The facts regarding her history were obscurer still, and would remain so. The lawyer had no intentions of enlightening him, it seemed, even upon those matters he thought he understood quite well. Ever faithful to her interests, Mr. Watts was as a concerned father, and his judgment of Archer’s deeds did not go unobserved…or unexpressed.
Yet for all the guilt Archer felt, and which had been so neatly brought home to him in all its unsavoury forms, it was the last suggestion that had taken his legs out from under him. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that any chancery suit, brought by him or anyone else with a desire to get at Imogen’s money, might, on grounds purely technical, question the validity of his marriage.
“How?” he had asked. Very nearly demanded. “How was such a thing possible ?”
But then the lawyer had quite suddenly retracted it all. Perhaps a little further research would uncover the necessary clarification. Perhaps he was mistaken, after all, in supposing Mr. Hamilton had provided false information in order to secure an advantageous marriage. Perhaps… Perhaps Mr. Watts did not know quite all he should before making such accusations. If the marriage were contestable... Well. Perhaps if Mr. Hamilton were to return tomorrow, or the next day, even, Mr. Watts might have the necessary facts before him. And so, too, just perhaps, might Mr. Hamilton.
And so Archer watched. Watched and waited, in dread and anxiety and fear—in guilt—for the lawyer to summon him once more, that he might at last come to understand just what were the obstacles before him. And fearing to find, that those hopes, on which hung his future happiness, and perhaps hers as well, were impossible dreams after all.
* * *
Imogen started from her fitful sleep with the sound of a knock at her door. A glance toward Archer’s room, and the darkened doorway, told her it could not be him. She raised herself from the chaise on which she had been dozing and crossed the room to open it.
“I see you are up, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartup observed, though stiffly. Clearly she was still feeling the slight of Imogen’s request for the keys.
“I never went to bed I’m afraid, Mrs. Hartup. Even with the doors locked, it seems I have too much on my mind.”
The housekeeper too glanced in the direction of Archer’s room.
“He has not returned,” Imogen said, providing the unnecessary answer.
“Let us pray, for all our sakes, that he does soon.”
“Yes.” She understood the housekeeper’s warning. There were only a few days remaining before the expected arrival of their guests—of her family, and of Claire’s. If he was not back by then, if she had Sir Edmund’s wrath to contend with on top of everything else, there was simply no possible way she could endure it. And there would be Roger’s petitions, and Mr. Wyndham’s looming presence to consider. Reminded of him, she felt a chill run through her exhausted frame.
“Do you know if Miss Montegue is up?”
“Yes, ma’am? She has been anxious about you. Shall I send her to you?”
“No, not yet. Perhaps if you’ll prepare a bath?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs. Hartup bowed and left the room.
Soon enough, another knock was heard. She opened it to admit the maids who must have arrived with the water. But it was not they who entered.
“There’s such a commotion out there as is not to be believed,” Claire said, entering in a flurry of excitement.
“Good morning, Claire. I trust you slept well.”
Claire stopped to look at her. “You didn’t. That’s clear.”
Not ready to answer this, Imogen replied with another question. “What is all the commotion about? They are refurnishing the library today, I think.”
“Yes. And Roger– I mean Mr. Barrett, of course, is driving me to distraction. I think I may have to find him something to do.”
“You’ve had an opportunity to get to know him,” Imogen observed.
“Yes, somewhat,” and Claire sat and straightened her skirt.
“Have you learned to like him any better?”
“I cannot make up my mind about him, if you want to know the truth. He is either a man of great energy somewhat distracted in his purpose, or an idle man with fancies to occasionally play the hero. I cannot decide which.”
“I wish I could help you, but I think you may be right on both counts. He has his weaknesses, I’m well aware, but his intentions are well meant. He is a good man at heart.”
“Of his greatest weaknesses, you are certainly one,” Claire said, glancing up.
“Perhaps. In many ways we are opposites, for all that he and I are so much alike.”
“How is that, dear Imogen?”
“He has so little self-discipline, you see. And I have too much.”
“Can anyone ever have too much self-discipline?”
“Yes. I think so. When one knows they ought to love, and to express that love. But won’t, or can’t. Yes, then I think it is too much. It’s fear. Its own brand of weakness.”
“Yes,” Claire said. “I think you must be right.” She smiled stiffly, fleetingly. And grew concerned as Imogen yawned once more. “You are not still unwell?”
“No. Only very tired.”
“Well you had better revive yourself. The dressmaker is here, there are the flowers to arrange and I know not what else.”
The day was spent thus. As Imogen shadowed Claire, she found comfort in the protection her companionship afforded. Roger was kept quite busy as well, and did not complain when Claire handed him a list—and a rather long one—of chores she wished him to accomplish. Imogen too was given instructions. And she followed them to the letter. Perhaps it was not Claire’s place, but she, it seemed, was the only one with a clear head in the midst of all the anxiety and chaos.
