Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER seventy-five





April 1882



MOGEN AND ARCHER entered the parish church that morning, hand in hand. There was no one to give the bride away. There was no need that it should be done. Though the chapel stood empty, it was nevertheless full of sunlight and hope. Quite different indeed from that windy autumn day when they had first met here. And it was quiet, for no one but they need know of this most private and sacred of ceremonies. It was for them alone.

Mr. Ashcombe began. As on that previous occasion, Archer could not take his eyes from his bride. She wore the same gown, though without the veil, revealing her beaming and happy face. Indeed her manner was so altered she might have been a different woman.

“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

Archer cleared his throat.

Parson Aschombe looked up from his book. “Mr. Hamilton?”

“It is true that I have been married before.”

“That is an impediment, indeed,” he said gravely, then smiled. “But as it was to the same woman, I think we can overlook it.”

Imogen nudged him and he laughed. The parson’s smile broadened.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” Archer answered, looking to her rather than at the parson. No need to guess her feelings this time. They showed quite plainly.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband,” the parson asked next of her, “to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” she said, and looked to him.

The vows next. He turned to her. She offered him her gloved hand, palm up, fingers gently curled. On that previous occasion, it had been given him by another. It had been ungloved by another. Not this time. He held her hand in one of his own, and with the other, he carefully unfastened the buttons.

With her hand in his, Archer spoke the vows as he had done before, as though he had written them himself and they had been meant for her alone.

Her vows now. And instead of tripping and choking over the words she was uncertain she meant, she said them with earnest intent.

The ring was presented. His mother’s ring, and she would wear them both. But first to unglove the other hand. He did it slowly, deliberately, making the most of the liberties she, and Parson Ashcombe, were prepared to allow. He kissed it. Then took the ring. But it slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor, ringing and clattering and echoing through the chapel. Superstition dictated that by such happy accidents all ill-intentioned spirits were freed of the object. That he had dropped it (by accident of course) was considered the best of luck.

Imogen looked at him with the merest hint of suspicion. He smiled sheepishly. It was accidental enough.

The ring recovered, Archer placed it on the book of scripture, upon which it was blessed. Taking it up once again, carefully now, he slipped it onto her finger.

“With this ring I thee wed…” And he meant it. “…with my body I thee worship…” Dear Heaven, how he meant it! “…and with all my worldly goods I thee endow:” And he had every right to mean it! This time. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

They knelt, as the blessing was given. A new blessing. A better blessing.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

“Amen!” They said together and loudly.

Archer stood and raised his bride—his wife!—to her feet, and kissed her as the bells rang out.

One last thing and he could take her home. The registry! Or rather, the document that would amend that which they had signed in London. He wrote his name deliberately and carefully. Archer Hamilton Barry. And she hers, no different than before, but differently to be sure. For this time she was well and truly ready to relinquish it. Having finished all, sealed all, united herself to him in mind and heart and spirit, if not in body—yet—she placed her hand within his and they made their way to the Abbey. Home.

* * *

It had been a long day. Much longer than Archer would have liked. Mrs. Hartup had arranged to have a proper wedding breakfast laid out for them. The staff were given the day off to enjoy the celebrations, and they made the most of it. Imogen had still to see to the removal of her things from Claire’s room to her own. With the servants off, she took it upon herself, attending to this and to any and all other trifling necessities she could think to accomplish, fluttering and flitting about the house as she went, and looking for all the world like some half-crazed insect. Archer was not about to give chase now. He had waited long for this day. If it was necessary to wait a few hours more for her to be ready to receive him, then he would.

He had things to see to of his own, after all. There was much to be done in the way of setting to rights many of Sir Edmund’s wrongs. And so he took himself to the library to see what might be done in that way. Only he could not concentrate.

Yet he remained, until the sky grew dark and the house quieted. It was then Archer ventured upstairs.

The door between the two rooms stood open, and Archer entered hers, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs that was arranged around the fireplace. No fire burned tonight. It had been a warm day and so there had been little need of it. As she fluttered about, refusing to land anywhere, he entertained a vain wish that, in so far as the weather was concerned, it had not been so pleasant a day, that the lack of comfort in her room would draw her to his own, as it had done on that unseasonably cold night not two weeks ago. He waited, but she was too determined in her restlessness. He continued to bide his time and while he did, he thought more about that night, and his desire for something like a repetition of it increased. He realised, in his contemplation, that, although it had been the cold that had persuaded her to find shelter in his room, it had not been that that had kept her there. It had been something else entirely. A need to be near him, to be protected by him, to understand and to be understood. Could she be so encouraged again?

