Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER eight





RCHER STEPPED OUT into the churchyard to find the weather changing, and changing fast. The cloud-darkened sky and blustering winds reflected his mood as he set out, somewhat belatedly, back to Cambridge. He got no further, however, than the church gate before he stopped. What was he thinking? He turned and looked back toward the chapel. What kind of fellow leaves a woman in apparent distress to make her way home, alone and in foul weather! Not a gentleman. And so he waited, placing himself strategically beside the churchyard gate of.

She was among the first to exit the building. Neither did it surprise him that she hesitated upon seeing him. Eyeing the gate and perhaps considering her escape, she moved on. He stepped forward and held the gate for her, but she offered no sign of acknowledgement as she passed him.

The distance between them widened. The crowd was gathering, and his chance would soon be beyond him.

“May I see you home?” he asked her at the last moment.

She stopped but did not turn…then threw a cautious glance in his direction. “Thank you, sir, but it’s an unnecessary trouble.” She moved on.

Soon the crowd obscured his view of her. Was that it then? No. It was not possible. He followed and caught up to her.

“Will you tell me your name?”

Half turning to him, she glanced but her gaze did not meet his face. “And what use would that be to you?”

He hesitated for only an instant. “Well, so I might use it, of course.”

She looked up at him. There was a smile in her eyes, a hint of a laugh. And he was pleased.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked, sincerely desirous to know and wishing he might somehow relieve her of whatever burden it was that weighed so heavily upon her.

“Perfectly,” she said with another grateful but melancholy smile, her eyes sparkling with the moisture that did not belong there. “It looks like rain,” she said, attempting once more to take her leave of him. “I must go.”

“Your name?” It was daring, but he had to know, there must be some connection, something to ensure that he might see her again. “Please?”

Still she hesitated, and he was happy, for the moment, to have her standing there just looking at him.

“Gina Shaw,” she said at last. “Now I really must be on my way.”

He did not stop her again, simply watched her walk hurriedly away as the rain began to fall.

* * *

Imogen returned to the upper rooms that afternoon and tried very hard not to think of the strange gentleman she had met that morning. But it was not until Charlie and Mr. Brown returned to help her that she found any success in the endeavour. Mr. Brown arrived with his toolbox in hand and an apology on his lips. He had been detained at the station, he said. Sir Edmund’s nephew was returning to Cambridge today, and it was Mr. Brown’s responsibility to bring the young man’s horse back, but he’d had to wait an hour or more. This he explained as he began disassembling the canopy bed in preparation for its removal. Imogen remembered, vaguely, that the matter of the visitor had been discussed between Sir Edmund and Mrs. Hartup, but she had not been aware of anyone’s arrival or departure. But then she had been so busy she had hardly had time to be aware of anything at all. Still, the apology was unnecessary.

Charlie too was late in arriving but he offered no apology, nor any excuse. In fact he was quite solemn, which was a marked change from his usually pleasant and friendly demeanour.

“His father visited him today,” Mr. Brown told her confidentially. “He’s always like this when his father visits.”

“Does he not live with his father then, Mr. Brown?” Imogen dared to ask, but only when the boy had left the room with a crate to take to the attic.

Mr. Brown’s features grew into a stiff, contemplative smirk. “There’s lots of boys what don’t live with their fathers, miss. There’s lots of boys what don’t know who their fathers is.”

“Somehow I thought–” and she stopped. What had she thought? He dressed like a member of the household and worked like one of the staff. She knew very well he didn’t live at the Abbey and yet he seemed always to be here.

“What did you think, miss? That he was one of the family?”

“I don’t know. Yes, perhaps.”

Mr. Brown shook his head. “He is and he ain’t. His mother worked here once. A servant like yourself.”

“And his father?”

Mr. Brown didn’t answer this.

“You said some don’t know their own fathers. Surely he does…if you do.”

Mr. Brown looked up and toward the door for a moment. “I don’t know that he does. He wants to. I can tell you that. All boys want the love and respect of their fathers. They ache for it. ‘Tis hard to become a man without it.”

* * *

Sir Edmund, having made up his mind to examine for himself the progress being made in the west wing suite, arrived one afternoon to find Gina working high up on a ladder, sweeping the cobwebs and pulling down the tattered drapes. He remained there some time, alternating his attention between her and the work so far completed, before making his presence known. She started upon seeing him, having just come down from the ladder, her arms full of soiled draperies.

“You’ve been working very hard,” he said.

She stood before him, silent and straining under the weight of her burden. “Yes, sir.”

“I confess I’m surprised. Mrs. Hartup would have me believe you are incapable of any useful enterprise.”

Again, she said nothing. She simply stood there.

He looked her over carefully, from head to foot, checking off in his mind the list of evidences Mrs. Hartup had given as proof that she had been bred and reared to be something much different from what she claimed to be, and comparing them to what he himself had observed.

“You’ve received some education?” he said at last.

“Very little, sir.”

“But you’ve benefited by it.”

“I don’t know that I have, sir.”

“It wasn’t a question,” he said, his voice hardening. “You’ve received some finishing?”

“No, sir.”

“Picked it up during your time with Everard, eh?”

“I need to get back to work, sir,” she answered, turning from him. “I’ve much to do, as you can see.”

The doorway darkened again and Sir Edmund turned to find the housekeeper standing there. Many things could be said of Mrs. Hartup. That she was slack in her responsibilities over her charges was not one of them. Not since Betty Mason, at any rate.

“You are right, Mrs. Hartup,” he said without looking at her. “I think she’s proved she’s not at all suited to the kind of work with which you’ve entrusted her.”

Mrs. Hartup stood a little straighter, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“In fact, you might consider yourself relieved of her.”

Mrs. Hartup started, her mouth opened, but it was Gina who spoke first.

“Sir, please. I will try harder. I can be of use to you.”

“No. I’ve no doubt you can,” he said. “In fact I have my own ideas as to how you might occupy your time.” From within his coat pocket he removed a piece of folded paper. He watched her face, very carefully, as he unfolded it, and found to his pleasure, though not to his surprise, that she coloured observably upon seeing the rendering she had painstakingly drawn.

“How did you come by that?” she asked him.

“Mrs. Hartup discovered it. She thought I might find it interesting.” He paused for a moment as he watched her struggle to understand. “As you’ve likely been made aware, Wrencross Abbey must be prepared for a new mistress. I wish for you to direct the improvements.”

“Sir,” Mrs. Hartup protested, “I hardly think she’s suitable for such a task as that.”

“As you have rightly insisted, Mrs. Hartup, she’s not suited to helping you at all, and so I have relieved you of your charge over her.”

“But sir. What am I to do about—”

“That will be all, Mrs. Hartup,” he said, and with a wave of his hand, he dismissed her.

“I will see that you have everything you need. You will make your plans, as you have done here. List every appointment, every detail, and present them to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Very good,” and he left her then, that she might begin her work immediately, and that he might think what was next to be done, what was next to be learned of this strange young woman. And how he was to go about it. His curiosity having been piqued, he would not give the matter up until he had some satisfactory answers.

For now, he would keep his eye on her, and he would keep her occupied. It was entirely possible that, in giving her the responsibility of redecorating the suite of bedrooms, he had placed too much faith in her abilities. Her rendering had shown a keen eye and a little talent. It was going a long way to assume she could manage the execution. But he had not given her carte blanche. She would make her choices, and he would approve or reject as circumstances demanded. Certainly anything she might accomplish would be better than what he could do on his own. And if her taste should run in any extraordinary direction, for good or ill, such would supply him with further evidence yet of the manner in which her tastes had been trained.