Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  “Yes?” Imogen prompted, though something warned her she did not want to hear what Miss Montegue had next to say.

  “I wonder what it is that brought you here. I do not have to wonder how you found employment when a hundred others were turned away. I understand him.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “He’s not my uncle. He is my aunt’s cousin,” she answered proudly. “We’re all cousins, you see. It’s easier that way.” Proud or not, there was nevertheless a heavy dose of sarcasm implied in her words.

  Imogen dared an uncomfortable smile.

  “He has placed you up here to keep you out of the way. And to discover your talents, I think. I wonder what else you are capable of. You are not, after all, a servant of the common order. It takes no great genius to see that.”

  Imogen looked down at her drawings and shifted them slightly. “I don’t know what you can mean.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I came here in need of work. That is all. I’m sure many others before me have found themselves in humbled circumstances. Am I not to seek employment simply because I do not appear to be made for it? I must make my way the same as everyone else.”

  “But why?” Claire asked. “Why in this way? Why here, as a servant?”

  “A woman without family, without connections…”

  “Such as yourself?”

  “Yes, of course. It is, after all, the only thing for which I can recommend myself, truly.”

  Claire turned her attention once more out of doors. Imogen watched, waiting for whatever might come next. Did this woman consider her some kind of threat? Did she, too, fear that Gina Shaw had come only to cause trouble? Would she cast her out to make her way somewhere else? At last Claire turned toward her again.

  “I would like a walk, Gina. Would you be so good as to accompany me?”

  “Certainly, Miss Montegue.”

  “Claire,” she said. “You must and you will call me Claire.”

  * * *

  A quarter of an hour later, the two walked out of the house together, and upon gaining the avenue, Claire slipped her arm into Imogen’s.

  “Now, Gina Shaw, I want to know all about you.”

  “All about me?” A tremor of alarm was plain in Imogen’s voice, though she tried to sound as composed as her companion.

  “Yes. For instance, where were you born? That’s a good enough place to start.”

  Imogen winced. So it was going to be an interview. “India,” she answered truthfully.

  Claire glanced, a look in her eye of surprise.

  “And then?”

  “My parents died and I came to England.”

  “To live in London.”

  “Yes.”

  “With?”

  “An uncle. Until he, too, died. And then I found myself on my own.”

  “With no one at all to claim you?”

  Imogen could not and would not answer this.

  “And you have been in service then for…?”

  “A great many years.” It was at once a lie and the absolute truth, for there had never been a time when she had not been expected to serve her uncle in some way.

  Claire seemed not to believe her. Imogen too was aware that not all of her answers were matching up quite seamlessly.

  “You must have been very young, indeed.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  “Yes.”

  Claire laughed and the sound comforted her. “Which one?”

  “I’m nineteen today. Tomorrow, Saturday, I shall turn twenty.”

  “Good heaven! The wonders never cease.”

  “I suppose it is a bit of a coincidence. Charlie told me it is Mr. Hamilton’s day as well.”

  “You’ve met Charlie?”

  “Yes, he’s been helping me.”

  “Such a promising boy. I wish something could be done for him. He deserves better.”

  “Yes,” Imogen said with greater enthusiasm. “That’s just my feeling. His life will be hard enough, I think. He only needs a little in the way of helpful encouragement. Some practical assistance. If he were to go to a proper school, if he had a patron who would support him, not just financially but…” Imogen stopped as Claire offered her a challenging look, though it might have been of wonder as well. Either way, Imogen had presumed too much. “I speak out of turn. Forgive me. I have yet to learn to keep my thoughts to myself.”

  “If you have not learned it yet, Gina Shaw, I doubt you ever shall.”

  “I will try. I’m determined to try.”

  “You mistake me. A woman who speaks her mind is what is wanted most here. That is not to say it’s most welcome, only…necessary.” She smiled once more, at Imogen first, and then, turning her attention back to the path before them, at nothing at all. “I think… That is, I dare to suppose, that we will soon find ourselves very good friends.”

  Imogen, at last at ease, smiled her pleasure in return. They walked on for a little way and were just nearing the village when they were stopped by a gentleman Imogen had seen before but whom she had never before met. His appearance prompted from Claire a look of profound annoyance.

  “I’m very sorry,” she whispered to Imogen.

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Claire Montegue! Fancy seeing you here,” the gentleman, pale and tall, said. “Taking the new housemaid out for an airing, are you? She could use it, I dare say, after being shut up in the Abbey for these past many weeks, doing Sir Edmund’s dirty work and preparing for that woman to take residence.”

  “Miles Wyndham,” was Claire’s only answer.

  “I have not been properly introduced to your friend, Claire,” he said as a very winning smile spread across his face. He was frighteningly handsome. “Would you be so good?”

  “It seems you know her well enough, Mr. Wyndham. I think I ought to spare her any further indignity.”

  “Well then, if enough is enough, I might address her myself. Gina Shaw,” he said offering an exaggerated bow. “It seems to me a wonder that you have been in residence these many weeks and I have not yet had the pleasure of properly making your acquaintance.”

