Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  She smiled stiffly and then looked about in wonder. Much of her work seemed already to be dictated by the house itself. At least here in the ballroom she could take her cues from what had been done before. She would not be improving so much as restoring. A mural upon the ceiling would be the most challenging but, again, she need only direct. A simple matter really. The floors would need polishing, but the black and white marble required little more attention than that. The chairs must be reupholstered, and the curtains must be replaced. Yes, there was much to do, but with some considerable organisation, with a helper or two—or half a dozen—she would manage well enough.

  “Charlie?” she found herself asking. “How is he? Where is he?”

  “I expect you’ll see him soon. I know he’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “He does not know?”

  “About our marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “It happened so quickly.” He shook his head to say the rest.

  So he didn’t know. Perhaps no one knew. And what to make of that? She looked then from the ballroom into the room beyond. Here was at once a conservatory and a music room, divided from the ballroom by nothing more than a series of glass doors. Opposite these, the room terminated in another gallery of glass doors, providing a sort of transition between the conservatory and the garden beyond. She had never been in this part of the house before, and she found it both enchanting and forlorn, as though it represented some great happiness never before realised. A grand piano stood not quite in the centre of the room and she approached it, though warily.

  “Do you play?” Archer asked her as she stroked the dusty keys.

  “No,” she said. “That is, I used to.”

  “But no more? Why not?”

  She paled with the answer impossible to give—the visions and memories invoked by the very sight of the instrument, the face of he who had formed the ill association was recalled to her, he who had first called her Gina, and the reason she both detested the name and had taken it as her own after having been lowered, defiled by him. Closing the piano’s lid, she closed her eyes to the memories and returned to the ballroom. Here she began to acquaint herself with all that was available in comparison to all that must be done. The ballroom might not take much, but there were the sitting and state rooms to consider as well.

  “The week is ours,” he said, recalling her attention once more.

  “Yes, but as you said the workmen will be here tomorrow and there is much to do.”

  “There is the removal and the cleaning. Plaster to be repaired, that sort of thing. None of that requires anything more than your occasional observation and approval.”

  She was uncertain of this.

  “The day at least,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Will you give me that much?”

  She turned a full circle, looking about her at the myriad choices before her, all representative of the work that lay ahead. Facing him once more, she saw a look, both pleading and pained.

  “Yes, all right.”

  Yet they remained, the question hanging between them, what now?

  “Shall we walk out of doors?” Archer suggested.

  Imogen, nodded and followed, maintaining a distance of a few feet between them, always keeping just beyond his reach. Back through the music room they walked and out onto a sort of patio that led into what once must have been a formal garden, rank and weedy now.

  “It must have been beautiful once,” she said, when they stopped to examine it.

  “I imagine it was. It will be again, now. You might direct that too, you know.”

  More work! And yet there remained something in his manner, in the gentle way he spoke, and in the way he presented his home to her that made her feel as though she were quite mistress of the place, indeed. Or might one day be so, should she manage to prove herself worthy of the distinction.

  Archer turned toward the house, a contemplative look upon his brow. From here alone it was apparent that the oldest part of the Abbey was that from which they had exited. The cloisters which lined the courtyard were all new and disguised the transition, but here the aged and weatherworn stonework was quite plainly of an earlier age than that which she’d seen elsewhere.

  “I’m not familiar with that part of the house. The upper floor particularly.”

  “My parent’s rooms,” Archer answered. “Hers were there, at any rate. Are still. It’s just as it was when she died.”

  “Will you tell me about her?”

  He seemed suddenly reluctant. “There isn’t much to tell. At least, I know very little.”

  “Have you no memory of her?”

  “None.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and truly she was. She could relate to his loss, after all, though she remembered her own mother very well.

  “You needn’t be,” he said with a look that was both dismissive and grateful.

  She longed to know of the one woman who might have been everything to him and could not understand his indifference. “Do you never think of her?”

  “What good can it do?”

  This was not really an answer and she accepted it reluctantly. “And your father?”

  “Of him I know even less. Neither will Sir Edmund speak of him, for all he was his brother.”

  “You must wonder how different your life might have been had they lived.”

  “Better to let sleeping dogs lie, as they say,” he answered stiffly.

  “Is that what Sir Edmund says?”

  “What does it matter if it’s true?”

  “But to know… I would think it might be a comfort to you.”

  “There is nothing to know,” he said, clearly tired of the subject. “My parents were not married. He was killed. She died alone in this house, and my uncle then raised me.”

  “If you do not wish to speak of her—”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should not have insisted.”

  He released a great breath of air and relented, though his manner was still impatient. “She is never spoken of. By me or anyone. You asked if I think of her. Of course I do. But she is never mentioned, in certain company, especially. Do you understand?”

  “But why should Sir Edmund take exception to your mother’s name?”

