to tell Archer of the remarkable coincidence, but then stopped. No. Archer was not at home. He had gone this morning to make the arrangements with the parson.

She heard the door open and shut again. In her preoccupation she had forgotten to lock it behind her. She turned.

“Mr. Wyndham!”

“You are still here?”

She raised her chin and squared herself to face him, though her heart pounded madly. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“After all that has happened, I find it surprising you would wish to remain.”

She did not answer him.

“I’m pleased to see you, nonetheless. I was rather counting on it, actually.”

“Then you knew I had not gone.”

“I heard it mentioned.”

“And what can you possibly want with me?”

He approached her. She knew she ought to turn and run, to call out to someone, anyone, but she did not. She was too frightened to move.

“I have come to get what is owed me.”

“What is owed you? What can you mean?”

“I’ve been overlooked once more, Miss Everard. And I’ve come to be recompensed.”

“The law, I should think, will see to that.”

He laughed. “Is that so?” And he took a step or two nearer.

“That you have been left with nothing at all is no more than you deserve. You sought to force Sir Edmund’s hand, though you did not rightly understand what you were doing. You were mistaken, Mr. Wyndham. In your single-minded scheming, you were mistaken. You have taken your revenge, already. You have killed your own father.”

Wyndham scowled and drew nearer still. She backed away, but she was already cornered.

“And who are you to be casting such judgements Miss Everard? Scheming, to be sure! Murderous even?” He whistled. “You speak from a precarious pedestal, my dear. A precarious pedestal, indeed, considering you are not properly married to the man you sold yourself to for a fortune! What kind of prostitute must that make you? What is it they say? ‘An eye for an eye’?”

Pinned to the corner as she was, there was no escaping him. His hands were suddenly upon her, feeling her, groping her, touching her as no gentleman would. She cried out, but Wyndham stifled her with his hand. She tried to bite him, but it was no use. Her head was pinned against the wall, his free hand reaching, writhing, grabbing and grasping. Searching. She kicked and flailed, but she could not breathe, could not even see now as she fought for air, her consciousness closing in on her. And then, quite suddenly, she dropped to the floor. She heard a crashing, the shuffling of feet, a grunt and a groan, and looked up, dazed by the light of consciousness restored.

“You villainous wretch!” Archer yelled, his face just inches from Wyndham’s. His fists wrapped tightly around the man’s coat collar and, pushing him hard up against the wall, he seemed quite ready to strangle the life out of him. “How dare you come anywhere near this house. How dare you so much as speak to my wife! But to lay your vile, blood-stained hands on her…!” Archer thrust him against the wall once more, knocking Wyndham’s head and tightening his choking grip.

Wyndham was turning colours, first red then blue, but still he smiled, his eyes full of hatred and revenge.

“Ring the bell, Imogen, if you would,” Archer said calmly, respectfully, in spite of his apparent anger.

She raised herself and did as she was bid. Within minutes a maid entered, screamed and ran for a footman. And in another minute a half dozen more men were there to help. They stood, surrounding Wyndham, waiting for Archer to release him, but he didn’t seem quite able to do it. Still Wyndham’s colour drained and darkened into an unhealthy hue. Archer was dangerously close to committing murder himself, and Imogen could not blame him. But she had no more rage to offer. Only gratitude for having been saved, and when and by whom it had been done. She pushed through the crowd and, laying her hand on Archer’s shoulder, spoke gently.

“It’s over,” she said. “Let him go.”

Slowly Archer’s fingers relaxed, and, opening his hands wide, as though realising the contaminating effects of the animal he had been clinging to, he released him. Wyndham fell to the floor, panting and sneering up with his pale, freckled face. Two of the manservants picked him up and restrained him. Some rope was brought and his hands were bound.

Archer turned to Imogen and held her close, his breath coming hard and ragged, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest. She laid her head against him and listened, her arms folded around him beneath the warmth of his coat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t say it enough. I’m so very sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she said, her voice shaking, her limbs trembling.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said and shook her head as it lay against him.

“Best of luck to you both,” Wyndham called out, refusing to be forgotten. “I hope the money brings you every happiness, ma’am, as you no doubt expected it would.”

