Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  “Why you self-important, pretentious, arrogant, over—”

  But they were interrupted.

  “Claire! Roger!”

  * * *

  Sir Edmund had taken his leave. Before quitting the Abbey, however, he had laid out his detailed directions for the party, as well as those regarding the completion of the library. All these were received by Archer with mixed feelings. As was the guest list upon it being handed him to examine. It was his opinion that their rise in Society ought to necessitate the dropping of certain acquaintances with the hopes of picking up others more beneficial to their aims. But to raise themselves with the dregs of Sir Edmund’s associates in tow seemed a rather preposterous thing to even consider, much less attempt, as the guest list suggested was the aim of this first societal endeavour.

  Still, it was their responsibility, his and Imogen’s, to see that all arrangements were made and carried out with exactness. If it should be a success, perhaps then Sir Edmund would realise his error and at last show a proper appreciation for the union Archer had made. If he, through her, could win his uncle’s respect, what other wish could he possibly have? This week bore the promise of fulfilling all his hopes. He would not let a minute be wasted.

  He found his wife hard at work already. While Mrs. Hartup had gone to collect her newly acquired additions to the staff, Imogen was counselling with the cook as to the proper dishes, the number of settings, the food that must be ordered and arranged, the washing of the table linens and a hundred other tasks both trivial and necessary. Archer waited patiently, and when at last she returned to the chore of counting the plate and china, he approached her.

  “Good morning,” he said, his smile as welcoming as he could make it. He thought to place a kiss on her temple, where that dark and silken curl always laid. But she moved away from him at the last minute and busied herself with the cutlery, as though she had been all the time unaware of his intent. He wasn’t fooled.

  “Has he gone, then?” she said at last and without looking up at him.

  “He has. Just this morning.”

  She seemed to relax just a bit.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be very busy.”

  “Oh yes,” she said without hesitation.

  “I hope you’ll not be too busy.”

  “Well,” and a moment’s pause followed. “There is much to do. The servants... I suppose it will all depend on Mrs. Hartup’s success, really. I have the guest rooms to finish. Charlie’s is almost done, you know.”

  He had not yet told her of Sir Edmund’s plans for the boy. Now, however, was not the time.

  “And your book room should probably receive some attention.”

  “It might. I’ve had the insects removed.”

  She stopped. A fork dropped from her hand. “What?”

  “I promised you I would have them removed, and so I have.”

  “Archer. I did not mean for you to—”

  “It’s really of the least significance.”

  “But you loved them.”

  “I love—”

  “Sir Edmund is gone, you say?”

  He released a frustrated breath. “Yes.”

  “I should set the men onto your book room,” and she moved as though to do it.

  “I think the library should be finished first.”

  She stopped. “Oh yes. You’re right, of course. You can’t be without both rooms. You could hang the insects in your room, I suppose.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?” she looked up and at last seemed to realise the foolishness in her suggestion. Flustered now, she went on. “Your book room though, it should be cleaned thoroughly. Surely you’ll want to use it as a smoking room while we have guests. Though I dare say you might smoke anywhere you like. I hope it’s not for me that you refuse to have it in the house.”

  What was this about? “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean you needn’t take it out of doors on my account.”

  “But I don’t smoke. I never have.”

  She looked up at him in earnest now and he did not like what he saw. She was angry, indignant.

  “You may have a great deal you feel you need hide from me. I can’t blame you for that. But to lie to me about so small a thing—”

  “I don’t smoke, Imogen. I may indeed have a great many bad habits, with which you will eventually become familiar, but I’ve never taken up that one.”

  “But I have seen you.”

  “You can’t have done.”

  She laid down the cutlery and leaned against the table. “Are you trying to tell me that you have never stood below in the yard outside your uncle’s library? That you have never stood staring up at me like some sort of leering and hungry animal? That I have never seen you do it?”

  “Wait. Of just what are you accusing me?”

  “I’ve seen you Archer. Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen you from my window, standing below, smoking in the yard. More often than I can count. And you wonder why I lock the doors, or refuse to let you in when you start banging upon them like some sort of crazed lunatic. You lie and wonder why I do not trust you.”

  “This is ridiculous.” He turned to go but she stopped him at the door.

  “Do you want me to have your book room cleaned?”

  “Do what you like, Gina. Have it burned to the ground for all I care.”

  This uncharacteristic hardness hurt her. He could see it in her eyes and regretted causing her further pain. But he did not know how to help her when she was not making sense. Truly, he didn’t know how to help her in any event, did he?

  “Is that the guest list?” she asked now.

  “Yes.” He’d nearly forgotten it. “I thought you’d like to see it.” He returned to the room to place it on the table before her. She took it up to examine it. “The invitations will have to go out right away, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I suppose they–” But she stopped and he watched her go quite pale. She dropped the letter back onto the table.

  “What is it?”

