Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  * * *

  Sir Edmund looked up as the library door opened. “You have made a decision?”

  Archer, from his place within the doorway, opened his mouth to speak. He had not prepared the words, and so they rather surprised him as they tumbled out. “Make it happen,” he heard himself say.

  Sir Edmund leaned back and smiled. “Very well, then.”

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  Chapter twenty-nine

  RCHER AROSE THE following morning feeling himself the greatest of villains. His musings through the night had presented for his consideration the dire consequences of his rash words. He dressed and went in search of Sir Edmund. He found him too, sitting in the drawing room as Mrs. Barton chatted at him over the morning’s paper.

  As Archer entered, she arose to embrace him. “Congratulations, my dear,” she said, her smile beaming more with self-satisfaction than with any sincerely selfless sentiment.

  “I wonder, Mrs. Barton, if I might have a word with my uncle?”

  She took a quick glance at Sir Edmund, who raised a questioning eyebrow at his nephew. “Yes, of course,” she said, and left them.

  “Well?” Sir Edmund prompted once the door was closed.

  Archer hesitated only a moment, and then… “I want more time.”

  “We haven’t got it.” And as though that were all there was to the discussion, he picked up his paper and resumed his reading.

  “These arrangements,” Archer tried again, struggling to be patient. “I fear Miss Everard will not welcome them.”

  “No, I’ve no doubt she won’t. But what choice has she?”

  “That’s just it, sir. I do believe I can convince her. But she has the right to make the decision for herself. Think how unpleasant it would be to bring her back to the Abbey against her will. She’s not indifferent to the house, nor to me, I believe.”

  “Only to me, then, is it? That’s an obstacle I cannot overcome.”

  “You will not treat her ill? Can I promise her that much?”

  “We are bargaining now, are we?” Sir Edmund asked, glancing up over his paper.

  Archer took a seat next to his uncle. “If that’s my only choice, yes.”

  “Choices!”

  “I have a choice to do it willingly or not at all, whatever you may say. I might try it on my own, after all.”

  “With what! You’ve no money of your own that isn’t tied up in the estate—or hasn’t been wasted at the gambling tables.”

  Archer hesitated a moment. “But she does, doesn’t she. And you should know I’ve written to Claire. She will help me if I ask her.”

  Sir Edmund scoffed but wriggled in his chair.

  “I want one more opportunity to speak to her. Think how much better it will be for everyone if the arrangements are made amicably, all parties accepting.”

  Sir Edmund took a deep breath and released it as he laid the paper down on his lap. “One more chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I grant you this request, you will submit willingly?”

  “You have my word.”

  “To everything. All the arrangements. No matter what?”

  Archer considered this. Was there something more to his uncle’s plans than he had yet realised?

  “Whether or not she will accept you?” Sir Edmund pressed.

  It was asking a lot, but he saw no other alternative. “Yes,” he said, at last.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. That’s the best I can do. They are expected to join us for tea. You will have your opportunity then. But whether or not you succeed, the arrangement will be announced tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Archer said, hope and relief washing over him.

  “And you will submit, remember.”

  “Yes. Whatever you ask.”

  * * *

  Imogen arose that morning to find Mr. Watts having a cup of tea with her aunt.

  “We go to the house today,” Muriel reminded her.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure you are up to it?” the lawyer asked, a twitch of his mouth betraying his sympathy. She regretted she had ever thought him callous and hard.

  “I believe so,” she answered him. At least she was as ready as she would ever be.

  Upon arriving at the house, Mr. Watts attended the aunt through the house, while Imogen followed, watching for herself as the woman tried in vain to open the locked wardrobe and the attic doors. Where were the keys? No one knew.

  As for Imogen’s fears, these had been laid to rest upon seeing the house in the light of day, and knowing that any last evidences of her history were not to be found here. Nothing remained to betray her secrets. Roger had disposed of these in a mendicant’s bonfire on their journey home.

  They left the house soon enough, empty handed and silent, but Muriel suddenly found her tongue upon arriving home.

  “What do you intend to do with that house, Imogen?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, aunt.”

  “You don’t mean to live in it?”

  “I might.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  “Not at present, no,” Imogen answered. “But you must allow that there will come a day when you’ll have no control over me, and I can live where and how I like.”

  “I suppose you hope to make yourself quite independent of us?”

  “Wouldn’t you, were you in my position?” Imogen answered. “I think you know very well I’m not happy.”

  “That’s very ungrateful of you! Think of all I have done for you.”

  “Oh, have no doubt, ma’am. I think about it every day,” she said, and gained a step or two on the staircase before her aunt stopped her.

  “You’ve had an offer of marriage.”

  “Yes,” she said, facing her aunt once more.

  “I want you to consider it carefully.”

  “I know very well that my opportunities in that vein are few. I do not take Roger’s offer lightly.”

  “It isn’t Roger I mean, child. There is another.”

  Imogen blinked, her voice catching as she answered, “I’m sorry?”

