Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  Sir Edmund sat up straight. “What?”

  “She wants to do something for Charlie. She wants to raise him.”

  “Yes,” he answered cautiously. “I know.”

  “I don’t mean simply by the arranging of a room for him here at the Abbey. She’s given Bess her word. And she has given her money already, with the promise of more to come. Whatever Bess and the boy might need. But with what money, I’d like to know?”

  “Devil take it!”

  “She’s reluctant to presume upon the staff, and yet she has no qualms when it comes to promising ready money where there was never any before, no matter how hard I have squeezed or Bess has begged.”

  “The devil take it!” Sir Edmund said again.

  “It seems Mrs. Hamilton is under the impression she bears some responsibility for Charlie.”

  Sir Edmund’s answer was given in an incoherent grumble.

  “Is it true? Does she believe Charlie is Hamilton’s?”

  “Yes. And it’s causing some unnecessary difficulty between them, for all she seems to dote on the boy.”

  “She is willing to accept it?”

  “It’s a convenient excuse to avoid her own responsibilities, but yes.”

  “Is she daft?”

  “I’ve never given the girl much credit in the way of logic.” And he had reasons enough not to do it. She’d played fugitive in order to escape a fortune, after all, had hired herself out as a common maid-of-all-work and had fled a suitable offer of marriage from her cousin, all in the name of wilful independence. “So Bess refuses to send him, does she? After all her complaints that we have not done what we ought to for him, after all we have done for him, now she refuses?”

  “She does.”

  “Well, then,” Sir Edmund said leaning forward upon his desk. “I suppose the question is, what do you intend to do about it?”

  “That rather depends. If you intend to set him up as you have done Hamilton, then so be it. He’ll go and I’ll make sure he does. But I don’t see how his going off to some fancy school in London is going to make any difference to your nephew and his wife now. Especially as she’s so fond of the boy. I see no reason why Hamilton and his wife shouldn’t go to the extent of their ability to help him, if that’s what they want to do. And unless I have a good reason to cross Bess in this, I’ll not do it. Coming between a woman and her child is no small matter.”

  “I suppose you would know. How many other brats do you have out there, Miles?”

  “None. Not that I’ve been made aware of.”

  “None that you’ve confessed to. It’s not the same thing. And when you do?”

  Miles nodded in Sir Edmund’s direction. “You’ll be the first to know about it.”

  “So that I might take up those responsibilities for you as well, I have no doubt.”

  “The obligations associated with the word, ‘responsibility’ have always been rather ambiguous in this family to begin with. You know I can’t do more than I have done. If our dear Mrs. H. wants to help the boy, why shouldn’t she be allowed to do it?”

  “It isn’t her place, Miles.”

  Wyndham’s gaze suddenly became hard. “But it’s somehow yours?”

  “What is it to you how I deal with Bess Mason and her brat? I should have thought you’d want him out of your hair as much as I do. You ought to have extricated yourself from that mess by now. You know what’s expected of you, and it seems that whatever I do to try to help you it is never quite enough!”

  “What is it to me?” Wyndham said, crossing to the desk and leaning hard upon it. “I’ll tell you what it is to me. For as long as I can remember, you have favoured Hamilton. He’s no different than me, and yet you treat him as though he were some saint. You’ve groomed him to be your heir. He’s your nephew. I’m your—”

  “My nephew!”

  “Yes, fine. Call it what you want, but Hamilton sits in the lap of luxury, handed everything his heart desires. He lives here, coddled and protected, while I live in a tumbledown house I can barely afford to keep up. He’s been given the best of everything, every opportunity, every privilege. And then, by some twist of absurd fate, he marries the servant girl he once meant to seduce? It’s outrageous! I’d have married Bess. Once. But no. Marriage was not to be thought of when I was dallying with the servants. Had I done it, I’d have been cut off and cast aside. But him… He married his wench and yet here he is. Nothing has changed.”

  “Once again, Wyndham, you don’t know what you’re talking about. And under such circumstances, I would advise you to hold your tongue.”

  Wyndham stood up straighter. “Explain it then. If I don’t understand, explain it.”

  “I don’t need to explain anything. All you need to know is that I mean to have Bess and her boy out of my way, and if you can’t accomplish it, I will. One way or another, Archer’s got to put his marriage on proper ground. So far he’s resisted asserting himself, and with all her time and energies occupied in thinking of further ways to use that boy as a barrier between them, the matter may very well get beyond him. She needs her own child to dote upon. And I want an heir.”

  “But you have an– Wait, just a minute.” Wyndham seemed suddenly to have made some profound revelation. “Do you– Do you mean to say he’s not bedded her yet?”

  Grateful to avoid the other, more obvious question, Sir Edmund suddenly found himself far less reluctant to answer this one. “That’s precisely what I mean.”

  “He’s a greater fool than I thought. What the devil’s he waiting for?”

  “Her invitation, I believe.”

  “Her what?” Wyndham laughed. “He’s waiting for her to invite him? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard in my life. He must want her. Is there something wrong with him? He’s not—”

  “His desires are not the problem. I’ve told you already what is.”

  “Have you?”

