Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

“Southampton, yes,” she answered in her still reserved manner.

  “Do you make it this way often or is it a special occasion which brings you?” Barrett asked now. “The upcoming festivities, perhaps?”

  “I was lately invited, Mr. Barrett. I only learned of the impending celebrations upon my arrival.”

  “I see,” he said and the silence threatened to loom once more.

  “I believe it was in response to your proposed visit that my cousin begged me to come,” she added eventually.

  “Is that so?” Barrett asked, turning to Archer.

  “I was coming to you anyway, Claire, as I believe I told you.”

  “Well, Mr. Barrett, it seems I can thank you at least for inducing my cousin to recognise the desperateness of his situation.”

  “Is it possible we are not in opposing camps after all?”

  “We both have set our minds to providing for the happiness of a dear friend. We are only in opposition in regard to how we intend to go about it.”

  “I’m not opposed to any means that will ensure the safety and happiness for one I have too long watched suffer at the hands of others.”

  “No? And what if those means should equally protect her from you?”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t be coy, Mr. Barrett. We all know why you have come.”

  Barrett put down his fork and knife. “Do you, now?”

  “The disappointed lover discovers he may have a second chance? At what? Ruining a good woman who has so far known nothing but the selfish machinations of controlling and manipulative men?”

  “That’s enough, Claire,” Archer said.

  Claire turned to him, seeming to have forgotten, in her frustration, that Archer was there at all.

  “I know you’re angry, Claire, and you have a right to be, but don’t forget there are more victims than one in this mess.”

  “What the devil!” Barrett answered, anger thick in his voice.

  “He’s right,” she said. “But there are those who have the power to raise themselves, and those who must rely on the help of others. More often than not, the difference is a line drawn across the boundaries of sex. What you have feared to do, felt uncertain how to do, she has been powerless to do. She has depended on you, and you have failed her. Sir Edmund is gone this week, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suggest you use the time to your advantage. Does she have a solicitor, some man of law with whom you might consult?”

  “She does,” Barrett answered for him. “But I’m not sure he’ll help you.”

  “Why ever not?” Archer demanded.

  “No,” Claire concurred. “If he’s true to her, he might not at that. And that speaks well of him, but it won’t help you. Do you have a man of your own?”

  “Not who isn’t connected to my uncle.”

  “That will never do.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Barrett, you might reassure Mrs. Hamilton’s lawyer of the good intentions of her husband.”

  “If I were certain of them myself, I might.”

  “Then it seems the two of you have much to discuss.” With that, Claire placed her napkin on the table and arose to quit the room, leaving Archer and Barrett once more to each other’s company.

  The doors drew closed with a bang, and the room fell silent, save for the ticking of the clock. It chimed the quarter hour, and when the echoing knell at last ceased, Archer attempted to begin the requisite dialogue.

  “You will help me?” he said. “You will help me to help her?”

  “You must think me the greatest of simpletons, Hamilton. First, my cousin, having foolishly hired herself out as a servant in your house, must fight off your advances. And then, returning to Society, is by coincidence—I cannot account for it in any other way unless you are a greater brute than I had before supposed you—reunited with that same gentleman. However it was, the fact remains, you persuaded her that your feelings for her were true.”

  “They were. They are.”

  “After which you dragged her back here to subject her to a man not unlike the one she sought so desperately to escape. How different are you from him, I wonder? You knew him, of course. Mr. Everard, I mean.”

  “By name and reputation only. But I hardly think, from all I have heard of him, that you can rightly compare me to him, nor to my uncle either.”

  “But if you do not know…”

  “Then tell me. Tell me her story. Tell me how to help her overcome it.”

  Barrett remained silent.

  “You know it, I take it.”

  “I have the story both in her own words as well as her uncle’s.”

  “Her uncle’s? How?”

  “Never mind that. It’s not my story to tell, and it can make no difference now.”

  “If it would enlighten me as to how best to help her...”

  “You can help her by protecting her. From your uncle. From your own selfish manipulations.”

  “You insist I’m so like my him?”

  “What sins one man commits for himself and what another stands by and permits are really all the same to my mind.”

  This struck a nerve, for it had always been his fear that, however hard he might try to avoid it, destiny had already determined that he was to repeat his uncle’s mistakes, to end up, when all was said and done, a broken, angry, cantankerous old man, alone and taking issue with the world.

  “If there was a way to divide myself…but I don’t see one. The money is tied up, I’m not sure I can get at it. Not without a fight. And that fight, Barrett… I’m not sure I dare attempt it.”

  “The courts, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Barrett looked suddenly wary. “I would not advise that.”

  “And so if I leave, I leave behind what is hers too. It’s poverty or scandal, it seems. It would be better, far better, to make our success here, to raise ourselves.”