  “I want you to consider him carefully before you reject him out of hand. Roger’s offer may seem attractive to you at first, but you know him well enough to doubt his constancy.”

  Imogen didn’t answer this, but swallowed hard. She felt the walls closing in around her.

  “You will listen to him?”

  “You do not demand that I accept him?”

  “We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Soon, I think. I cannot be sure. In the meantime, we’ve been invited to have tea with Mrs. Barton. You should consider it an honour to be thought of. We owe them something after all.”

  “Them? Sir Edmund and his nephew will be there?”

  “I suppose they will,” Muriel replied offhandedly.

  But Imogen was no longer listening. Her gaze drifted past her aunt’s face toward the door, and the locks and bolts that kept it closed fast. She was trapped. But she would see Mr. Hamilton again. Perhaps for the last time. It was something, at any rate, that she might look forward to.

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  Chapter thirty

  HE LADIES, UPON arriving at Hamley Lane, were formally announced and shown into a very bright and superfluously decorated sitting room, where Mrs. Barton awaited them and where they were soon joined by Sir Edmund and his nephew. It was an agonising hour. The two young people sat silent, hardly acknowledging each other. Imogen occupied herself by taking in the room, examining, piece by mass-produced piece, its sham elegance. Mr. Hamilton’s attention was averted too, though he seemed genuinely preoccupied, not just pretending to be as was Imogen.

  The conversation, as led by Mrs. Barton, commenced on the most trivial of topics—the weather, politics, the economy—before turning gradually to more and more worrisome ones. They touched upon the ingratitude of the rising generation and the increasing neglect of duty
—a subject of great interest, especially as the aunt and uncle had such examples to offer in their own dependents. They even discussed the late Drake Everard and their respective losses in consequence of his demise. And then, as they inevitably must, they came to the subject of the mysterious Gina Shaw, an uncommonly humorous topic—at least the aunt and uncle thought it so, especially in consideration of Imogen’s foolish attempt to pass herself off as some lowly servant. She had fooled no one, was the declaration, and now she had been restored safe and sound to home, even if she hadn’t yet learned to be properly grateful.

  With tea over, Imogen grew increasingly anxious for the visit to reach its conclusion. And though the conversation began to lull, the typical pre-departure small talk did not present itself. As the hour began to linger into two, her misgivings increased. In time, a question about the house was posed, which inspired from Mrs. Barton an offer to show her guests around, and to explain, as they went, the improvements she expected soon to undertake. Imogen’s disappointment was great, and perhaps it showed, though it seemed to her odd that her aunt should misinterpret it as she did.

  “You look tired, my dear,” Muriel said, to her. “Perhaps you ought to stay behind. Mr. Hamilton will keep you company, I’m sure.”

  Imogen could not answer, and indeed Muriel gave her little opportunity. Before she could think to offer a reply, they were gone, and she and Mr. Hamilton were alone. She turned to him, having not the slightest idea what she might say. He smiled in the gentle way he did, though there yet remained some nervous tension. She wished very much at that moment to be away.

  “There is a park nearby, Miss Everard. Would you care to walk?”

  Relieved to get away from the house, even if it was with him, or perhaps because of it, she answered. “Yes, certainly.”

  “You are not too tired?”

  “No. I’m not tired at all, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Pleased by this, he smiled, and together they left the house.

  “Are you well?” he asked her when they had gone a little way in silence.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Thank you.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “And you?”

  “At the moment I’m very well.”

  A reluctant smile was her answer as she kept her attention on the pavement before them. Another long silence followed before Archer endeavoured to break it.

  “You are well, you say. But not happy?”

  “That’s a very bold question.”

  “I’m feeling bold, I’m afraid. Will you answer the question?”

  She looked at him a moment, and then: “Perhaps I am a little tired, Mr. Hamilton. May I take your arm?”

  Happily he offered it. He might have done so before but for the feeling that she did not want him too near. In this way they walked in silence until they neared the park entrance. Time was so short. To waste even a minute of it…

  “Miss Everard… I should speak honestly. I lured you from the house for a purpose.”

  She stopped and separated herself from him. “Mr. Hamilton, this won’t do.”

  “Won’t it? You may be opposed to my speeches but I do not think you are opposed to me.”

  She did not answer but turned away and walked on. He followed.

  “I must speak or I may never have the chance. Mr. Barrett has offered himself to you. You have not yet accepted him?”

  “I have not yet told him so, but I mean to, yes.”

  “I am soon to be married myself.”

  To his immense satisfaction he saw her pale.

  “The matter is beyond me, Miss Everard. You know, I think, of my uncle’s expectations. He has at last taken them in hand, and if I do not act for my own happiness, well… Will you let me speak? You needn’t answer. Just listen.”

  She glanced at him once more and so offered her silent permission.

  “Can I tell you the impression you left on me that first day I saw you?”

  Again she did not answer, but focused her gaze determinedly ahead. She was listening.