At last, when the day had done, and everything was nearing completion, when Imogen’s gowns had been sized and fitted, and refitted, and altered and fitted again, and the two women, exhausted, sat down for some quiet refreshment, Claire, ever the astute companion, began to probe and to question—as a true and concerned friend would.
“What is it, Imogen? What is troubling you? You look as though you’ve been on the verge of tears this last hour or more.”
“Where is he, Claire? Why has he not returned?”
“He will. He will not allow you to face your guests alone. I promise.”
“I don’t care about the guests!” She realised quite suddenly that it was true. “I want him. I want him home. Today. Now.”
Claire moved to join Imogen on the sofa, and taking both her hands in her own, looked squarely upon her. “He will be back, Imogen. Tonight, tomorrow perhaps. But he will come home.”
“If you’re wrong, Claire…”
“I’m not. Now, it’s been a long day, and I think you should sleep. If you can. Can you?”
“I don’t know. Would it be possible, Claire, to stay with you tonight?”
“Yes, of course, if you wish. Is something the matter?”
It was then Imogen ought to have told her about Wyndham’s threat. But she found, after all, that she couldn’t. She hadn’t the energy even to think of it. “I’m just not sleeping, is all. I have too much on my mind. And I’m quite anxious. Perhaps…if I were not alone…”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course. Come.”
And so Imogen, after collecting her necessities, followed. Perhaps Claire sensed that Imogen was not up to any deep conversation. Perhaps, she, herself, was too preoccupied with the impending arrival of the guests. Or perhaps she had weightier matters on her own mind, but the conversation that night was both spare and trivial. And Imogen was grateful for the reprieve. They lay in silence when the lights had been put out, and Imogen thought Claire must have fallen asleep when at last the silence was broken.
“Do you think…?” Claire began, but then fell quiet again. “Do you think it possible to influence a man to reformation?”
“You said so yourself, Claire. Do you doubt your own words?”
&
nbsp; “I was speaking of Archer then. And I know him well enough to believe it in him. But do you think it true of all men?”
“No. I can’t say I do.”
“No.” A long silence followed, and then: “What of Mr. Barrett?”
“Aunt Julia always believed it was possible. In fact she quite counted on it. Why do you ask?”
No answer was immediately forthcoming.
“Claire?”
“Oh. No reason,” she said, and then turned over to face the wall. “Good night.”
“Good night, Claire.” And yet Imogen suspected, in the silence that grew and surrounded them, and which should have lulled them, that she was not alone in her struggle for the peace of mind to sleep. Rest she found, but sleep did not come until it was nearly light.
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Chapter fifty-four
MOGEN'S FIRST THOUGHT, as the sun’s rays greeted her through the crack in the curtain, were of Archer, and so, as quickly as she could, she dressed and returned to her own room. He had not returned. Beyond tears now, she was angry. Livid that he would stay away so long, with guests due to arrive at any time, she gave way to that anger. The door between their rooms remained open from the day before. She slammed it closed and locked it. And then, removing the key, she threw it—hard. It flew across the room and came to rest beneath her bed, or somewhere thereabouts. She didn’t care. Her rage surprised even her, and it frightened her in its unpredictability. But she had not time to think or to repent now.
She went in search of Claire, and found her on the stairs.
“There you are. I was just coming to get you. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“To meet? Have we guests already?”
“Just one. My grandmother.”
“Your grandmother? Here?”
“Will you come meet her?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Imogen said, not quite recovered from the surprise.
And so she followed as Claire led her to the guest wing, and to the largest and best room, the room Mrs. Barton sometimes occupied.
“Gran?” Claire called from just within the doorway.
From the recesses of a large wingback chair, a cane suddenly protruded, stamping the floor with a dull thud as it hit the rug. Slowly, without the trouble her stick implied was requisite, she raised herself.
“I have brought her, Gran.”
“It’s about time, too.” The woman drew her eyeglass from the chain about her neck and examined Imogen very carefully. “So this is Archer’s bride.”
“Yes, Gran. This is Imogen.”
“I’m honoured to meet you, ma’am,” Imogen said. “And I’m so very glad you have come.”
“I was curious,” she answered. “Claire speaks so exceedingly highly of you. I wanted to see, in any case, how Sir Edmund has chosen for his nephew. He did far better than I could ever have expected.”
Imogen was uncertain how to answer this. Certainly a first meeting, a cursory observation of her appearance and manners, could tell very little in regard to how suitable she would be as a member of the family. Yet she understood that the examination had only just begun.
“Come sit down, Gran,” Claire insisted, persuading her at last to resume her former place, where Claire and Imogen joined her.
“You’ve done marvellous work with the house, my dear. I cannot imagine what pains you must have taken to see that it is so. And in so short a time. I would not have deemed it possible were I not here to see it with my own eyes.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“That woman has been to see it, I take it?”