  She said nothing at first, only looked at the list as though it were covered in blood. Still disturbed by her unpredictability, and by the distance she seemed determined to keep, he found himself answering once more in that too defensive manner.

  “You are disappointed. No doubt you had hoped to see more titles, more respected and respectable names. I am sorry if we are not what we should be. We might change that though. In time.”

  At last she looked up at him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Why should it be a joke?”

  “These names, Archer. I know these names. Not all of them, but one or two. Is this representative of the company you keep? Of the company I will be expected to welcome and to entertain? Because I won’t do it. I can’t.”

  “Show me?”

  She pointed, vaguely, in the direction of the list.

  “I don’t mean to be obtuse, my dear, but you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “This one,” she said, driving a finger into it as though she meant to obliterate it all together.

  “Sir Lionel Osborne?”

  “He is a friend of yours?”

  “An associate of my uncle’s, I believe. I know him by name only.”

  “And this?”

  “The same.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “What do you mean you can’t do it?”

  “I’m to write the invitations? I am to sign my name and welcome these men here? I can’t do it. I won’t. If they are to be here, I will not be.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” But he was not sure she was being ridiculous. Her behaviour, odd as it was, seemed to auger some dark association. He didn’t understand, but he did not believe she was behaving irrationally. “Will you tell me what those names mean to you?”

  She took in a breath, as though preparing to speak, and held it. At last she spoke. Two words and that was all. “I can’t.” And she swept from the room, casting the paper ont
o the floor in her wake. He picked it up and replaced it on the table and then followed her outside into a fine mist of falling rain.

  “Gina. Gina! Will you stop?”

  But she didn’t.

  He caught up to her and took her arm. “Talk to me. Please. I want to understand.”

  She stopped and turned to him. “I want you to understand. I do. You must, I see that. But I can’t.” She was breathing very hard and stopped to catch up with herself. “I can’t tell you why. But I can’t do it. I won’t invite them.”

  He was losing patience. “I’m afraid you must.”

  All the colour had returned to her countenance now, but in alarming profusion.

  “Must I? Must I really? What else must I do while your uncle is away?”

  “Stop.”

  “Don’t tell me to stop. Don’t tell me I must. I can’t and I won’t!” And she was very nearly in tears.

  “Gina,” he whispered.

  She stiffened and turned to walk away.

  He took her elbow again and held her. “What is this? What is going on? First the nightmare, then your absurd accusations. Now this? I don’t understand you.”

  “No. I told you. You can’t. You won’t.”

  “Have I done something to hurt you, Imogen? Have I?”

  “If you’ve lied…”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You will, then. It’s inevitable.”

  “It’s inevitable that I should lie to you?”

  “No.”

  “That I’ll hurt you, then?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “What reason do you have for supposing it? Answer me.”

  She tried to free herself, but he held tighter as the rain began to fall in earnest.

  “Answer me!”

  She stopped for half a moment and he watched her as her look of bewilderment turned to one of rage. Her eyes hardened and she hit him, quite hard, on the chest. And then again, on the arm that held her. He held her fast as she continued to rain down blows upon him. He bore it all with patient equanimity. Until, at last, seeing that it was useless, he let her go. She turned and walked away from him, leaving him, once more to follow.

  And he did follow, as she attempted to collect herself. Ten minutes was all she needed. Ten minutes to be alone and to think. But he pursued, his eyes hard and determined, his hand reaching out to catch and clutch at her. It was a nightmare. It was her nightmare and now she was living it. He reached out once more to stop her. His fingers caught her sleeve and with a jerk, he spun her to face him.

  “Just stop and talk to me,” he said. “Tell me, will you, what this is all about?”

  Could she tell him? Could she explain why she had had the dream, what it had been about? Could she tell him why she could not write an invitation to Sir Lionel Osborne? Or why it was impossible that she should stand up in the same room as him? And what if she didn’t tell him? Would he not learn it anyway? From another? What would he think of her then?

  “Archer, I–”

  But she stopped, having heard the sound of angry and impatient voices. He had heard it too, and together they turned in the direction from which they, two of them, a man and a woman, could be heard. Rounding the corner of the house, standing in the very centre of the circular drive, she saw them.

  “Claire! Roger!”

  Back to top

  Her behaviour seemed to auger some dark association.

  Chapter forty-seven

  LAIRE AND ROGER turned upon hearing Imogen’s cry of surprise. A moment of confusion followed as the four of them tried to decide whom to greet and in which order. Roger, ignoring Archer altogether, took his cousin’s hands in his.

  “My dear,” he said, kissing both of her bright cheeks as the rain continued to drizzle down. “How are you, my darling girl?”

  Imogen smiled but was not given the opportunity to answer before Claire, after greeting Archer tersely, turned to her as well, and with a curious look that asked more questions than one.

  “You are well?” she said. “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes, of course,” Imogen insisted and felt her shame in having been so weak as to allow her fears and frustrations to get the better of her. Her equanimity was in tatters and she knew, by the careful way in which her two dearest friends greeted her, that it showed quite plainly.

