“I’ll tell you all I know for certain. The official story, that is.”
“There is another?”
“One thing at a time, my dear.”
“Yes, of course,” Imogen answered, eager to hear anything at all of Archer’s mysterious history.
“Edmund and his elder brother Magnus had met and fallen in love with the same woman,” Mrs. Montegue began. “They both courted her—and mercilessly. In the end, she chose Magnus. Despite Magnus’ position as heir to his father’s estate, her family did not approve. Neither did Sir Gordon, who was ailing, and wished to see his sons married to both blood and money. Her father, knowing just how much Sir Gordon’s estate needed her fortune, had reservations. She was asked to wait, and refused, threatening to elope. It was their intention to do it, too. Only Magnus was not quite prepared to set up house. And so, while he made the necessary preparations, he sent Miss Ethne to the Abbey to wait, and to nurse his ailing father. As he knew she would do, she convinced his Sir Gordon to forgive him and support the marriage. And then Magnus died unexpectedly—tragically even.”
“How?” Imogen asked in alarm.
“It was a terrible accident. He fell during a foxhunt and broke his neck, poor man. News of his death was quite a shock. And it was the last straw for Sir Gordon, who soon died as well, leaving Edmund to inherit and Ethne alone. Six months later, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less, Archer was born.”
“Sir Edmund might have married her, to save her the infamy.”
Mrs. Montegue examined Imogen a moment. “He might have, indeed. But I’m not sure Ethne was in a proper state to consider it. Magnus’ death all but killed her. She lived only long enough to give birth to her child. Edmund was good enough to assume responsibility of the boy. Out of the kindness of his heart and the love and respect he had for his brother. And for Ethne, of course. Or so the official story goes.”
“And the other?” Imogen asked, more anxiously than she had intended. “How does it differ?”
“Perhaps it’s not our place to divulge Archer’s secrets,” Claire said, interrupting the conversation and returning to sit beside Imogen.
“They are Imogen’s now too, are they not?”
“Yes, but as you said, you cannot know for certain. It’s merely speculation.”
“I can add two and two as well as anyone. Or three and six, as the case may be.”
“I think we shouldn’t talk any more of this just now.” Claire stood again. “I think we should wait for Archer to return. Perhaps he will have learned something that will help you both.”
“But Claire. I can’t stand it. Tell me what you know? What you suspect? I beg.”
“Perhaps Claire is right,” Mrs. Montegue said. “Perhaps it is unfair to tell the secrets that are his alone to tell.”
“But as you said, he doesn’t know them.”
“He soon enough will. If he goes through with this, it all must come out. You know now all there is to know for certain. Perhaps more than your husband does already. You might help him, you know, to learn the rest. His mother’s rooms remain intact, after all. If there are secrets left to be revealed—”
“I think we should go down,” Claire suggested, interrupting her grandmother once more. “Mr. Barrett has been left to his own company long enough. We cannot take the risk of running out of brandy before the guests arrive.”
“I don’t know if I’m up to it, Claire.”
“Nonsense. I doubt very much Sir Edmund will be joining us, as he’s still struggling to put his library back in order. And so it will be a quiet party just the four of us.”
“I think I’ll remain here this evening,” Mrs. Montegue said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Gran,” Claire answered, and crossed the room to place a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek. “Three of us for dinner, then. I will have something brought to you.”
“Shall we then, my dear Imogen? I’ve been meaning to try you at the piano. We cannot delay much longer if you want time to practice.”
“Claire, truly I do not want to play for an audience.”
“No. I won’t make you play. Though you’d do well enough if you did. Still, I would like you to sing for me.”
“Claire, please.”
“You will be our example. Whatever you can do, after all, to prove that you are equal to the position you now hold...it must be done.”
“And if I can’t prove it, Claire?”
“If it’s any comfort to you, I will not make you do it if I have the least doubt in your abilities.”
“Thank you,” she said, and seemed truly relieved.
“On the other hand, if I find your talents extraordinary—and I suspect I shall—you will perform. Do I have your word?”
“No,” she said, and laughed, though rather stiffly at that.
“Hmm,” Claire answered with a frown. “You do know I always get my way.”
“Not this time, I think.”
“That, my dear, is as good as a challenge.”
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Chapter fifty-five
LAIRE FOUND ROGER pacing the drawing room. She entered, followed closely by Imogen.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrett.”
His countenance changed instantly, from one of sullen petulance to pleasant relief. Imogen had been keeping very much to herself these last few days, and he had taken no pains to hide his anxiety.
“I was wondering, Mr. Barrett,” Claire said to him, “if you could help me on one or two points concerning your character.”
He stiffened slightly. “How might I do that, Miss Montegue?”
“Do you consider yourself an honest man?”
“I could say I do, but if you doubt my word, I’m afraid I’m helpless to prove it.”
“I want your opinion, and it will only be of use to me if you can give it honestly.”
“Perhaps you’d best enlighten me as to the subject.”
“Your honour is relative then, is it, sir?”
“If you want to know my opinion of you, Miss Montegue, I won’t hesitate to tell you that I find you stubborn, argumentative and irritating in the extreme.”
Claire laughed. “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, and tossed a glance at Imogen, who was clearly uncertain what to make of this banter. “I see you are inclined to tell half-truths and to sugar-coat your opinions.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“It is not regarding myself I seek your opinion. Imogen is going to sing for us. I want you to tell me honestly, and without quailing, if she is good enough to perform for an audience. If you believe she is, you will please me greatly. If you tell me she is not, you will please her. And so you see, my dear Imogen, the odds are all on your side. Can you do it, Mr. Barrett?”