  “It can’t be done. It won’t be done.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “She doesn’t care, you know. Or haven’t you figured that out yet. She would far rather be divided from the money, safe in the knowledge she has someone by her side who will fight to the death for her. Are you her protector or not? Are you her husband? Do you love her?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “You have a choice to make, then. You’ve not yet made it. While you prevaricate, you effectually choose your uncle over her.”

  They were silent for the moment. Archer was seething under the accusations Barrett had heaped upon him. And yet, to his dismay, they rang true. At least they had reawakened his own fears. In his efforts to hold himself above the evils that surrounded him, he had, by association, by appearance, allowed himself to fall into the same. By permitting it of others, he had done wrong himself. Barrett was right.

  “If it can be done without dragging us into chancery, without dragging her name through the mud, then I’ll do it, Barrett. If she will go with me, I’ll walk away from here. We’ll leave it all behind and make our own way. If you can assure me that that is what she really wants, then I’ll do it.”

  Barrett was silent.

  “This isn’t a joke, Barrett. You understand the magnitude of the sacrifice you are asking me to make. I’m telling you I’ll make it, but you have to promise me it’s what she wants.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “Only she can tell you that. What you are asking her to do is to choose you again. I’m not so sure, after all, that she would do it. You have to ask her.”

  “And if she tells me not to do it? She very well might, you know, whether she wants it or not.”

  Barrett examined him a moment, then, sitting back in his chair, sighed. “Go to Mr. Watts. He can tell you what you’re up against, what the implications are. I don’t want to see her embarrassed any more than you do. Make the inquiries. See what can be done. We’ll go from there.”

  “It means going back to Town.�
��

  “Undoubtedly. And soon. Immediately if you can manage it.”

  “She won’t like that.”

  “If you go now…while Miss Montegue and myself are here...”

  Archer raised his brow at this.

  “We’ll take good care of her.”

  “It wasn’t Gina alone I was concerned about.”

  “Imogen,” Barrett said as though correcting him.

  “Yes.”

  “You are worried about Miss Montegue and myself? I trust she can hold her own.”

  Archer laughed. “Yes, I believe she can. You’ll not provoke her?”

  Barrett whistled. “I suppose a wise man would stay well clear.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, I’ll have little else to occupy my time, won’t I?”

  Archer smiled, though he was uncertain Roger knew just what he was getting himself into—if he was serious. There was never any knowing where Roger Barrett was concerned.

  * * *

  Imogen heard the light tapping at her door, the door that connected her room to Archer’s. She heard it but she did not answer.

  “Are you awake, Gina?”

  She remained silent, her heart pounding. She should open to him. She should…but she couldn’t.

  “Can you hear me, Imogen?”

  As she parted her lips to answer him, her voice was stopped by the sound of his.

  “I’m off to London in the morning. I did not want to go without telling you.”

  There was silence then. Her heart beat faster. How long did he mean to be gone this time? And why was he going again—so soon?

  “Claire and Barrett will remain. You’ll be safe in their company.”

  She sat up. Should she go to the door? Throwing the covers off of her, she arose and crossed the room, but could not quite bring herself to turn the key.

  “For what it’s worth,” she heard him say, “I’m sorry for this morning. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll make it right, if I can.”

  He had finished, it seemed. He had said his piece. Still, she might open the door. If she could summon the courage. But there was none to be summoned. She leaned her head against the wooden barrier, sorry in her own right for all they had failed to accomplish thus far.

  “I love you, Imogen.” His voice was as a breath of wind, and she only just caught the words. Had she remained, safely tucked up in her bed, she never could have heard him. He had not intended she should. The inherent sincerity in the gesture touched her. She touched her hand to the doorknob, but that fledgling courage, inspired by three words, failed her.

  She returned to bed, where she lay awake, thinking, regretting, through the darkest part of the night, until, at last, she heard the sound of stirring in the adjacent room. She saw the sliver of light beneath the door, and watched as it flickered, was broken and interrupted by he who had employed it. Once more she wished for him to come to her. Feared it too. But of course he would not. And when that pale light was once more extinguished, she at last succumbed to her dreaming, while ghostly visions and dark thoughts took on bodily forms, took on eyes, and hands, and mouths that sneered. As they had done before, they grabbed her and held her. They breathed wrath and loathing…and lust upon her. And did not let her go until her screaming sent them flying to the far corners of the room. She sat up in bed, sweat drenched and terrified. There was no one to come to her this time.

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  Chapter forty-nine

  OGER ENTERED THE breakfast room to find Miss Montegue preparing herself a plate. The covered dishes and platters welcomed him, though a wiser man would have waited until a more convenient hour. A wiser man would have breakfasted alone. He had never prided himself on wisdom.

  She looked up as he entered. “You slept well, I trust?”

  “Like a dead man.”

  “I have no doubt of it. You had enough to drink to render the average bear insensate.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She glanced in the direction of the sideboard, whereon the brandy was kept.

  “The decanters were full last night. Sir Edmund is not here, and as Archer—”

  He cut her off with an exaggerated bow. “I beg you’ll forgive my intemperance, ma’am.” And he took his place at the table.