  “Let’s get you indoors, shall we?” Claire said, taking her arm. “You must be soaked through.”

  “It doesn’t look as though you’ve fared much better,” Imogen said, keenly aware of the reprieve Claire’s sudden and unexpected appearance had allowed her. “Tell me you did not walk from the station?”

  Claire looked, for half a moment, ashamed. “At least I had the benefit of warm wrappings.”

  “You did walk, then?”

  “Well, I was not going to share a carriage with a strange man.”

  Imogen laughed. “And so you walked with him instead?”

  “That was not my arranging.”

  “No. I do not doubt it.”

  They had reached the house by then and, upon gaining the protective shelter of the covered porch, the two women embraced. Claire stood back and once more examined Imogen. “I wonder what he could be thinking, allowing you to walk out without anything on.”

  “I’m not sure he was thinking. That is,” Imogen continued in answer to Claire’s pointed and disapproving gaze, “I didn’t give him much opportunity. I left the house rather hurriedly.”

  Claire’s look turned even more condemning. “You must tell me everything. From the time I left onward,” she said as they entered the house. “Well…not everything, of course. But as much as you can. As much as you will. I want to understand it all. I want to know how best I might help you in the short time I’m…” She left off. Standing in the main hall, she turned and looked around. “Dear heaven! You have been hard at work, haven’t you?” Claire’s face was full of wonder as she took it all in, the gleaming wood, the fresh paint, the newly hung papers. “You’ve not done this all yourself?”

  “Shall I show you?” Imogen said in lieu of a proper answer.

  “Yes, by all means.” And then looking to Imogen once more, Claire reconsidered. “Perhaps we’d best get you dry first.”

  Half ashamed, Imogen laughed again. “Yes. Perhaps we’d best.”

  With Imogen’s arm placed firmly within hers, Claire mounted the staircase, though she had to stop several times along the way to take in all she saw.

  “You have worked miracles here, my dear,” Claire said upon entering Imogen’s bedroom. “I hope they appreciate it.”

  Imogen could not answer this, and instead of making the attempt, selected for herself a change of clothes.

  “No. No, of course they don’t. Come,” said Claire, and placed Imogen before the fire where she began to help her friend, now her cousin too, to change. “They will though, when once you open your doors to Society. They must.”

  “I have improved the Abbey’s appearance. That is all.”

  Claire, having divested Imogen of her damp dress and petticoat, laid these to dry and turned to face her. “That is no small thing. I will not pretend it is the most important thing. But it will demand notice of the right sorts, and that is what matters. At least at first. And if Sir Edmund does not thank you for that then he is an ungrateful scoundrel.”

  “Perhaps. Your theory, it seems, is soon to be tested.”

  “Is it?”

  “We are to open our doors, as you say. Friday week.”

  “You are to have a party? Here? So soon?”

  “To celebrate the wedding. I only learned of it this morning. Only…”

  “Only what, my dear?”

  “Sir Edmund, I’m afraid, is not possessed of many illustrious or advantageous connections. I had expected the money would raise us, but…”

  “You have seen the guest list, I take it.”

  “Claire, the names included on it… I don’t know how I am to do it. Is there
not something you can do? You have connections. Can you help me?”

  Claire considered this for a moment or two. “A week and a half is hardly enough time to summon the cream from London to the country.”

  “No.”

  “I will see what can be done. And I will help you face the riff raff. It won’t be so bad. You’ll see.”

  Imogen remained sceptical.

  “It cannot be that bad, surely.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the worst imaginable.”

  “Mrs. Barton and her people, then?”

  “Worse still.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Imogen hesitated a moment more. “Mister. Lionel. Osborne,” she said, whispering each part of the name as though it were three wicked and heartless men instead of just the one.

  But Claire, it seemed, could not place the name. Pleadingly, Imogen looked at her friend and, touching her arm, recalled Claire to the story told her some months ago. Her eyes got suddenly large.

  “Not him? Not the man who—?”

  “Yes.”

  Claire gaped silently for a long moment. “We simply won’t do it. It’s too much to ask.”

  “But what of Sir Edmund? The intentional omission of one of his guests, and one of the few who bear titles— He will not be pleased.”

  “But then he never is, is he?” Claire considered further. “He does not know…?”

  “He can’t know the particulars, but he is aware of the rumours at least. He knew my uncle and understands as well as anyone what company he kept.”

  “Well,” Claire said, brightening slightly. “Who’s to say, after all, that this is not some absurd test? Perhaps he means for you not to do it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Omit his name, and any others of whom you object. Blot them out. This is your house now, and if you’ve not established yourself yet, now is the time.”

  Imogen was uncertain, and it showed.

  “There’s something more,” Claire said in observation.

  “No. No you are right. Surely if we can introduce higher Society, then the family will find its place in a more desirable sphere. If all come and admire and accept, then there can be nothing more to complain of.”