  “Bess’s boy, Miles. Is there anything at all in that skull of yours? Mrs. Hamilton believes he’s Archer’s. Or wants to. She wants an excuse.”

  “Ah,” Wyndham said, as if suddenly comprehending. “The virtuous maiden is reluctant to give up her prize, is she? Well, I can help her there. I can help you both, really. Sometimes a little initiative is all it takes to push a woman in the right direction.”

  That was the limit. “Get out of here Wyndham! Get out now! If I see you anywhere near Mrs. Hamilton again, you won’t have a leg to stand on when next you come to me for help. And if Charlie’s not in London by the end of next week, you’ll regret it.”

  Slowly Wyndham backed away toward the door and at the last minute turned and went through it, throwing it open and letting it slam behind him.

  Sir Edmund remained at his desk for some time, fuming and growing increasingly certain of the futility in it. Count on Wyndham to raise the devil wherever he went. He would have to speak with Archer again—seriously. He must be made to understand just how precarious was his situation. Perhaps how dangerous. Where in heaven’s name had his nephew gone? And what was he to do now about Bess and her boy? He had no power over them with Mrs. Hamilton’s promise in her hand. The devil take her and her interfering ways!

  Sir Edmund arose from his desk and stepped out into the hall.

  “Mrs. Hartup?” he said, stopping her as she was passing by. “Is my nephew home yet?”

  “No, sir. Nothing’s been heard of him since he left yesterday.”

  “If he returns tonight, I want to speak with him first thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned back to his room, but Mrs. Hartup stopped him. “Sir?”

  He turned once more.

  “I’ve made all the arrangements for the employment of the new staff. Would you like to look over the advertisements before I post them?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mrs. Hamilton. She asked me this morning to arrange to have the house properly staffed again.”

  “Oh, did she now?”

 
Mrs. Hartup’s tone was tentative. “Yes, sir.”

  “What an astounding piece of baggage she has turned out to be.”

  “You do not wish for me to place the advertisements then, sir?” Clearly she was disappointed.

  Dash it, but she was an interfering bit of baggage!

  “No, Mrs. Hartup. Place your ads. The help is needed and has been denied you long enough. And as Mrs. Barton is soon to be joining us, it would be good to show her just how improved we are.”

  Apparently puzzled at Sir Edmund’s display of incongruous moods, she bowed and went on her way. Whereupon, he sat himself down once more and considered what he was to do.

  * * *

  Wyndham left Sir Edmund’s rooms in a state of befuddlement. The evening had been a series of revelations, one after another, all of which conspired to leave him utterly at sea. Then, quite suddenly, he had become a man of firm resolution. There were aspects of his life that were complete mysteries to him. And there were others that were plainly understood. Foremost was the fact that Sir Edmund was his father. A fact that had been buried in three decades’ worth of lies. Though Sir Edmund had maintained the avuncular farce, he knew the truth. But his persistence in the lie was about to change. He would be recognised. As Sir Edmund’s son. As the heir to fortune and property. Title be hanged. What good was that to him? It could not, after all, pay his debts or fix the holes in his leaking roof.

  Neither was Archer Hamilton deserving of it though, nor of anything Sir Edmund had to leave his dependents. He was merely Sir Edmund’s nephew, and Wyndham’s junior by seven years. He remembered well that tragedy. He remembered Magnus, remembered his death, and how that woman had altered so afterwards. But for all their good intentions, they had not been married. Miles knew it. He had no doubt, however, that Sir Edmund would find a way around the impediments. He would see that his title, and indeed his name, if he could manage it, would live on.

  If his cousin was to become Sir Archer Hamilton Barry, then so be it, but he would be a pauper of a baronet, and Wyndham was determined to see it so. All he needed was the proof. And he had it, if only he could lay his hands on it, and with it, the necessary incentive. On his uncle’s desk, he had observed the necessary ammunition. There, poking out from a stack of papers, had been a letter from Sir Edmund’s solicitor.

  I have received your instructions. As to the question of recognising your son, it is a small matter to collect the necessary documents, and to amend those that exist in favour of him whom you would wish to name as your heir. If Mr. Hamilton should fail to comply, then of course necessary amendments—and precautions—must be made. Rest assured I understand the precariousness of your circumstances, and the delicacy required. You may trust me absolutely.

  Your servant,

  H. Graves, Solicitor

  That was all he saw. But it was enough. Sir Edmund would recognise him. Wyndham would give him no other choice. Whatever Hamilton may decide or decide not to do, Wyndham had ways of stacking the odds in his favour. If he must force Sir Edmund’s hand, by any means, however underhanded, then he would do it. And, more pleasant still to consider, if he had to become the last and greatest obstacle between his cousin and an heir, then perhaps that was just as it should be. Wyndham had exercised forbearance long enough.

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  Chapter forty-four

  MOGEN AWOKE suddenly. Lighting a candle, she arose to check the time. It was not late. Having fled to her room in the wake of Sir Edmund’s cruelty and Wyndham’s insolence, feeling the exhaustion of her anxieties, and of the sleepless night before, she had fallen asleep. It had not been her plan, and she felt a bit fevered by her sudden waking, and at such a strange hour, in the flame-disturbed dark. A fire had been laid and was now roaring away. Mrs. Hartup’s doing, no doubt. Imogen’s efforts there had born success, it seemed, and here was the proof. Was that what had awoken her, then? No, that could not be it, for the fire had been burning for some time already.