  Claire sat down at the furthest corner opposite, a continent of tablecloth between them.

  “My cousin has not yet arisen, I take it,” Roger asked of her.

  “I’m sure she’ll sleep quite late.”

  “She retired early.”

  “Yes, but, according to Mrs. Hartup, she has not been sleeping well. She has much on her mind. I believe your interview with her yesterday gave her much to ponder, and she has Archer’s sudden departure to consider. And Gina—”

  “Imogen.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Her name is Imogen.”

  Claire laid down the toast she had been just preparing to eat. “Gina is short for Imogen?”

  “Imogen is short for Imogen. She despises the other.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because at the time she left her uncle’s house, she despised herself.”

  “So why Gina? What is the significance in that? If she despises it so.”

  “The name was used by someone who was particularly loathsome to her. If you are not familiar with her history, you will not understand.”

  “This Mr. Osborne? It was not he who called her this?”

  “So she did tell you.”

  “Yes, she told me of him. But she’s never objected to being called Gina. Even Archer calls her by it.” She stopped suddenly, seemed to consider, then looked up again. “Perhaps he should not.”

  “No. He shouldn’t. And he knows better than to do it, too.”

  “But he doesn’t know her history.”

  “Not yet. No. But it was the name she used as a servant in his house. That should be enough.”

  “I’m sure it’s just an innocent habit.”

  “Then he’d best break it.”

  “Yes, you may be right.”

  “May be?”

  “You needn’t be nasty, Mr. Barrett. I take your point. But my cousin, I assure you, means no disrespect in the use of the name he grew accustomed to in his earliest association with her.”

  “Better that they had never met.”

  Claire stiffened and raised her chin. “That is your opinion, Mr. Barrett, and you are entitled to it. But this marriage might do no end of good for my cousin, if he will only make the effort.”

  “Well that’s all well and good for him, isn’t it? What a little money won’t do for the landed and titled.”

  “That wasn’t my meaning at all. For the first time in his life he has something worth fighting for, something for which he must sacrifice. He’s a good man at heart. She will help him to realise the potential I have long seen in him. And he will do the same for her. She has been controlled and manipulated too long.”

  “And this is different?”

  “He loves her, Mr. Barrett. He may not have yet learned how to properly show it, and the way this has come about is indeed regrettable, but all is not lost. If he can teach her to love him, if he can persuade her that she is worth loving, think what good might come of it?”

  “I think you greatly overestimate my concern for Mr. Hamilton’s well-being.”

  “And insofar as it affects Gina’s—”

  His warning glare served as the necessary reminder.

  “Imogen,” she corrected. “You care nothing then for how his success or failure will affect her?”

  Roger chose not to answer this, and yet he maintained that pointed stare.

  “No. No. Of course you don’t,” she said, turning back to her toast. “So long as the ends agree with your ultimate desires.”

  “My ultimate desire is to see her happy.”

  “By your own terms. And at any cost?”

  Again, he did not answer. He refused to think it out so far. His
hope being so newly resurrected, he was not yet willing to stifle it for any reason. Worthy or otherwise.

  “I suppose what you really mean to say is that had you married her, her happiness would have been guaranteed. You may be right. But would it last? When you went back to your former ways—”

  “And what ways are those, Miss Montegue?”

  “Again you interrupt.”

  “You presume to understand me so well. Pray enlighten me as to my weaknesses, will you?”

  “You are a man of the world, Mr. Barrett. Are you capable of changing in order to earn the right to the love of one woman? Or will you always be looking over your shoulder at what you left behind, and what you might have again?”

  Roger, irritated, threw his wadded napkin onto the table. He was not quite the villain she supposed him, but what use was such an argument? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Neither can you, Miss Montegue. I’ll wish you good—”

  But she stopped him. “I know what I have been told of you. By your cousin. By my own. And I know what I have seen.”

  “And what, pray tell, have you seen?”

  “I’ve seen you look at me, Mr. Barrett.”

  “What?”

  “You sit here and try to tell me that you are in love with my cousin’s wife and yet you make eyes at me, and you impose upon me when your company and attention are not wanted.”

  He had been, a moment ago, on the verge of excusing himself. That she had detained him for this seemed implausibly ironic. “Is that so?”

  “It is. And you pose and preen still, and under her very roof. Are you not capable of any fidelity or devotion? I doubt you know what the words mean.”

  “Well aren’t you a fine piece of work.”

  “What I am to you is of little concern to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Miss Montegue. I would hate to think that one deluded woman’s fanciful perceptions should cause me any inconvenience. Believe me, I shan’t trouble myself with the thought again.”

  As he turned to leave the room, the door opened.

  “Imogen.”

  “Roger, what is it? I thought I heard raised voices.”

  “It was nothing,” he answered casually. “Miss Montegue and I were just having a friendly chat over breakfast.”