He arose and approached her. She turned and looked up, a familiar anxiety burning in her bright eyes. He would make no demands of her. That promise, even now, he determined to keep. What she gave him she must do by her own free will and choice. But if he could encourage her to do it...

“Are you tired?” he asked her.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so. You?”

“Exhausted,” he said. And then he bent over her, kissing her tenderly, then, more earnestly, but always gently. He kissed the fullness of her bottom lip and then her top, and held her safely to him, eagerly receiving what she began tentatively to return. And just as he felt her surrender to him, he released her.

“Good night,” he said.

The look in her eyes was what he had most hoped to see. Startled, bewildered. Disappointed.

He left her room for his own. But he wasn’t there long before she appeared in the doorway, interrupting him in his preparations for bed. Which was likely her intention. It was as if she meant to stave off the awkward hour indefinitely. She stood there, watching him, and he met her gaze for a moment or two before continuing on with his preparations. He had removed his tie and waistcoat already. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and loosened the hem from his waist so that it hung free.

“Do you need your dressings changed?” she asked him.

“Probably.”

The things she needed were conveniently nearby. She retrieved them while he removed his shirt and then sat down in the chair beside the table. She removed the old bandage and gently cleaned the wound before wrapping it again. Finished, she smoothed the dressing, but her hands lingered even at the completion of this. She moved to face him, staring down at him, uncertain what she was to do next. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, slid down several inches and then dropped. He caught it, kissed it and released it. A moment more and he stood. She had changed her gown some time ago for one more practical to her many errands and activities, a simple day dress, fresh and bright, but hardly suitable for sleep. Or...

He cleared his throat. “Do you mean to sleep as you are, my dear?”

“No, of course not,” she said and returned to her own room.

Archer laid down upon the bed and waited. It was several minutes before she returned, wearing her own dressing gown this time and with her hair let down and free of pins or plaits. He’d never seen her this way, looking both helpless and a little wild, both lost and eager. He struggled to calm, or at least mask, the stirring within him.

At last she sat herself at the foot of his bed and began to brush her hair out.

“So what do you see in our future, my darling?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she answered, her eyes on her task.

“No more ill humours? No more misunderstandings?”

“No. That is, I certainly hope not.”

“No more fear?”

“No,” she said, more quietly.

“No more doubt?”

“No,” she said, quieter still.

“None?”

“Not in you.” She put down her brush to look up at him for the first time.

He sat up and leaned towards her. “In yourself?”

She went back to brushing her hair, but he waited for her answer.

“I hope not.”

“You can’t be surer than that?” A familiar reflection of light on her cheek drew him closer to her. “Oh, my beautiful girl,” he said, taking her face in his hands so that she must look at him. “If you could only see yourself for what you are. If you could see yourself the way I see you.”

She shook her head in dismissal of this.

“Do you refuse even still to be happy?”

“No,” she said. “But–”

“But?”

“I– I don’t know what to do.”

His heart missed and thudded. His blood pounded so that he could hardly hear her softly spoken words. “Yes, you do.”

He kissed her. Then kissed her again. Again and again. The brush dropped from her hand and she leaned into him, both receiving and returning the full measure of what he offered. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, covering her. Covering him. He savoured the feeling of her over every inch of him. Kissing her, loving her still, he carefully brought her to lie down at his side, where they lay, breathing heavily, hearts pounding. He swept her hair away from her face and looked at her. Great day, she was beautiful! Beautiful and his. Or very nearly so. There was still some remnant of reservation. He understood it, but he would overcome it. Yet patiently he waited. Her ordeal was not quite over. These were her obstacles to overcome and he would not push her on more quickly than she was ready, though he himself was fit to burst with longing.

They lay, quiet and still. Watching and waiting. He took her hand in his, and she seemed quite suddenly to awaken.

“I was thinking,” she said, but then just as suddenly fell quiet once more.

“Yes, my love?”

She took a great breath and began again. “Do you remember when we were talking before, and you said you could not give me back what Sir Edmund took?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what I said then?”

