Reluctantly, Archer withdrew his hand.
“A bad dream? Is that all?” The derisive tone of Sir Edmund’s question escaped no one, and Archer was then summoned to attend his uncle.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Mrs. Hartup asked her once the door had shut again.
“Perfectly, Mrs. Hartup.”
The housekeeper looked to the door and scowled.
“It’s nothing. Just foolishness. I did not want to worry him.”
Mrs. Hartup, with her scowl now firmly fixed, shook her head.
Imogen did not care if the housekeeper did or did not understand. No one would. She was not going to explain herself. Not to her. Not to anyone. Not at present.
“If you’re sure you are all right then, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said and turned to leave her. But Imogen was not quite ready to be alone.
“Would you help me to dress, Mrs. Hartup?”
This won from the housekeeper another suspicious look, but she returned to Imogen’s side, prepared to do as was asked of her.
“I’m afraid I’m still too shaken to manage,” she said and presented her trembling hands as proof.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“I have a great deal to do today,” Imogen said, nervously filling the silence as she was divested of her nightclothes and helped into a day dress. She felt some explanation was in order, after all.
“Of course, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup answered her, a slight air of resentful resignation detectable in her voice.
“I do not mean to take you from your work. I am sorry to trouble you.”
Mrs. Hartup did not answer, but buttoned the bodice of her gown nimbly and quickly.
“I would like to see that the house is finished. I think I ought not to waste any more time about it.”
“No, ma’am. No indeed. I think there is little time to waste.”
Imogen thought this a curious answer, but went on unheeding. “And you should perhaps see to the advertisements, as well. We could certainly do with the extra help.”
“There’ll be no getting by without it, ma’am. It seems neither have I any time to waste.”
“I did not mean to suggest, Mrs. Hartup, that we are in any great hurry.” She realised by now that her desperate attempts to busy herself once more with housework of any and every kind were rather obvious.
“We are in a hurry though, ma’am. If we are to be ready to entertain next week, the house must be properly staffed and without delay.”
“We are to entertain? Next week?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I had not heard of this.”
“It has only just been decided upon, ma’am. This morning, I believe.”
“This morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. And Sir Edmund is off today for London.”
Imogen was silent for a moment. Then: “Will Mr. Hamilton go with him?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t believe so. I believe Sir Edmund intends to leave it to you, to the two of you, to oversee the preparations.”
“Not without you, Mrs. Hartup?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll do all I can, of course. But you are right to say there is much to do and little time to do it.”
“Then we had best get started.” Grateful to have a valid and worthy excuse to avoid her husband, she finished dressing and set to work immediately, inspecting the rooms, the dining room and guest rooms, and making an inventory of all that must be done before their company should arrive, whoever their guests might prove to be. Claire, of course. But who else besides? She could not imagine, and so gave up trying and went about her business as earnestly as she could.
* * *
Archer had entered Sir Edmund’s rooms to find him packing his travelling bag. In confusion, he watched, and waited for the explanation he did not dare to ask for.
“I find I can no longer tolerate the chaos,” Sir Edmund said at last. “It’s too much trying to work out of boxes and not knowing where anything is.”
“The library has taken longer than expected.”
“Owing to your Mrs. Hamilton. She’s got the men all working for her, and they follow her around, obeying her every whim like a pack of hounds on the scent. Which no doubt is her design.”
Archer ignored this.
“As you said you only need a little privacy in order to get things moving on your end... Well, I thought I’d go up to Town for a few days. You’ll have everything in order by the end of the week, I trust.” His uncle gave him a knowing glance. “Though it’s too bad about the dreaming, you know. I had hoped your explanation would be a trifle more colourful.”
“Sir!”
“It is time to see what Mrs. Hamilton is truly capable of. We are to open the house up. Entertain. You might think of it as a reception party, really. I trust you can oversee it all. Or she can. As Mrs. Hartup has promised to assemble some likeness of a staff, it should be a small matter. And Friday week, a handful of friends, family and business associates will come to give their approval of the match and of our improved circumstances. Do you think she’s up to it?”
“You know I do.”
“Are you?”
Understanding the real question, Archer once more chose not to answer.
Sir Edmund finished packing his portfolio, and seeming still to be looking for something, took a passing survey of the room and of the confusion of unmarked boxes and crates all around him. And, perhaps deeming it a lost cause, he turned back to his nephew.
“You’ll see that the library is finished and ready when I return?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll make up a guest list before I go.” And he looked up with a smile that made Archer uneasy.