Archer stiffened and prepared to push Imogen out of the way. But she held fast to him.

“Archer, let it go,” she said. “He’s of no consequence.”

He didn’t’ seem to be listening.

“Archer, please!”

He at last managed to free himself, but stopped and shook his head, then let out a breath of forced laughter. “You’ve got it all wrong, Wyndham. Once again you’ve missed the mark entirely. She didn’t marry me for my money,” he said, pausing to be sure Wyndham was really listening, that he would now be made to understand the matter once and for all. “There wasn’t any until she came, don’t you see? She didn’t marry me for my money. I married her for hers. You never would have gotten it anyway. It was never yours to have.”

Wyndham clearly thought he was bluffing and looked alternately between the two of them as if they were both quite daft. But upon observing the serious countenance of each, it suddenly seemed to become clear to him. This had all been alluded to before, after all. In the interview they had sat through together a week or more ago. In the conversations he had had with her. And truly the evidence was there. Sir Edmund always claimed he had much less money than people believed. It was why Wyndham had always had to pump him so hard. Then all of a sudden it became much less difficult. He’d been led to believe he had finally earned a place in Sir Edmund’s regard. But no, it was merely that Sir Edmund could afford to buy him off, when before he could not.

“You’re serious,” Wyndham said at last, when the truth was securely upon him.

“Yes, quite,” was Archer’s reply.

Wyndham seemed suddenly lost. “And you sold yourself to him?” he asked of Imogen. As if the reality was still beyond his ability to grasp.

“Considering my other choices, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Which were?”

He was angry, and the source of his anger, which he now revealed, showed the true state of the man’s withered soul. “I needed the money far more than he did! I was the elder son! I should have married first. I should have married the fortune!”

“Are you such an animal? What does she look like to you? Some object to be auctioned off?”

With a hand clinging to Archer’s arm, Imogen once more stayed him.

“I want this man out of my house!” Archer yelled.

The order was immediately obeyed as the footmen hoisted Wyndham by the arms.

“I’ll go, I’ll go. I’m going!” The men put him down and, maintaining a firm hand on each shoulder, allowed Wyndham to walk out of the house and into a carriage which had by now been prepared to deliver him into custody.

Archer sank down into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. Imogen approached him, and kneeling down, laid her head against his knee.

“How did he get in?” he asked her at last.

“There was a butterfly. I followed it from my room—from Claire’s room.”

“Imogen,” he said and laughed, though rather stiffly. “How can you be thinking of butterflies at a time like this?”

“It led me into the dining room, and I opened the door for it.”

“And that’s when Wyndham forced his way in?”

“No. I forgot to lock it behind me.”

“Imogen!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise to me. I should have been here. I cannot seem to protect you whatever I do.”

“It isn’t your fault.” She looked up at him.

He lowered his head, unwilling to believe her.

“And you did protect me. You saved me. And in more ways than one, I think.”

He cast a puzzled expression upon her.

“I have chosen to stay. I have chosen you. He is gone now. He can do us no more harm. There is nothing left to fear. We are free.”

He looked at her for half a moment more, then taking her hands in his, drew her to him and held her. But she soon drew away, as though protecting herself, and he might have been hurt had he not recognised the longing in her eyes as she looked up at him.

“When?” she asked. “How much longer?”

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

She shook her head.

He smiled, and asked, teasingly, “Can you wait so long?”

“Can you?”

“Well, I have no choice, do I?” and his gaze shifted to indicate Mrs. Hartup who had just entered the room.

Imogen arose and prepared to follow Mrs. Hartup out, that they might see to the last of the preparations, and that she might have an opportunity to rest her now jangled nerves. She turned back to him at the door.

“The Blue Morpho,” she said. “Was that the one you were looking for?”

“Yes,” he answered, puzzlement on his otherwise troubled brow. “How did you know?”

“That was the one I saw. I set it free.”

Archer gave her a stunned look. It was not possible. And yet… She had known that insect well. They both had. Could it be? Free of Wyndham, free of the threat of further danger, free of oppression, what was left but for Psyche to free her trammelled soul? And so, it seemed, she had.