Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  “Sir?”

  “I brought her here to restore the place, not to take over in fact, and so perhaps matters are best left as they are.”

  Archer wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned by this, and he had no intention of remaining to hear more.

  “I suppose we might start on the library,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him once more.

  Archer turned but did not answer.

  “We can begin with the removal in the morning. See that the men are gathered, will you? We’ll start early.”

  “Yes, sir,” Archer answered, and left to attend to his errand.

  * * *

  Imogen was awakened the next morning by an unusually great commotion. She dressed herself as quickly as she could and went out to investigate. What she found surprised her. Man after man after boy after man was busy in the occupation of carrying box after box after crate after box from the recesses of somewhere below and into Sir Edmund’s bedroom. Imogen entered the west wing cloisters, where she could observe in safety the activity in the yard below. From here she could see that those who entered the old library from the main hall, returned by way of an exit private to Sir Edmund’s rooms. She watched for a moment more before proceeding to make her way down, and then into the courtyard itself. She stopped again upon hearing her name.

  “Miss Shaw! Miss Shaw, you’ve come back!” was the cry as a young boy ran toward her.

  “How are you, Charlie?” she asked him.

  She might have embraced him she was so happy to see him, but feared his gentleman’s ego might suffer under such an open display of affection.

  “Have you come to stay, Miss Shaw?” he asked her.

  “I have, Charlie. But my name is not Miss Shaw now.”

  A look of confusion was on young Charlie’s face as he tried to contemplate the meaning of this. “No longer Miss Shaw, you say?” he asked, as though he was not at all sure he had heard her correctly.

  Shaking her head, she laughed. “No.”

  “Then what am I to call you?”

  “Miss Gina, I suppose, as you have done, or if you’d rather, you may call me by my married name.”

  He waited for the rest.

  “I am Mrs. Hamilton now.”

  His pale blue eyes grew very large at this. “Oh, Miss Gina,” he said. “Or–” and shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “No, nor can I, to be quite honest with you.”

  “How happy he must be,” Charlie said with a brilliant smile. But something in his manner changed as he looked at her. The hopeful gleam in his eye frightened her just a little, as though he wished for something more from her yet, something she would not deny him, though it broke her heart to think of it. Just how much a part of her life would this boy become? She had believed wholeheartedly Archer’s declaration that the child was not his, and yet some doubt remained, and would remain until she could find out the truth.

  “Have you been working here this morning?” she asked him, changing the subject.

  “Oh, yes. Sir Edmund means to have his library done over, you know.”

  She took a quick look toward the house, surprised by the news, though she had no right to be. Surely she would not be wanted there. “You are come to help?”

  He nodded.

  “Oughtn’t you to get back to it then?”

  “I suppose so, yes,” he said, looking a little reluctant to leave her. “I’m so very happy you’re here though.” And he ran off to return indoors and to his work.

  Imogen followed him at a steady pace, curious to learn what demands his current occupation required. She stopped as he entered the library. Archer was atop a ladder, handing down books which were subsequently placed into boxes and then carried out. There were seemingly hundreds of boxes too, besides which were the desk and chairs, the rugs, and pictures and numerous other items that all required removal to the room upstairs, or airing, or repairing, whatever the case might require.

  Imogen observed as a box was handed to Charlie, and that he took it, and, furthermore, that it was far too heavy for him to carry such a distance. She was considering asking Archer about it when he met her gaze and welcomed her to come in. He descended the ladder as she made her way around the men and the piles of miscellany they were either arranging or preparing to carry away.

  “I think we must have woken you early this morning,” he said.

  “Not too early.”

  “Sir Edmund’s study is next, you see.”

  “Yes. And Charlie is here to help. He’s not quite a match for these other men, you know. Is there not something more appropriate to his age and size?”

  “He wants to work alongside the men. I think you know that,” Archer answered, half-defensively.

  She did not like Charlie being classed with the servants, more especially by Archer, and took an equally defensive tone. “Does he have a choice?”

  “Perhaps you could find something for him to do.”

  This pleased her. “He can help me as he used to, I’ve no doubt.”

  Archer relaxed a little in consequence of her hopeful manner. “A gardener’s been hired,” he said now. “Will you meet him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Come,” he said and did not hold out his hand.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Will you?”

  “Very well.”

  They walked out together, toward the garden where an older gentleman and his two helpers had begun their work. The introductions had been made, and Imogen was explaining her wish that the gardens might be restored to their original design, when a commotion of voices shouting and speaking in alarmed and hurried tones arrested her attention. Archer ran to the house, and Imogen, uncertain what to do, followed.

  They arrived in the central hall to find a crowd at the base of the stairs. Archer pushed past the men and, directly upon discovering the trouble, called for her to come. The men let her through, and she was soon at Archer’s side, looking down on little Charlie who had fallen and now lay unconscious on the landing of the staircase. She knelt beside him, begging him to wake, to speak to her. There was no response.

  “What the devil is going on down there!” Sir Edmund bellowed from above, but he was stopped cold upon seeing the boy lying motionless. “What has happened?”