“You said that I was right. That I could not.”

“And then?”

“You said I might give you back what they took.”

“And you said you did not understand.”

“No.”

“Do you not still?”

He cleared his throat and did not answer.

“I was thinking,” she said again and stopped as the tears came afresh.

Archer wiped them away. “What were you thinking, my love?”

“If you were to take it all back...”

His look expressed his confusion. He thought he understood, but he wanted her to say it. If she would.

“You might undo it. Make it yours.” She blinked, sending another tear running down to balance at the bridge of her nose before it quivered and dropped upon the back of his hand as it held hers.

Her voice was quiet as she went on, barely above a whisper. “The vile and leering looks. The stolen kisses. The touch of grasping and selfish hands. Replace it all. Everything. Take it back. Make it yours. Make me yours.” She took a great shuddering breath. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you?”

“Tell me when.”

She made no verbal attempt to reply, but deeming from her steady and determined gaze her answer, he released her hand, which she carefully touched to his bared chest. And with his own, he stroked her face, felt the outline of her jaw, brushed her lips with his thumb before drawing his hand back up to trace the lines of her neck, down to her collarbone and drawing his fingers lightly against her fair skin. She took in another breath, steadier now, and released it. He drew open the ties of her dressing gown and laid his hand against her waist, as he had done before, taking in the warmth of her beneath her linen chemise. Still looking at him, she took that hand and placed it over her breast. Where it lingered, rising and falling with her breathing, her heart pounding madly beneath it.

He kissed her then, kissed her well and truly, heart and soul, with everything that was in him. He gave her all and took what she gave him in return, and with it taught her what she had never known, that an act so violent, so selfish and demeaning could be, in another time and place, beautiful and divine. Sacred and saving. She had made this request of him, and so he sought to fulfil it. Slowly, carefully, very tenderly, he made himself acquainted with every inch of her, and made every inch his own.

And when, an hour later, perhaps more, she lay beside him breathless and quivering, he held her as she clung to him. Completely she had given herself, heart, soul and body. And while he may have earned the honour of this night, it would take a lifetime of labour to remain worthy of the gift she had fought so hard to give him. Hope, the frailest of all creatures, would reside with them so long as he strove to make a home for it. And he, ever a moth to her flame, she was at last a butterfly, free to love and live to the full measure of her soul’s capacity. As she deserved to do.

As all deserve to do.





Exerpt

From





September 1890

—London—





ABBIE STARTED AWAKE as a scream split the air. She dressed as quickly as she could and made her way to the room above her own. All was tense stillness there.

Mariana sat beside the bed, tending the young woman who lay still and spent upon it.

“Let me help, Mariana. You need some rest.”

Mariana looked up, tears sliding down her cheeks. “It is over, Abbie.”

“Over?” She looked at the young woman again, bloodied, still and pale. A wave of dread spread over her. “Is she…?”

“She lives. But the child…”

“What of the child?” She feared, yet knew, the answer already. “What of the child?” she asked again, this time of the doctor who had been in attendance.

He looked at her, but shook his head solemnly.

Abbie looked next to her aunt. In the haze of her waking, and the headache that lingered still from the day before, she had failed to notice that her aunt held something in her arms. An infant. Blue and lifeless.

She felt suddenly weak. The room was unbearably warm and close. The guttering jets made her head pound all the more in the pulsing light. She left the room, and as quickly as she could, made her way down the corridor and then down two flights of stairs. And she did not stop until she was standing outside. She needed air. She needed to be away. But there was no escaping her aunt’s house. This, now her parents were gone, was her home, and she must find—or make—a place within it.

In the distance she heard the cry of a peacock. Was there a park so near? The fog cleared to reveal a cab driving by. It did not pass, however, but stopped before the house adjacent, where Mr. Meredith, her aunt’s lawyer, lived and kept offices. One of his clients, perhaps.

The gentleman alit from his cab and approached the lawyer’s gate, where he examined the placard very carefully. Finding it not to be the one he wanted, he turned toward her aunt’s house. As he came closer, she saw that the look on his face betrayed how little he enjoyed his mission. He stopped at the gate, while she remained half hidden by the overgrown boxwoods.

Aunt Newhaven’s door bore no number, and so he stared for a moment, as if willing it to give up its secret. Of course it would not. He heaved a frustrated sigh and stood back to examine the façade.