  Claire looked to Gina, a blank expression on her face.

  “It’s remarkable,” he said, “don’t you think?”

  “Not so remarkable,” Imogen said, seeing at last that she must give some answer. “Not when the fact remains that I should be considered quite beneath your notice, and you so far above mine that no reasonable contrivance can have been arranged that we might become acquainted one with another. It is no more than logical. It is no more than either of us should wish.”

  Wyndham looked to Claire, bemusement on his brow. “This is Sir Edmund’s new maid-of-all-work?”

  “You will do well to remember it, sir,” Imogen answered before Claire had the chance.

  “I think I can be made to forget,” he said, raising the hair on her arms.

  “I doubt very much you shall have the occasion.”

  Again he turned to Claire. “You have come to celebrate Mr. Hamilton’s birthday, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” Claire answered. “It’s good of you to remember it. I will relay to him your good wishes for the day.” And taking Imogen’s arm, she began to move off.

  “Well, I might do it myself, you know. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. You are come. I imagine there is to be a dinner at least. Might I presume to beg an invitation?”

  Claire, having turned back to answer, offered her reply. “It has been some time since the two of you were on good terms. If ever you were at all. It may indeed be presuming, sir.”

  “A quiet family gathering then is it?” The question was asked with a degree of resentment Imogen found both puzzling and unsettling.

  “If you are not welcome it is no fault of mine.”

  “Well, then,” Wyndham returned. “I suppose I shall see you there.” He bowed once more.

&nb
sp; “You presume to go where you are not welcome, sir?” Imogen demanded of him, though how she found the courage she could not say.

  His gaze flashed from Claire’s face to Imogen’s and softened into something that might have been ingratiating had it come from another. “Do you mean to wound me, Miss Shaw?”

  “No, sir, I mean to remind you of your manners. If you are a gentleman, you do not much act like one.”

  He laughed and looked away. “Clearly you are in similar danger of forgetting your place, Miss Gina Shaw. Or has Claire offered to raise you from it? Training her as your lady’s maid are you?”

  “Perhaps,” Claire said. “It is, however, no business of yours.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It will make things simpler, certainly.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, where you are, she will be. It seems the acquaintance is to be improved after all, Miss Shaw,” he said with a bow. “You may count on it.”

  Claire suddenly held to Imogen’s arm more snugly, uncomfortably even. “Good day to you, Wyndham,” she said and turned from him.

  They walked then, back in the direction of the Abbey, though Mr. Wyndham watched on for some time, even following them that he might keep them in view as long as possible.

  “Surely he was speaking in jest,” Imogen asked of her still flushed companion, and hoping for any reassurance.

  “You know of Wyndham? Of course you must,” Claire asked of her.

  “No. I have seen him come and go from the Abbey on occasion, but I’ve never spoken to him.”

  “And no one has spoken to you of him?”

  “No. Should they have done?”

  Imogen waited for the explanation, and dreaded it too.

  “Mr. Wyndham is a menace. He is dangerous, deceitful and completely unconcerned with anyone or anything but himself. You will remember it?”

  “Yes. Yes of course.”

  “Your reply to him was well dealt, but I fear it will only encourage him. You may have a reason to consider him a threat. I pray it isn’t so. You will remember the warning?”

  Imogen glanced back to see him trailing at a leisurely pace and felt her colour drain.

  “Of course I’ll remember.” She smiled, hoping it would sweep the feeling of doom away, or at least remove the evidence from her ashen face. Clearly it didn’t’ work.

  “Gina, my dear,” Claire said, appearing truly concerned now, “if I’ve upset you…”

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t anything you’ve said or done.”

  A long silence ensued, wherein Claire continued to observe her. “Something is wrong. Will you tell me?”

  “There is nothing to tell,” Imogen said, her gaze fixed obstinately on the Abbey before them and the uncertain safety to be had within its walls. What had she done in coming here? Why had she assumed that amongst strangers she would find safety? In running away, had she abandoned her one solitary chance of ever finding it?

  Claire reached out to her. “What is it?” she pleaded as a true friend would. “Tell me. You can trust me.”

  Imogen had never before had a real confidante. The idea she might was a comforting one. A tempting one. “You will think me very foolish, I’m afraid, but I came here believing I would be out of harm’s way.”

  “You came to seek safety here?”

  “Yes. You do think me a fool.”

  “No, but…”

  “There isn’t anywhere a woman is safe, is there?” Imogen asked with a catch in her throat.

  Claire looked her over very carefully, searching for something. At last she seemed to have found it. “I think you had better tell me the whole story.”

  Back to top

  Chapter sixteen

  LAIRE, PLACED IMOGEN, bright eyed and pale, before the fire. She had tea brought up. It came, and Imogen, taking a cup, held it in her hands and felt the warmth, inhaled the comforting scent of bergamot and cloves. Smells of the East. Familiar. She took a sip and set it down.