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Chapter forty-six
LAIRE HAD NOT planned that her journey to Kent should coincide with the weekend exodus from London. The overcrowded train had been late arriving, and later still leaving. A quiet ride in a private compartment had been her desire, but the only seat available was one in a carriage occupied by two elderly spinsters and a young man of questionable character. Or so she esteemed, for he insisted on watching her as she entered and as she struggled with her bags. And the impertinence of him as he presumed to help her with them—only after she had persuaded them to fit. When at last she was seated, not quite comfortably, she turned her attention away from the crowded compartment and toward the scenery without, observing first the station, then the city as it gently glided past. Through the reflection of the window’s glass, she examined her travelling companions. The young gentleman, though surreptitiously, was watching her still. She turned to offer him a warning look. He acknowledged it with a bow of his head and a smile that was just a trifle too charming to be believed. She withdrew the book she had brought and dedicated her full attention to it until the train stopped again at the Ashford terminal. She waited, assuming the patience of one intending to travel on. The gentleman, to her relief, disembarked without ceremony.
Only then did she venture out to find her connecting train. She sighed audibly upon finding a car to herself. Only this time it was the latch of the carriage door that gave her trouble. An offer of assistance was once again offered her. The door was opened, and it was only then that she looked up to acknowledge her rescuer. To find that it was the same impertinent gentleman as before! He bowed and moved on. And then she was alone. She had wished to be, and needed to be now, for she was inwardly fuming.
At long last, Claire arrived in Manchelsea. Stepping off the train, she took in a deep breath of Kentish air and looked about her, glad to be so nearly at her destination.
“There’s only one carriage, I’m afraid.”
She heard the voice and turned. It was him! Of all the…
“Might I secure it for you?”
He was smiling insipidly, as if he thought he’d won some kind of game.
“It’s unnecessary, sir,” she said. “It’s not far. I’d much rather walk.”
With one eyebrow raised, he qu
estioned her. “You’re quite certain?”
“I don’t usually say what I do not mean.”
“I’ve learned never to take a woman’s word for anything less than the gospel truth.”
“And I’m sure you’ve had ample opportunity to acquire such an education.”
That seemed to shut him up. In fact he actually appeared offended. She was glad. Or tried to be.
“May I ask where you are going?” he presumed to inquire.
“That really is none of your business.” Taking up her things, she prepared to walk on.
“Still,” he said, stopping her. “There is a chance we might be travelling in the same direction.”
“Tell me you do not mean to follow me, sir.”
“I mean to hire the carriage for myself if you insist you do not want it. I’m not a fool to walk foul roads in questionable weather when there are other means available. But we might just as easily share the conveyance.”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I’ve had quite enough of strangers and enclosed spaces for one day, thank you.”
“As regards confined spaces, I can quite sympathise. As to strangers, well, we needn’t be, you know.”
“Yes. I think we do. For you grow stranger every minute.”
“Very well then,” he said, at last defeated. “I’ll wish you good day and a pleasant journey.”
He turned and was gone. Exhaling her relief, she looked over her shoulder to see him giving his directions to the driver. She quickly made arrangements with a passing porter to have her luggage delivered, and then slipped out of the station, proud of herself and her resolution, whatever it might cost her by way of comfort. But the air was good for her, and the exercise more so after so trying a journey.
She left the station, and began her walk. Though the rain threatened, still she took her time, enjoying the landscape and wondering what she would find upon reaching the Abbey.
She had not walked far however before she heard the sound of carriage wheels. She knew without looking that it must be him. And finding that it was so, she turned again and walked purposefully onward as the sound of hoofs and wheels swelled and grew and threatened to overcome her. And then it passed by. Mercifully.
Not so mercifully, for then it stopped and the door opened.
“So you do mean to follow me!”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, no, ma’am. But it does seem, after all, as if we are going the same way. There’s room enough,” he said, gesturing toward the interior of the vehicle. “You are certain I cannot offer—”
“No, thank you,” she said and walked on.
“Very well.”
She assumed, at that point, that he would continue on, but to her dismay, he alighted and dismissed the driver to take their things on ahead.
“Sir,” she said, turning to him as he came up behind, “I insist you let me go my way undisturbed.”
“How can I do that when you have refused to tell me where you are going?”
She was beginning to see the futility in arguing with him.
“I’ve come to visit family at Wrencross Abbey.”
He laughed again, and she could not help but feel that he was laughing at her.
“I suppose you will say you are going there as well?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“You are a friend of Mr. Hamilton, then?”
“Was.”
She raised one eyebrow in question.
“Mrs. Hamilton is my cousin. I’ve come to call upon her. And you?”
She suddenly understood it all. So this was the besotted cousin. She surveyed him anew.
“I’m Mr. Hamilton’s cousin.”
“Opposing camps then, are we?”
“I’m afraid it’s too soon to say, Mr. …?”
He stopped and turned to her. “How remiss of me. Roger Barrett.” And removing his hat, he bowed with an exaggerated flourish.
She rolled her eyes at him and moved on.
“You will not reciprocate?”
“By saying how pleased I am to have met you?”
“Well that’s a start.”
“I would. But as I said, I rarely say what I do not mean.”
“Your name, ma’am, would suffice for now.”