  Wrapping her shawl tightly around her, she entered the dark and unheated corridor. Here she hoped to hear voices below, or perhaps from the direction of Sir Edmund’s rooms, anything that would signify Archer had indeed returned. There was nothing but stillness.

  Disappointed, she returned to her own room. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed the stray hairs that had come loose in her slumber. Satisfied, she went to the window and looked without. He was there. Standing, as he had done before, below her window, cigar in hand and allowing it to burn away in the dark. Her heart fluttered for half a moment before falling. So he had returned. But he had not come to her. Instead he lingered in the yard, looking up at her in the cloaking darkness. If only she knew what he meant to achieve by such attentions. Surely he could smoke anywhere. In his room if he wished to do it. But no, he chose, of all places, to stand below, leering up at her as if she were some object in a shop window. Perhaps he had decided she was not to his liking after all. It was what she had expected all along. It was what she had endeavoured to protect herself from.

  She left the window and crossed the room to stand before the fire. Inevitably he would come. For how much longer would she be required to wait? And how would she receive him? This last question frightened her, for it was the one she had some power to determine. Yet she could not do it.

  She sat down to wait and to watch the door. She had closed and locked it before going to sleep. Should she unlock it? Open it as she had done the night before? That courage that had so inspired her then, had deserted her tonight.

  At last she heard the outer door of his room open and close. The room’s warmth did not require it but, and as if by habit, she drew her shawl tight once more and began her busied and futile fingerwork at the well-worn fringes, waiting for the knock that must come, and growing more agitated as the minutes passed. Had he not thought what she might be made to endure in his absence? Had he not thought of her at all? Was he not thinking of her now?

  Of course he was. But having returned home, wearing the same clothes in which he had left, having two days’ stubble upon his face, he was not quite prepared to face her as the ruffian he felt himself. And so he took a moment to change his shirt at least, and to wash before shaving. He had nearly done with this when he heard the key in the door and heard the lock unfasten. Hesitantly, he approached the door, drying his unshaven face with the towel that hung around his neck. He tossed it away and opened the door. Opened it wide. And stood there, watching as she looked at him, clutching her hands before her and twisting the ring on her finger. Her apparent agitation both pleased and unnerved him. Still he waited, and then, finally; “You’re going to wear the engraving off, you know.”

  “Engraving?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t know. He had forgotten to tell her. Or rather had seen little point in it as she had ever been reluctant to believe in the sentiment he wished for her to understand and return. He took her hand.

  “Don’t,” she said as he attempted to remove the ring, very gently, from her finger.

  He had done it though, in an instant, almost too quickly for her to object. He kissed her hand, where the ring had a moment before rested, before presenting it for her examination. Etched around the inner circumference were the words, You and no other.

  He watched as her eyes read it, and then, as she comprehended, a look of heartrending relief crossed her brow. He took the ring from her once more and replaced it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “for leaving as I did.”

  “You had every right to be angry with me. Have every right, I dare say.”

  “Is that what you think? I didn’t leave because I was angry, Gina. Not with you, at any rate. Frustrated maybe, but not angry.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “I’ve been to see a friend of yours,” he said eventually. “Claire is coming.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yes. Soon, I think. Or so I hope.”

  Reminded of the reason for her coming, he as
ked the question he should have asked already. “Did you have any trouble while I was away?”

  One end of the shawl in which she always kept herself so tightly enshrouded, fell from her shoulder, and the sight of her, for once not clinging to it as if for safety, in fact seeming to have quite forgotten it, melted something in him. Yet there was a look of veiled reproach in her eyes as she freed her hand and turned from him. She was hiding something.

  “Imogen?”

  She did not answer him, and he watched her as she returned to the safety of her own room, where she sat down before the fire.

  “You’ve been made comfortable, at least. I am relieved to see that.”

  “I spoke with Mrs. Hartup,” she said, glancing up tentatively. “I asked her to arrange to have the house properly staffed again. I did as you said.”

  “As I said?”

  “Yes. And Mr. Wyndham too. That I should take some initiative for my own happiness and comfort. It was my responsibility. As you said.”

  “And she listened to you?”

  “Well she had to, you know. It was either that or find a new housekeeper. Or so I told her. I only hope it will not cause trouble.”

  “Why should it cause trouble?”

  “I cannot help but feel that Sir Edmund liked things as they were. That his authority over the staff is not one he would like to give up to me.”

  He was not entirely sure himself, but he wished to reassure her, and to encourage her if he could. He sat down opposite her. “You’ve taken all in hand quite brilliantly. As you ought to have done. As I knew you would do.”

  She blushed and looked away, into the flames of the fire.

  It was then that he had the opportunity to consider more carefully her words.

  “Wyndham was here? You spoke with him?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered quite casually, almost dismissively, which manner betrayed an uneasiness that he too felt—and all the more so for Claire’s warnings.