Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER nine





November 1881



VER THE PASSING days, Gina Shaw’s work progressed rapidly, far more rapidly than Mrs. Hartup’s enduring complaints might have led Sir Edmund to suppose. The painters and paperers had been called in and had raised their scaffolding. And while they made their preparations to begin painting, Gina continued her work, where and how she could, arranging, directing, planning in a manner both organised and efficient.

If it was Sir Edmund’s intention to watch her, she did not make his work too difficult. She was out of doors this afternoon, just within view of the study, working very hard as usual and conspicuously so. At least it was difficult to ignore her. He wondered if he had not taken an unnecessary risk in hiring her, and in keeping her in spite of all.

As he considered, he continued to watch from the comfort of his library. The plumes of dust that sailed about her as she beat a decade’s worth of dirt from the rugs did little to conceal her more obvious charms. Her hair she wore down, tied behind with a ribbon. Her complexion, too fine to have seen much of the unshaded world, was flushed from exertion. Sir Edmund sat down at his desk and thought. What combination of circumstances had brought her to his door? It could not be coincidence. He did not believe in it. Nor could it be by design. But what did that leave?

Before any satisfactory solution could be reached, and as if in confirmation of the risks he’d begun to consider, Sir Edmund’s view of the girl was obscured by the silhouette of Miles Wyndham. Without knocking, his nephew entered, his fair hair gleaming in the sunlight and his attention still turned out of doors.

“I see you’ve made an addition to the staff.”

“I have,” Sir Edmund answered. “Though what business it is of yours I’d like to know.”

Wyndham closed the door, but continued to watch her. “Hmm,” he answered, as if he thought the question were one deserving of sincere contemplation.

At last Wyndham managed to tear his gaze from the view outside and sat himself down in a chair opposite Sir Edmund’s desk.

“You’ve come for…?” Sir Edmund asked of him.

Wyndham gave Sir Edmund a sideways look. He appeared pale. But then he always looked pale. “The usual thing,” he answered, stretching his long legs out before him.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you again, Miles. I’m not your personal lending agent.”

“Hamilton seems to do well enough by you.”

Wyndham received a warning look for this.

“But then he’s not crossed you, has he? Not yet, at any rate.” With a jerk of his head in the direction of the yard, Wyndham went on. “It’s good of you to provide him with some amusement. Quite benevolent of you, really. We both know how sadly deprived he’s been in that quarter. At least of late. I suppose you need something to keep him coming home to.”

“That’s not what she’s here for Miles, and if you believe that then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you.”

“You know how to pick’em, that’s all I’ll say.”

“So long as you remember I didn’t pick her for you, or for Archer, for that matter, we’ll all get along well enough.”

“Why then? You’ve turned away enough mill girls to provide an army of servants. Why her?”

Sir Edmund didn’t answer this.

“Looking for an alternative to Mrs. Emily Barton, are you?” Wyndham exhaled a breathy laugh. “I don’t blame you for that.”

“I’ll beg you to remember your place, Miles! It’s for Mrs. Barton this girl has been employed.” Sir Edmund rubbed at one eyebrow. “I need someone to attend to the west wing improvements, if you must know.”

Wyndham whistled and stood. “And so you’ve hired a common housemaid to appoint a suite of bedrooms for you and the future mistress of Wrencross Abbey? That’s taking a bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

“It may be. At the very least they’ll be cleaned and ready for the rest.”

Wyndham turned from the window. “Of course you could have Mrs. Barton see to the decorating. So long as your taste runs toward hothouse flowers and canary yellow.”

“That’s enough, Miles!”

Wyndham sat down again as he continued to examine the door, and the view beyond it.

“Hamilton’s home?”

“He’s expected this evening.”

“Ah!” Wyndham answered, tossing his eyebrows high. “If you’re anxious at all… Well, I can take her off your hands for you. I could use some extra help under my roof.”

“Under your roof. In your bed is what you mean! I’ve not got enough capital to be supporting any more knocked up wenches and their bastard children. Get out of here and keep a wide berth if you know what’s good for you!”

Wyndham arose.

“Through the front door, if you please!”