  “Now, please. Tell me what is wrong,” Claire said, seating herself beside her. You said you came here to find safety. From what then, or whom, had you need of seeking it?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” she answered, yet undecided as to just how much she ought to tell, and certain she could not tell it all. “I was running from my history, I imagine. I’m afraid it will be difficult to understand.”

  “Then begin, if you will, at the beginning. There is no hurry. You are my companion tonight. You have nothing to think of but to attend me.”

  Imogen offered a grateful smile. She hesitated a moment more, but there was no use prevaricating, it seemed. Claire would have her way. “My parents died, I believe I told you that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “At the age of nine, I found myself alone, without father or mother. I was to go live with one of my aunts in London, and so I waited for her to fetch me. But it was my uncle who arrived instead. Though he had come all that way, he made it clear that he did not want me.

  “My uncle was a moneylender,” she continued, but paused to assess Claire’s reaction. There was none. Nothing besides her enduring look of honest interest and good natured sympathy. “A great many of his patrons were those whom he had scouted out himself. He hunted them down, I believe, as mercilessly as any huntsman, from card rooms and racetracks, from brothels, anywhere their resources were squandered and wasted and where they would no doubt wish to return—once they paid their debts. With certain of these gentlemen—and you can be sure they were all gentlemen—he had formed a regular clientele, and they would sometimes come to the house. Quite often, actually.” The dark memories loomed and threatened now. She shut them out and went on.

  “My uncle never paid me much attention, but when he saw how these men, young and old alike, took an interest in me, he began to encourage me to help him entertain. I did not see any harm in it at first, and to be honest, I quite liked the attention. It was such a novelty, you see, to be thought so highly of, to be made so much of. It went to my head, and I’m afraid I was perhaps more encouraging than I ought to have been.”

  She paused for breath, and as she considered what must come next, what it was too late now to balk from, she found the anger and rage welling up within her.

  “At the same time,” she went on, “with the unexpected discovery that these men found me worthy of attention, so, suddenly, did my uncle, and I found I could not go near him without his hands always being on me in one fashion or another.” A tear of shame spilled down her cheek.

  Claire reached out and touched her arm. “He did not…” she asked, or began to ask, but did not finish.

  “No. No he did not go so far as that, but it was through him that it happened. At least it is he I blame. Besides myself of course, for I ought to have known better.”

  Claire took her hand and held it tightly. Encouraged, Imogen continued.

  “My uncle stepped out one day and, relieved to have my solitude, I sat down to practice at the piano. It was then that one of my uncle’s gentlemen arrived. A Mr. Lionel Osborne. I admit I thought much of him, and toward me, my uncle encouraged his attentions.” She shook her head in recognition of her foolishness. And continued. “I did not hear him enter. In fact it was not until he spoke that I became aware of him at all.”

  Imogen closed her eyes and there they were. The images. The horrific memories, pressing in upon her.

  “I asked him,” she began again, falteringly. “I asked him if he had forgotten something. The way he looked at me. I should have known. I see that now. I was not a complete innocent, after all. Yet I thought myself safe. I always believed that my uncle would rescue me from anything too unseemly. Of course he would protect me. Wouldn’t he? But he didn’t. He turned his back on me. Do you want to know what he said? Mr. Osborne, I mean. I asked him if he had forgotten something. Do you want to know what he said?”

  “If you want to tell me, Gina. If you think you can.”

  “ ‘As a matter
of fact I did.’ Those were his very words. And then...” She stifled a sob and the vision descended upon her as though it were happening all over again. “And then…he kissed me. Hard. Much too hard. There was nothing tender or kind in the gesture, nor in his embrace. He kissed me and he touched me, and he did not stop until–” She choked as a tear spilled over her eyelashes. “I do not have to say what happened next.” It was a question. A plea.

  “No,” Claire said. “You don’t have to say any more, dear Gina. I understand you.” And putting her arms around her, Claire held her as she shook with the emotion, sorrow, rage, self-loathing, all of which she had kept deeply locked inside her, as she had been expected to do.

  “So it was from these men you sought to escape?” Claire asked when Imogen had calmed a little. “This Mr. Osborne? And from your uncle?”

  “No,” Imogen said, drying her tears. “It was only when my uncle died that I had the courage to run away. Perhaps it will not make sense to you, but it was because I could not bear to live with my aunts who had heartlessly watched me suffer, for nearly ten years under my uncle’s roof, that persuaded me to find some independence, no matter how humble. They knew what my life had been. They did not know all, but they knew enough. Always hinting at it too. To live with them, I would be forced to relive it all—over and over again. I know they see me as a dirty little thing, used and discarded and worthless now. Every time I see their face I’m filled with such shame and loathing. I hate them for turning their backs on me. And I hate myself for what I see in their eyes. I always feel that others can see it, that they will see it when they know me better, as if it is written across my forehead.”

  Claire did not refute this, but in the silence that followed, seemed to consider and to understand.

  At length, Imogen broke the silence. “I have a cousin, Claire, who wished to marry me. I think I was wrong not to accept him.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I thought I was protecting him.”

  “Not protecting yourself?”

  “Possibly,” Imogen conceded.