  “That is one of the impenetrable mysteries of my life, Gina. I imagine it isn’t the only one. You have a mystery or two of your own, I think.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” she answered.

  “Perhaps it’s best to leave it at that, for now.”

  “Yes.”

  They continued their walk, speaking only of trivial matters now. Upon returning indoors, Archer, invited her to sit with him in his library. She agreed, reluctantly, but hesitated at the door before entering.

  “You can’t be afraid of the room,” he said. “I found you here sleeping last night.”

  “I couldn’t see them in the dark.”

  “Them?” he asked, puzzled.

  A pointed glance about the room answered his question. The insects.

  “You don’t like them?”

  “They are beautiful,” she confessed. “Fascinating, but–” and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

  “But what?” he asked, his tone a trifle harder than it had been a moment before.

  She didn’t dare answer him and so entered, picking up a book, any book, to read before sitting down on the sofa opposite the fire. He sat too, in his own chair, and examined the stack of books, some of them quite newly placed. He picked up the first and, looking at it, scowled. The others received equal disapprobation.

  His attention turned to her. “What are you reading?” he asked with a suspicious smile.

  Imogen examined the title for the first time. “Oh. Nothing,” she said, and colouring, set it aside.

  He arose and took it up.

  “The Ancient Science of Animal Husbandry?” There was a laugh in his voice.

  She didn’t answer
and at last he laid it down again and placed himself beside her.

  “Tell me why you dislike them. I’ll take them down tomorrow. Just tell me why they offend you.”

  “Don’t take them down.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She looked up at them then, examining them carefully to be sure of herself before she spoke. It didn’t matter how she tried, they were caged and pinned, dead and trapped within their glass houses, and that was all she could see.

  “Tell me.”

  She looked at him but it took her a moment to find the courage to speak. “Because for a price you acquired them. Had you caught them yourself…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Explain.”

  “You’ve done nothing but make some direction to someone that you should have them. And here they are, pinned to the walls, dead upon arrival. You cannot free them. You cannot bring them back to life. For a price they are yours and that is that.”

  There was no doubt he understood her this time.

  “Have I been unkind to you, Imogen?” he asked. “Have I ever treated you unkindly? Ever?”

  “It was a kindness you did me then, persuading me to believe in you long enough to have the details tied up so I could not escape?”

  “I did believe– I do believe I can make you happy. But if you won’t even let me try, then what hope is there? I think I’ve proved you need not fear me. Am I mistaken?”

  “We’ve not lived together as husband and wife for an entire day.”

  “That’s your answer? I haven’t been cruel because I haven’t had the opportunity?”

  She looked away. Of course that wasn’t true. He’d certainly had the opportunity last night, but she couldn’t acknowledge this. Clearly he felt she owed him something, or that he’d somehow earned a reward for his efforts, but it was too soon.

  “So you have no hope at all? None?”

  “That’s not true. Of course I do. I must, don’t you see. But it takes longer than a day. I don’t yet understand just where I fit.”

  “You don’t understand where you fit?” he said, taking her hand in his. “How can you not understand?”

  Imogen arose.

  “Where are you going?” he asked and would not let go of her hand.

  “I’m tired. I want to rest.”

  “You won’t rest here?”

  “I can’t,” she said, and glanced once more at the insect strewn walls.

  He too stood, and with the hand he still held, he drew her close to him.

  “I’ll get rid of them tomorrow,” he said.

  “Don’t. Please.”

  “How can I keep them when they remind me of what I have but do not have? When they remind me how flame-singed and torn I feel beside you?”

  “You compare yourself to a moth?”

  “Yes, of course. I do blame myself for this. I do see that it’s my fault. I will make it up to you. Somehow.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. She could see he needed some encouragement. Perhaps he deserved that much, after all. “Archer…” She drew a breath and swallowed before finding the courage to finish, to whisper the rest. “There are magnificent moths.”

  His look changed in an instant, from one of frustration to one of wonder.

  “Like anything else though, it takes time to know what one is, what one might become. It takes time.”

  He looked at her for half a minute more before drawing her briefly to him and kissing her upon the temple. He released her then, and with a grateful, if half-hearted smile, she retired to her own room.

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  Chapter thirty-seven

  ITH THE ARRIVAL of the workmen, Imogen adopted her labours with purposeful intent, determined to have something to show for her efforts upon Sir Edmund’s return. She began early and she did not stop until late, taking her meals in the ballroom as she made her plans. Occasionally Archer would join her, but he did not oppress her, neither did she encourage him to remain. And so he didn’t.