  Imogen could not tell if his displeasure was for the boy or for the smashed crate that lay in fragments amidst the books that had spilled and lay scattered. A few had been ruined, it seemed, for there were pages and loose papers fluttering down toward the floor below.

  “What has happened, I say!”

  Still no one was prepared to answer the obvious.

  “Bring him up here,” he ordered and turned away, but the way he led was not the direction Imogen was prepared to follow.

  “Can he not be taken to your old room, Archer?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he answered as he lifted the child. He carried him, as Imogen led the way, to the east wing.

  “Where do you think you’re going with that boy?” Sir Edmund bellowed once more.

  “He needs quiet, sir,” Imogen argued. “You would not want him in the way, I think. And a doctor must be sent for.”

  “Smith!” Sir Edmund’s valet appeared. “Send for the doctor will you.”

  The orders given, Sir Edmund followed Archer and Imogen into the room that had, not long ago, belonged to his favoured nephew. Charlie was laid upon the bed, and it was only as Archer moved away that Imogen observed the blood that stained his shirt, dripping from his hands, from Charlie’s hair and which now spread over the pillow on which his head lay.

  Archer’s face drained of colour. Sir Edmund stood dumb and helpless, as Imogen, strangely calm despite her anxieties, quickly gathered a towel and tried to stanch the blood that poured from the gash in the boy’s head. A crowd had by now gathered about the bedroom door, and Sir Edmund, in his uselessness, was recalled when Mrs. Hartup entered. He left the room that he might get the men working once more
, as the housekeeper, wringing her hands, looked down at the child.

  “Here! Let me,” she said at last and with a valiant effort to push Imogen aside.

  But Imogen would not be moved. “I think we’ll need more towels,” she suggested. “And some fresh water.”

  The housekeeper appeared deaf to her request. “What happened to him?”

  Imogen began to explain, but not before Archer quit the room. She blinked in frustration but told the story.

  “Those men!” Mrs. Hartup declared. “They work him like a slave at times. Pumping him, they do. Feeding him his lessons and then putting him to work as though he were one of the servants.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said as she felt the blood seeping through the towel and wetting her fingers. “Some rags, whatever you can find. And some water.”

  Still the woman didn’t budge. Her attention was fixed wholly on the unconscious boy.

  “Mrs. Hartup!”

  Her eyes then flashed to Imogen’s, and with a reproachful glare, she left the room.

  Archer returned a few minutes later, having changed into a clean shirt, though he had not taken the time to button it to the neck, nor to replace his tie or waistcoat. With him he brought the necessary items, given him by the too proud housekeeper. Imogen watched him enter, but had not realised her gaze had been so solidly fixed upon him until he turned to her with a sheepish look.

  “Is it very bad, do you think?” he asked.

  Though she had been angry with him a moment before for the weakness she believed she had seen, she realised, as she looked up at him, how sick with worry he was. “Head wounds always appear worse than they are. Still, I do wish the doctor would hurry.”

  “Let me,” he said, and with a clean towel he replaced the soiled one and took her place.

  After washing her hands, she took a rag and wetted it, then crossed to the other side of the bed, where she began wiping Charlie’s forehead. They remained quiet for some time before Archer at last dared to glance up at her again.

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “I should have listened to you.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. Don’t try to make me feel better.”

  “Archer,” she whispered as he looked at her with guilt written quite plainly on his face. She wanted to comfort him, but knew not what to say. If only she understood what this boy was to him. Who this boy was to him.

  Mrs. Hartup soon enough returned, the doctor following, and Sir Edmund behind them both. Imogen made room for the doctor, while Archer removed himself to the far corner of the room, where he and his uncle carried out an apparently heated conversation in whispered voices, of which Imogen caught only fragments.

  “She should be told,” she heard Archer insist.

  “I do not want that woman here.”

  “Think, sir,” and Imogen could hear no more as Archer turned his back to shield the sound of his voice.

  “Archer, I’m warning you,” Sir Edmund answered him.

  But Archer was no longer listening. He threw a glance in Imogen’s direction before quitting the room. Sir Edmund soon followed.

  Imogen, puzzled and anxious, returned her attention and the greater part of her concern to Charlie. The doctor was nothing if not thorough, taking his time as he examined the child, checking his pulse, listening to his heart, examining the wound. He checked his eyes, his reflexes, took his temperature, and then went through the process once more.

  Imogen moved to the window, and, looking out, saw one of the servants running with a letter in hand across the meadow and toward the village.

  “He has a slight concussion,” the doctor said, calling back her attention. “He’ll require a few days’ rest and careful tending. And I’m afraid I’ll have to sew up the wound. Have you the stomach to help me, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Yes,” she answered boldly. “Yes, of course.”