With Wyndham’s departure, and reminded of his anxieties, Sir Edmund returned his attention out of doors. Perhaps he had put too much faith in Archer’s obedience. That same faith had failed him before. Charlie Mason was living proof of it. Such a disaster could not be allowed to happen twice. Should some great obstacle come between his nephew and the ambitions which Sir Edmund had long held, and which he depended so much upon, all would be ruined. There was not much left to hold onto now. He was in debt up to his ears. What money he’d put forth for the recent improvements was little more than an investment. Mrs. Barton would bring them some relief, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what Archer might do. Sir Edmund, pacing the width of the library, turned once more to look out upon the latest risk to all his long established hopes. Was she truly a risk, or was it possible she was something else entirely? Until he knew for certain, it was the risk he needed to mitigate. He went to the door and summoned her.

She turned to look at him but hesitated to approach. Dust covered, sweat stained, she was still miles above the others in both appearance and manners. Yes, Archer would notice her. And what then?

“I believe I warned you once before that I prefer my servants to be as nearly invisible as is possible,” he said to her upon her arrival.

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

“And yet here you are, in the very centre of my lawn, beating rugs into the open air.”

“I cannot very well beat them indoors, sir.”

“The kitchen yard will not do?”

“Mrs. Prim forbids it, sir. She says it taints her cooking.”

“Someone else then will have to see to it,” and he turned to ring the bell.

“May I infer then, sir, that it is not your servants in general you object to seeing, but to me in particular?”

She seemed actually hurt by it, right as she was. Her audacity galled him.

“I think I made a mistake in hiring you. I was curious. It was wrong. I see that now.”

The look of anxiety that had been in her eyes a moment ago hardened now. “Do you have complaints about my work, sir?”

“I have concerns in regard to the fact that you seem determined to make trouble.”

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“You do not get on with the other staff. The girls do not like you. They say you put on airs, and I believe they are right.”

“Airs, sir?”

“Do you deny it?”

“I don’t know what you can mean.”

“Have you somehow lowered yourself in working for me?”

“No,” she answered without flinching.

“Perhaps you’ve raised yourself, then.”

Her face flushed crimson.

“Perhaps if I understood in what manner you served my friend, I might better know how you might best serve me.”

He saw her pale as she took a step away from him. What he saw in her eyes confirmed his suspicion, though it gave him no great comfort. He saw a fear that spoke of experience, and that of the worst kind. He’d seen that look before, and the memory brought the taste of bile.

“You’re quite a stranger here.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“No family?”

“No, sir.”

“None?”

“Not near.”

“In Town?”

Again, silence was her only answer.

“Drake Everard had a niece.”

Before she could answer, which he was not sure she meant to do, in any event, there was a knock at the door.

“Just a minute, if you please!” Sir Edmund bellowed, and then, taking Gina by the arm, showed her out, almost hastily, through the garden entrance.

“I want you upstairs, in the west wing bedrooms, and I want you to stay there, do you understand?”

“What have I done to offend you, sir? Will you tell me?”

“It isn’t anything you have done, but something you seem determined yet to do. Now go!”

He closed the door but waited a moment to be sure she was gone.

The knock again.

“Yes, yes. Come in!”

Archer stepped into the room. Sir Edmund stepped out of it.

“Mrs. Hartup!” he called.

A minute later, Mrs. Hartup appeared, red faced and out of breath.

“Send one of your girls out to finish beating the rugs, if you will.”

“The girls have enough to do on their own, sir, without attending to Gina’s chores.”

Sir Edmund’s eyes closed in frustration. “After twenty-odd years, Mrs. Hartup, can you manage for once to do as you are told?”

She turned and shuffled off, mumbling unintelligibly.

Sir Edmund returned to the study. Archer had already made himself comfortable.

“You’re home early.”

“In your way again, am I?”

“You won’t be for long.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sending you back to Town.”

“Not again?”

“Yes, again.” Sir Edmund handed Archer an invitation to a dinner party to be held that evening, along with his expected allowance. The young man pocketed it without a word. “You’ll go?”

“I suppose I might wash and get a change of clothes first.”

“Yes, yes. Fine.”

Archer arose, prepared to take his leave.

“Oh Archer,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him. “You won’t mind taking Mrs. Barton?”

At the mention of Sir Edmund’s mistress, Archer turned to face his uncle.

“Why would I do that?” His displeasure was apparent in the flinching of his jaw muscles.

“Because you attend me when you’re at home, if you remember, and you can do that by attending Mrs. Barton. I can’t get away just now, and she is anxious to be seen.”

“By you?”

“By Society! You’ll take her and there’s an end of it!”