“Mrs. Barton? No. She has not. Not yet, at any rate.”
“Of course she will be joining us?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Mrs. Montegue gave a disapproving look in answer to this. “And how do you get on with Sir Edmund?”
“Well enough,” Imogen answered diplomatically.
“That won’t do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must tell me the truth. I will not accept anything but the plain truth.”
“Gran,” Claire warned.
“No. She must be made to understand me. I’m familiar enough with my cousin’s manners. You must be completely honest, for you will find I will be so with you, whether you like it or not.”
Imogen was tempted to quail under such perspicacious scrutiny, but held her own. “I won’t pretend that it’s easy,” she began at last, “but it might be much worse. I’ve certainly known worse.”
“I believe you have,” Mrs. Montegue said, narrowing her gaze. “But that is no reason why you should be expected to endure more, is it? Not now you have a husband to protect you? He is from home, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“Endeavouring to do just that, I believe.”
“Is he?” and she truly wondered. How could he possibly protect her when he was not here?
“I can see quite plainly how you might despair, my dear. But it can serve no purpose to give up so soon.”
“I did not mean—”
“Archer would not have chosen differently, after all, had he been at liberty to do so. He must therefore be prepared to protect what is his. It’s late in coming, I’ll grant you that, but every worthwhile endeavour requires its sacrifices.”
Imogen could do nought but agree. She had said so herself, after all. And no so very long ago.
“The way Sir Edmund has used his nephew… It’s unconscionable. Archer simply must make the break sooner or later. He’s quite ostracised from the family as it is and it’s no fault of his own, save for his being so complacent. But now he has others to consider. And you will give him the strength he needs.”
“It’s not so easy, I think. The matter’s quite complicated. And who is to say he does not bring greater hardship by breaking the alliance? What of his familial duty? What of the responsibility he owes to his uncle’s legacy? What of the sense of gratitude and obligation he rightly feels for the man who raised him? What of those who wish to inherit in his place?”
“One question at a time, my dear. Sir Edmund may have provided for Archer’s upbringing, but he was hardly the nurturing parent, nor the exemplary father figure. Sir Edmund did his duty to Archer and not an ounce more. Whatever might be said of him, whatever gratitude Sir Edmund feels he is owed, the fact remains, he is and was never fit to raise a child. Archer simply must make the break, and he must do it before it is too late.”
“Too late?”
“Before he realises that the man he still looks to for love and admiration has no love to give. And before he loses the woman in whose hands he has placed his heart.”
“But he must love Archer. At the very least he must feel some proper sense of obligation toward him? Why else would he have raised him as he has done? Why would he have made him his heir? There are others, after all.”
“Miles Wyndham?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know of that?”
“Nothing, really. He is Archer’s cousin, and elder by several years. I do know, because he told me himself, that he considers himself the rightful heir. And I believe he means to prove it.”
“I invite him to try,” Mrs. Montegue answered. “He’ll dig himself into a hole he rightly deserves to be buried in.”
“How is that?”
“Well, the money in question is not his, is it?”
“But he doesn’t know that,” Imogen explained. “It’s a misunderstanding, and one he has been allowed to maintain.”
“A dangerous deception, and one that will backfire, I have no doubt. But it’s not the only misconception Sir Edmund has imposed upon a too gullible society. Nor upon his family either. Wyndham is not wrong to feel slighted, for the feeling has been fostered in him for a purpose.”
“For what purpose?”
“Because the threat of being cast off to fend for one’s self, especially when that one has already been given more than they might otherwise
have had a right to expect, has always and will ever be the most powerful incentive to maintaining loyalty in one’s dependents.” She paused a moment to allow Imogen to consider this. “I know Sir Edmund very well, as I have said, and you may take my word for it that he would not shrink from any selfish endeavour, nor stop short of shirking any responsibility that did not directly and immediately benefit himself. Sir Edmund has provided for Wyndham, which is no less than his duty. For Archer he has done more. And the question remains, ‘why’?”
“Do you know, Mrs. Montegue?” Imogen asked, nearly begged.
“There is only one answer I can logically conceive of and it hinges on his mother. For the sake of Ethne Hamilton alone would Sir Edmund consider taking on such a responsibility as raising a child. Her child. Even then I don’t think he would have done it were it not for the chance that he might have something to gain by it—or, just possibly, some further obligation to consider, and one that might save him from owning it in other quarters.”
“Oh, my!” Claire rose from her seat and moved toward the window, but she gave a curious look back upon arriving there, as if astonished by some fact that Imogen had not yet grasped, and anxious to know when she might.
“Ethne was his mother’s name?” Imogen asked.
Claire turned from the window to face her. “Has he told you anything at all about his parents?”
“I know they were not married, and that she died here. He’s reluctant to speak of them. Do you know the story, Mrs. Montegue? Will you tell me?”
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