  “I saw you at first in the meadow. And I followed. I couldn’t help it. It was beyond me. I followed you to the church, where I entered, for the first time in years, and I watched. And in the filtered light of an autumn morning I saw you, struggling to be free against some imagined constraint.”

  “Not imagined.”

  “Very well. If you say so, I must take your word for it. But then at the Abbey—”

  “You saw me quite changed. You saw me for what I was, you know. Not like this. But as I ought to have been.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I warned you.”

  He shook his head in confusion, to clear the fog she seemed determined to cast over him. “Can I tell you what I saw? I saw a woman in servant’s garb, behaving with a grace and dignity that stood in sharpest contrast to whatever twist of misfortune had placed her in such regrettable circumstances. I saw a beautiful creature who, by mistake had fluttered into an otherwise forlorn place where moth and dust corrupt.”

  “Not by mistake.”

  “Just as well. For I knew then, as I know now, that, were you to remain, it would be a far better place. As it might be again.”

  “You are asking me to return?”

  “But as no servant, Miss Everard. As someone to be served and respected. As my wife.”

  Her breath came harder and her gaze faltered and fell.

  “Miss Everard, this cannot be a surprise to you. I’ve made my intentions known. Your objections so far are ones I feel I can overcome, if you’ll just give me the chance.”

  She looked away and he watched her as her eyes darted from one indiscriminate spot to another. She was not seeing, only thinking.

  “Are you really so torn? Barrett is your best friend, but he is not your only friend. You mustn’t forget that. And while I understand how very appealing his offer may sound, you sacrifice yourself. I know you do. I believe you know it, too.”

  Her eyes flashed to meet his. “You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

  “Do you love him?’

  “Of course I love him.”

  “Like a woman should love the man she intends to marry?”

  He had knocked the breath from her with this and she turned away, her heart thumping madly. She wished she could run. Run and hide and be invisible. Why must he persist? Did he not know she could not bear it? Or perhaps he did know. Perhaps he counted on that very fact.

  “You have no advantage over him in that respect,” she said, determined to face him with resolve, but she found, as she looked up at him once more, that she had not the courage to meet his gaze.

  “Possibly not, but he at least has been given the opportunity to prove himself. Which opportunity I have so far been denied.”

  “And if you were granted it?” she found herself saying.

  “I’m trying to do it now.”

  “But it takes time, Mr. Hamilton, and as you say, you do not have it.”

  “Do you?”

  She dared a glance and found his look too penetrating, too earnest. “I don’t need it.”

  “I disagree. I think you’re settling, Miss Everard. I think you are considering Mr. Barrett as the safest of your choices. You have given him permission to be less than he ought to be, and in return he makes no demands upon your heart.”

  His audacity galled her and she found she at last had the necessary courage. She turned to him. “Do you blame me?”

  “Not at all, but should you regret it… No chance so precious should ever be wasted.”

  She closed her eyes and looked away.

  “You have declared, insisted even, that you are unworthy of my regard, beneath it. I mean to convince you it is not so. At least I cannot consider it so.”

  “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

  “Don’t say that. Stop saying that. I am trying. No one has ever tried harder to understand a woman than I have tried, am trying, to understand you.”

  She felt her resolve w
eaken once more.

  “You feel, somehow, that I should despise you. That I will learn to. I’m telling you it’s not possible.”

  “You speak in ignorance.”

  “I speak from my heart, Miss Everard. Do you refuse to listen still?”

  “Hearts change,” she said breathily.

  “Your heart might just as easily change in your darling cousin’s care. And I know his will because he’s that great a fool. You know it too, I can see it.”

  She looked away. He placed himself once more within her view.

  “I won’t change,” he said. “You have my word.”

  “You can’t make that promise.”

  “I just did.”

  She turned again from him and walked on. She needed a moment to think. He seemed willing, for the present, to give it to her.

  At last she sighed and he went on.

  “Miss Everard… Imogen,” he said, and her breath caught with the sound of her name. “I’m begging you to consider. I’ve asked you before but I think you have not taken me seriously. Will you do it now?”

  They entered a little bower of trees and shrubs—mistletoe and holly. And there they stopped. His gaze was on her, she could feel it, but hers she kept on the ground.

  “Will you?”

  “I think,” she began but stopped. What to say? What to say?

  “Yes?”

  She bit her lip, and releasing it, felt it redden and swell. His eyes were firmly set on them and for half a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. Her gaze dropped once more to the ground.

  “Miss Everard?” he said. It was little more than a whisper—a plea.

  “I need time.”

  “There is no time,” he said and the desperation in his voice frightened her.

  “We must be allowed something. I need time to consider. You need time.”

  “I don’t need it. I’ve considered. It’s all I’ve thought of since I met you. What once seemed impossible is now a hope attainable. All I need is for you to say yes.”

  She waited for the words to come, the necessary objection that she must offer, but there was nothing. Only birds chirping and the sound of horses and carriages to remind her that there was a world outside this park, and that, one way or another, she must return to it.