Silently, she walked on.
“You may refuse to give it for obstinacy’s sake, but in a quarter of an hour I shall learn it all the same.”
“Then I will give you something to look forward to. Besides the sight of your beloved cousin, I mean.”
He looked at her askance.
“Yes, I’ve heard of you.”
He set his jaw more firmly and offered an uncertain glance, but walked on in silence.
Now he had ceased with his trivial bantering, Claire took the opportunity of studying him more closely. That he had been disappointed, and severely, and that he was now to face his disappointment with an audience to witness, were both points which adequately accounted for the combination of sorrow, anger and bravado that suffused his countenance. She felt a little sorry for him in consequence, arrogant and presumptuous though he was.
“Claire Montegue,” she offered belatedly and somewhat apologetically.
“Miss Montegue.” He tipped his hat in a manner far more sincere and almost becoming. “It seems the pleasure is well and truly all mine.” And then, spoiling it, he added: “For the present.”
“We shall see, Mr. Barrett. I’m not so easily won over as perhaps you suppose.”
“This visit promises to be more eventful every minute.”
“Not too eventful, I hope.”
“Let us pray not,” he said. And there was no doubt he meant it.
It was then that a light drizzle began to fall.
“Had you prepared for rain, Miss Montegue? It is ‘Miss’ I take it?”
“It is, and no.”
“I’m afraid we are bound to get wet.”
“That is an astounding prediction, Mr. Barrett. What would make you presume so upon the weather and simple physics?”
He laughed again, more stiffly this time, and watched her.
“Perhaps, after all, a dousing would suit you well.”
“Have I offended you in some way, Miss Montegue?”
She was not sure how to answer this. Certainly he had, but upon recalling just how, she realised she had been a bit unreasonable. They were, none of them, serious offences. That he was a man, and a rather charming one, were the points that counted most against him.
“It’s too soon to tell,” she answered cautiously. “But if you must stare at me so…”
“Forgive me.” He returned his gaze to the path ahead and they walked on in silence for some time.
“You said you were once a friend of Mr. Hamilton,” she dared to ask him at last.
“Yes.”
“I take it you do not approve of the marriage. I think you cannot.”
“No. I don’t. Certainly not in the way it came about. And even then...”
“It must have come as a surprise to you.”
“Like a bludgeon really, but yes.”
She offered no word of apology. Likely it served him right. He was just the type who needed some great disappointment in his life before he would realise what it requires to love another truly.
“Neither can you have approved, considering the circumstances under which you must have known her.”
There was no way to answer this. It was too complicated. She both did and did not approve. But to explain it to a veritable stranger, and one whom she was not entirely sure had either of the concerned party’s best interests at heart, was impossible.
“It was once your intention to take her under your protection, I believe. Your employment, at least.”
It seemed he knew at least as much about her as she did about him. “Yes,” she answered.
“Were you yourself not disappointed?”
“In more ways than you are capable of understanding, Mr. Barrett.”
“Is tha
t so?”
“Yes, for I had no monetary gain at stake.”
“And you believe I did?”
“You must have. Do you deny it?”
“I cannot deny that the money would have been a great asset. To us both. But it was hardly my chief consideration. And you did not answer my question.”
“My disappointment was for the loss of a friend and companion. Nothing more.”
“Not the loss of your cousin’s affection?”
This stung, for her protective opacity was something on which she had always prided herself. She was virtually impossible to read. To all but him, it seemed. His list of offences was certainly mounting.
“What do you know of affection? You are too self-absorbed, I think, to understand what it means to love someone selflessly.”
“You know me so well, Miss Montegue? And so quickly? I suppose you are the shining example of selfless love. Perhaps you should be. Your cousin broke your heart for a fortune. He veritably bought my cousin and sold you off in one blow of the auctioneer’s hammer.”
She stopped and turned on him, fuming. “How dare you!”
“How dare I what? How dare I defend myself against your presumptuous and vanity-inspired accusations?”
“Me presumptuous? Me vain? If your heart had been so broken by your cousin’s preference for an arranged marriage over your offer—amicable though it was, I’m sure—then how is it you have the nerve to follow me, from train to train, from carriageway to footpath, gawping and prattling on as if you had some bet to win against Casanova?”
“You ridiculous woman!”
“I’m ridiculous?”
“Deaf too, it would appear. But yes. You have been nothing but the arrogant coquet since you stepped onto that London platform, and now you accuse me of following you? Are you really so thick that you have not yet gotten it into your skull that we have been travelling together for some reason other than my tormenting desire for your admiration? It’s a coincidence to be sure, but that is all, I do assure you. If you’d like for me to have come a different route—through the Americas, and then Asia, perhaps—I’ll be sure to make such arrangements the next time we happen to be travelling the same way. If there is a next time. And, by heaven, I pray there is not.”
Of Moths and Butterflies Page 36