  In truth, he had begun to see the futility in pressing her too hard. She would not be manipulated. If she warmed to him, and he knew she would—she must!—she would do it in her own time. He would simply have to be patient. But that was difficult to do, for she was a constant reminder of his frustrated longing. The sight of her, the sound of her, as she quietly worked and directed and turned, room by room, the cold and forlorn Abbey into a home, it was as if fate were mocking him before his own eyes. She was the mistress, busily fulfilling her obligations, he not quite the master, simply the procurer, the idle observer, the helpless vehicle for his uncle’s ambitions. Yet there were other obligations he knew he was meant to fulfil, and the idea of these threatened to drive him mad. There was no forgetting them. Not with her so near—and so out of reach. And she kept herself that way. Out of reach and too busy for him or anything but the project she’d been given.

  * * *

  “Dear heaven! What have you done to my ballroom?”

  Imogen started and looked up to find Sir Edmund’s silhouette within the doorway. He had returned early, it seemed, and she wished she had been given more time. Or that she had taken better advantage of that which had been given her.

  She stood to greet him, but found she could not move beyond the debris all around her. She’d been so consumed in her plans, organising her samples so that she could look at them all side by side as the rooms were arranged, she had not realised that she had created a veritable ocean around herself, and she the island.

  Sir Edmund entered and approached her, warily eyeing her work and herself alternately.

  “You’ve been keeping yourself busy, I see.”

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry about the mess.”

  “It had to go somewhere, I suppose,” he said directing his attention toward the far end of the room where the furniture and sundry items from the state, drawing, and sitting rooms had been brought for storage.

  He returned his attention to the work before her—her sketches and plans, her collection of samples fastened neatly to small planks of wood—and examined it for a moment or two.

  “I had thought red for the drawing room,” he said at last and with a questioning look. “I see you’ve chosen blue. Mrs. Barton was particularly keen on red. Every English house should have a room of red. Or so I’ve been informed.”

  Imogen blanched. Mrs. Barton’s aesthetic was out of date, it seemed. But how to state her objections tactfully? Or should she dare to do it at all?

  “You have your reasons, I expect, for making the choices you have.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, gathering courage. “Red is the answer to the age old question of how to coordinate colours and patterns. One shade of red will match any other, but one could not say the same for another colour—for greens or blues, for instance.”

  Sir Edmund raised both eyebrows.

  “However, for a room that is meant to be the representative of the house, a guest’s first introduction, if you will, I’m afraid the colour would seem quite intimidating. Red has its place, but perhaps not here. At least not in the drawing room. That is my opinion.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Miss Shaw. Excuse me... Mrs. Hamilton, I meant to say, of course.”

  Until that moment he had been uncharacteristically civil, but a hint of derision seemed present in his countenance now, and it would have alarmed her more had she not had a sea of fabrics and papers protecting her.

  “Do you know where I might find my nephew?” he asked. “Your husband.”

  His emphasis of the word grated and sounded as profanity. Or a reminder.

  “I’m sorry, sir, no,” she answered.

  “You’ve hit it off as well as that, have you?”

  He did not wait for an answer, but turned and left the room. With cheeks burning, she sat back down to collect herself before continuing on with the task at hand. And focussed every ounce of attention on it.

  * * *

  “Your little woman has been keeping
herself occupied,” Sir Edmund said upon finding Archer staring out the library window. He had a book in hand, but was not reading it.

  Archer laid the book down without closing it. “You’re home early.”

  Sir Edmund picked it up and examined it. “Ovid! Philosophising again are we?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How have you been getting on?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  “But not as well as you’d like?”

  Archer didn’t answer.

  “Making a woman happy is a secret few men have ever discovered.”

  “The fact that it was arranged causes some difficulty,” Archer argued. “I warned you it would.”

  “I take it you’ve not made a success of it yet, then.”

  Archer turned to face his uncle. “I think it takes a bit more than a week for that, sir,” he answered and then started as he realised his uncle’s meaning.

  “Now you understand me.”

  “We might have been allowed a little more time. We might have been allowed a holiday to ourselves. To bring her here straight away, so she can see how her money is working for us is not much of a wedding present.”

  “You have to take the opportunities given you in this life, my boy,” Sir Edmund offered now.

  “Seven days?”

  “Long enough to make it a proper marriage.”

  Archer had nothing to reply to this. The room had grown suddenly ten degrees warmer.

  “It’s your duty to see the thing through. Assert yourself. It’s about time you learned to do that much. The sooner you can secure the legacy the better. A son, Archer,” was his explanation to the question upon the young husband’s face, though in reality the look was one more of incredulity than ignorance.

  Archer rose to leave the room. He needed some air. Desperately.

  “She has taken all of her other responsibilities in hand, I take it?”

  “Not quite all. She’s having a time of it, I think, with Mrs. Hartup.”

  “Little wonder. Mrs. Hartup won’t want to give up the power she’s had these past twenty-odd years. And to a former servant, no less. I cannot blame her. Perhaps it’s just as well.”