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  Chapter thirty-eight

  MOGEN AWOKE AS the sun was descending. Her head rested on her folded arms, they in turn resting on the coverlet as she sat beside Charlie’s bed. She turned to avoid the glaring light and, blinking, looked to the boy who still lay motionless. Her awkward rest, her anxiety, combined with the heat of the sun’s rays—both diffused and magnified through the waved glass of the windows—left her with a headache. She needed some air, and not daring to cause a draught by opening the window, she elected to take a few minutes’ walk out of doors. The most indirect way proved also the most convenient, as the cloister staircase was used rarely by anyone, and by it she might exit the house within the more private environs of the immediate grounds.

  Upon arriving there, she took a turn about the gardens to observe the progress the new gardeners had already made. A great deal of clearing and marking off had been done, and the beginnings of an intricately patterned plan were now discernible.

  Leaning against the edge of a disused fountain, she rubbed the evening’s chill from her arms. It had been so close in Charlie’s room that she had not thought to bring any wrappings, but the evening’s descent was quickly robbing the day of what little warmth it had dared to possess.

  “Miss Shaw,” she heard a voice. A woman’s voice. “You are Miss Shaw, I believe?”

  “Yes,” she said, turning to find Bess Mason emerging from within a grove of overgrown boxwoods. “Or was.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes. I’m Mrs. Hamilton now.”

  Bess’ face flushed for half a moment. “He married you? He was allowed to marry you?” She seemed indignant, certainly confused.

  “I’m not sure how much… Yes,” Imogen said, determining that the simplest answer was likely the best. She could not couch the fact by vain explanations.

  “I’ve come to see my son.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him.” Imogen prepared to lead the way, though Bess did not follow.

  “I’m not welcome here,” she said.

  Imogen turned to face her but did not answer right away.

  “I worked here once like you, you know.”

  “Yes. So I understand.”

  “Marriage was not to be thought of then.”

  Imogen felt the ice in her veins, the squeezing of her heart, but stood firm. “Will you follow me?” she said. “No one need know you’ve come.” She turned and led the way.

  Upon entering the room, Imogen placed herself in a quiet corner, while Bess took the chair beside the bed. She passed a tender hand through her son’s hair and across his cheek, and then down his arm as it rested atop the coverlet.

  “Will he be all right?”

  “He has a concussion. So long as we can keep him from fever, there is no danger.”

  “And you will?” Bess asked, nearly pleading as she looked up at Imogen.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You won’t leave him alone?”

  “I promise.”

  She turned away to stifle a sob. Or perhaps a cough—or both—and then, recovering, she turned back. “How did it happen?”

  Imogen told her.

  “They work him too hard, you know. They expect so much of him, filling his head with ideas and then quashing them in the same instant. They all know he can never be what he ought to be.”

  “Why?” Imogen dared to ask.

  “Do you know what it means to grow up a bastard, Miss Shaw? Excuse me, Mrs. Hamilton; it’s a bit of a shock.”

  “Don’t apologise. But if Mr. Hamilton has done it…”

  “Yes. For some reason he has been chosen as the representative of all Sir Edmund’s lofty ambitions.” Bess spoke the elder gentleman’s name with such derision it surprised and frightened her. “That’s why it’s so difficult for me to understand, you see. It’s not my intention to cause offence, but you are the embodiment of all my own dashed hopes. The hypocrisy… It’s too much at times. Some are chosen, lifted up, given every opportunity, while others are left to scrape by on their own.”

  “I
’m very sorry,” Imogen answered.

  By now all of Miss Mason’s allusions had added up to prove what she had all along feared. Before she could think what she was saying, or what she would do with the knowledge, the question was out. “Will you tell me, Miss Mason, is Charlie Mr. Hamilton’s son?”

  Bess’s eyes narrowed. “No,” she said icily, and only after a long and contemplative pause. “No. He’s mine.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t answer my question,” Imogen returned, trying to sound brave.

  “My son was nearly killed today, Miss Shaw. Mrs. Hamilton. I’m not the one to give explanations. How you were so fortunate, I cannot guess, but whatever you traded for this, I hope you find it worth it.”

  Miss Mason turned to Charlie once more, her eyes bright and sparkling in the near darkness. Imogen raised herself and approached her, but stopped as the woman, pale and worn, raised a hand to stay her.

  “If there is anything I can do for your son, Miss Mason, anything at all. I would gladly do it.”

  Miss Mason looked at Imogen for a long, hard minute.

  “I’m not sure just what I might accomplish,” she continued. “I’m not sure how much influence I have. Little, I fear. I’m allowed a little money, for my own personal needs. You are welcome to it if it will help Charlie. If it will help you.”

  Miss Mason looked at her son and did not answer.

  But Imogen was not yet prepared to relent. “It’s not right that he should want simply because those who ought to provide for him refuse to do it. If there’s anything I can do to make up for what neglect he’s been so far made to suffer... You will remember?”

  At last and quietly, the woman answered. “Yes.” She examined Imogen for a moment, studied her. “I may hold you to your word, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  Imogen was pleased, relieved, even, to have her offer accepted, but the look Miss Mason gave her was a menacing one.

  Miss Mason stood. “You will watch over him? I have your word?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” the woman said and left the room, and the house as well.