It was then he saw her. His look of irritation, of disapproval even, changed to one of surprise, and then into something else entirely. He appeared to be suddenly, and quite sincerely, concerned.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked her.

Confused in her near delirium, and by the unexpected appearance of a stranger, she had no answer to offer him.

“Is there some way I can help you?”

Could he take her away from here? Could he take her from London and return her to the home she had left, hardly a month ago, on a sprawling estate in Hampshire? She shook her head in answer, both to his question, and to her own. “You are looking for someone?” she asked him instead.

“I— Yes. Possibly.”

“You’re unsure?”

He smiled with grey-blue eyes. He was very handsome when he smiled, and he looked, if possible, vaguely familiar, though there was certainly no reason he should. “I think I must have the wrong address. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I doubt it. I–” But how explain her circumstances? She lived here but was a stranger to the neighborhood. She resided with her aunt, and with her sister. And with… Oh why had she come outside!

“Miss Gray?” It was Mr. Meredith’s voice. He was just emerging from his house, and was now approaching. “What are you doing standing here in– Good day, sir. Can I help you? Are you acquainted with this woman?”

Mr. Meredith’s speech seemed to have a curious effect on the stranger, the look of concern faded. The look of irritation, of disapproval, returned.

“Not at all,” he said, rather too emphatically, and gracing her with an actually disapproving glance, as if that, after all, had been his purpose all along, he turned to walk away.

“You will at least tell me your name, sir,” Mr. Meredith called after him.

He received no reply and so followed, but the stranger was in his cab and pulling from the curb before the lawyer could catch up to him.

“Arabella!” The aunt now. “What on earth do you think you are doing? Come inside this instant!”

And while her aunt scolded, and Mariana attempted to steady Abbie’s shaking hands in her own, and as Mr. Meredith returned with more questions—“Do you know that man?” “What did he want?” “Did you get his name?”, “Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”—Abbie felt her strength drain from her. Her vision began to blur and dim. The walls tilted and began to crush down upon her. The floor rose up to meet her.

She met it half way.

* * *

“YOU SAID YOU saw her?”

“I did.”

“With your own eyes?”

“How else?”

James Crawford whistled and sat back in his chair before the fire. They had met today, at their London club, where they could share a drink and a cigar and discuss the recent news from home. There had certainly been a lot of it of late.

The brothers were not so close as their proximity in age might have suggested. As boys they had been the best of friends, but as young men they’d begun to grow tired of each other’s company. David, always serious and rather intense at times, did not find much to admire in his younger brother’s more flippant and irreverent manner. They had little in common, indeed, save for their opinion of their elder brother and his recent matrimonial pursuits.

“It was a week ago you saw her?” James asked. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“It didn’t matter then.”

“And she is…?”

“Finish your sentence, if you will,” David answered, and contemplated his brother’s somewhat rakish appearance. He looked tired. As though he’d been out all night—again. He was in need of a haircut and a shave.

“She is…” James shook his head impatiently, “. . . as common as we supposed her?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“No it isn’t. Say it. She is common tenant riff-raff, a wanton opportunist and a mercenary grasper.”

“I couldn’t possibly tell all that simply by looking at her.”

“Then what did she look like?”

David turned the glass in his hand methodically.

“Good heaven! Don’t tell me she’s a stunner?”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t need to.” James looked at him, and then laughed. “David Ransom Crawford, are you that soft?”

“Well, you don’t think Ruskin would be moony over a plain faced waif, do you?”

James took in a deep breath and released it with his answer. “I suppose not… But as you say, it doesn’t really matter, as she’s not to come after all.”

“Oh, but she is. In fact she’s to arrive within the week.”

“Good lord! You can’t be serious?” James sat up and examined David more carefully. “You are, aren’t you!”

David offered no reply, only took a sip from his glass and laid it down again with that concentrated calm he always possessed no matter how trying the situation. It certainly helped him when he was working with the facts and figures that were his current method of employment. It was a great boon to him in knowing when to buy and how long to hold onto the shares he invested in on behalf of his father and the estate. It did not always serve him so well where James was concerned.

“So she’s changed her mind, has she?” James asked now. “I ought to have supposed she would.”

“It does seem so.”

“How was it she was to come in the first place? I still can’t quite understand it.”

“I’m not sure there is any understanding it, really. Not while we’re both from home, at any rate. You knew, of course, that her father recently died.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry to hear it. I rather liked the fellow.”

“Did you?” David asked, a little surprised.

“He was a good man. Knew his place, you know. Not like his confounded daughters. I had occasion to talk to him back when I was the one assisting our father on the estate. Before Ruskin came home to take charge of things.” James took a resentful puff of his cigar and nodded at a passing acquaintance. “So Mr. Gray passed on, God rest his soul and all that, but what has it to do with the girl?”

“Well, they were alone then, the sisters, and in need. Our father took it upon himself to help them, and to make Ruskin acquainted with their trials.”

“He was successful there, wasn’t he! Once again, Ruskin’s spied something he wants and so he’s decided he must have it. Our father can’t truly have meant to encourage him to consider our late overseer’s daughter as a candidate for marriage. It’s absurd!”

“I think he meant to engage him, through her, in the tenants’ plight, and from there with that of the workers. To make him see that things were in a bad way and could not remain so. It’s impossible he could approve of Ruskin’s attachment to her, and yet…”

“He makes no objection,” James finished for him. “As if he cannot see where it must lead, he invites her to live with us. What can our father be thinking?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” David answered.

“And it’s Just the one now, is it?”

“Just the one.”

“Well, she can’t stay, and that’s a fact,” James declared and stubbed out his cigar.

“And what do you mean to do about it?” David’s question was a rhetorical one, but a rather wicked look was playing upon James’ face. “What are you thinking?”

“You don’t want to handle it, I take it? You have your work to keep you in Town?”

“Yes, I have. And no, I most certainly do not want to handle it, as you say.”

“You’ll trust me to do it, then?”

David laughed. “I trust you can find a way to mitigate the risks posed by our parents’ newest project, but do I trust you to do it without causing further trouble? Of that I’m not so certain.”

James merely answered with another narrow and too cunning look.

“Do take care, will you?” David admonished him. “If you want to discourage her from staying, or even from coming at all, that’s one thing. Just promise me you won’t do anything to cause her any real harm. I think her life has been difficult enough without your meddling.”

James, with a frustrated breath of air, arose and threw his coat on. “You can trust me, you know. I’ll soon have it all under control. You’ll see.”

But David was not certain he did see. There was nothing more to say on the subject, however, and his brother, draining off his glass, set it down with a parting nod and turned from him.

“Have I told you that you smell of cheap perfume?” David called after him.

“And watered brandy, yes,” James answered. “Twice today.” And the door closed between them.

David finished his drink and set it back down. He studied the empty glass, recalled the events of that day, not more than a week ago, when, out of curiosity, he had paid a visit to an unnumbered house in a quiet London borough. The signet ring he wore on his right little finger clicked against the polished wood of the chair’s arm as he considered what he had seen there; a young woman, hauntingly beautiful, plainly distraught and looking altogether lost. The spell she had cast had mercifully been broken, but he understood now how easily his eldest brother had been ensnared. Well, James would know how to deal with that problem. David rubbed at his brow, for the thought, as much as he wished it to, did not give him much comfort. Pray God he would not have to clean up James’ mess, too.





About the Author

.R. attended Brigham Young University, Idaho, where she earned a degree in Interior Design, while, at the same time studying English Literature, Art History and Sociology. When she is not writing, she is designing impractical clothing, redecorating her historical homes, or making impossible demands of her husband of seventeen years. She travels a great deal and considers herself a citizen of the world.

Currently, V.R. makes her home in Appalachian Virginia, where she lives with her three children, seven cats and a dog named Jasper.

V.R. is a member of Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative, Past Times Books, Authors Anon and Literary Underground, all of which are aimed at ensuring that the independent publishing world produces some of the finest work available to the reading public. To find out more about her and her work, visit www.vrchristensen.com/





About the Illustrator

fter training in Classical and Early Music, B. Lloyd studied at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia, where she graduated in 2005. She has taken part in art fairs and exhibitions in Italy and Holland, including the Ootmarsum Art Fairs and Wierden Art Events.

B. Lloyd is also a writer and the founder of AuthorsAnon, a venue where both published and non-published authors of high quality fiction can share their work and gain exposure.

B. Lloyd lives and works in Venice.

For more information about B. Lloyd and her work, please visit her website.