“I believe I can oblige you.”
They arrived in the music room, and after several minutes of debate and objection, a piece was at last agreed upon. A Sullivan and Tennyson piece, aptly named Marriage Morning.
Roger, who had been wandering the room, turned to listen as Claire began to play. And as Imogen began, hesitantly at first, to sing. In her initial uncertainty, she faltered, missing a note or two, but in such safe and pleasant company, she soon gained confidence. Roger looked to Claire, who was pleased to the point of exaltation. Claire’s heightened colour gave her away, and he almost truly liked her then. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, but to see her look upon his cousin so lovingly, with such pride, and this in combination with the music, and with Imogen’s singing, he was nearly swept away by his own feelings, confused though they were. The song had reached its final ritardando, and he turned once more to Imogen, who finished with a slight catch in her voice, and a tear in her eye. It did not appear to be the first she had shed today. She sniffed it away, however, the moment the music ended. A long, peaceful silence followed.
Of course it was Claire who interrupted it. “So what do you think, Mr. Barrett? Will she do?”
“She had better do. As I come partnerless, I’m inclined not to come at all.”
“Roger!” Imogen, said. “You can’t mean that?”
“I do. But I might be persuaded to reconsider if you promise to sing.”
“And that’s the only way to persuade you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” she said, looking from one to the other of her companions in turn. “I suppose I have no choice then, do I?”
“You always have a choice, my dear. I’ll not be accused of robbing you of so precious a thing as that, but I should think it would at least provide some incentive.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll sing for you. If you both want it so.”
“Archer too will be very pleased to hear you. Just see if he isn’t.”
Roger cleared his throat and crossed casually, if somewhat irritatedly to the other side of the room.
“I should perhaps practice a little more,” he heard Claire say. “Your guests arrive tomorrow, after all. But you’ve been anxious to speak with your dear Roger, so I’ll not keep you from him. And I know he’s been eager to speak with you.”
Grateful for this, Roger bowed and then led Imogen off to a comfortable spot nearby, where he sat her down, and at length persuaded her to talk, which he knew she needed to do. He listened, and though she spoke of trifles, nothing to the point of her distress, he listened. As a good friend, or cousin—or would-be lover—he listened. Except that he was not really listening. He was watching her, and as he observed all the little details so familiar to him, and some that were not, he ached. Her hair, once worn down so elegantly, was all the more elegant for the twist she wore and tortoiseshell comb that held it up. And yet the nervous anxieties profuse in her manner were not those usually born by a married woman. These were the flutterings and uncertainties of a heart unsecured by its object. It was not for him her blood pulsed now, if indeed it ever had. He was not in the least prepared to abandon hope, but the fact was plain, she belonged to another. Or very much wished to. That she wanted the other man, perhaps as much now as Archer Hamilton had ever wanted her, was quite a bitter pill to swallow. But she might be convinced yet that in her present situation she could not be made happy. At least he was not done trying. At last Claire’s playing came more quietly. Imogen’s chatter, in turn, came more slowly. She yawned once or twice, and Roger knew his time, for the evening, was up.
“My dear,” he said. “You will fall asleep where you are if you don’t take yourself to bed.”
She smiled, gratefully, and rested her head against the wing of her chair. Then yawned again.
“I’ll carry you there myself if you don’t go.”
“Would you?” she said and smiled. “That would save me ever so much trouble.”
“The difficulty would not be in getting you there. It would be in leaving you.”
A look of trouble flashed across her face. She could not bear his flirtatious banter as she had once done. Of course not. And yet…it seemed to him that there was more to it yet, as if she bore some anxiety about the matter.
“You do know I was joking. I should not speak so. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Then why do you look as if you are suddenly alarmed.”
“I’m not. And I’m not going to my own room anyway, so it does not matter. Truly, though, I wish I’d thought of it before. We ought to have put you in Archer’s room. Not the one he stays in, but the one that is properly his.”
“He doesn’t keep to his own room?”
“His room was not finished when we were married. He set himself up in the sitting room between our bed chambers.”
“Why?”
“He does not– There is–”
“Imogen? Are you afraid to be in your own room? Are you afraid of him?
“No. Not him.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m not afraid of him. Only– I do not like– What I mean is–” She stood suddenly. “Good night, Roger.”
“Imogen, wait just a minute.”
But she didn’t. And after stopping to whisper something to Claire—to which she received a nod and a sympathetic smile—she left.
Roger arose and approached the piano.
“It’s the two of us for dinner, then,” she said, glancing up at him.
“Miss Montegue. Do you know something you have not told me? Does my cousin have reason to fear her husband?”
Claire stopped playing and turned to him.
“Fear him?”
“Yes. It’s plain she’s not sleeping well. If at all. She says she is not sleeping in her own room, nor he in his. It’s none of my business, I know, but if she has reason to fear him…”
“Have you ever known my cousin to be of a violent temperament, Mr. Barrett? If you have I would like to know. For I’ve never seen it myself. Not ever.”
“Forgive me, Miss Montegue. I can see I’ve offended you. My cousin…she is not herself.”
“She is very tired. And anxious, as you can no doubt appreciate. She has asked to stay with me until he returns.”
“So she is afraid.”
“I would sooner believe that there is a tribe of pygmies living in the New Forest than believe she has any cause to fear my cousin.”
“Again. Forgive me, Miss Montegue. My own anxieties seem always to lead me to the worst of possible conclusions. You will tell me though, will you not, if there is any way I can alleviate whatever it is that is causing her distress?”
“Yes. I will. And I’ll start by asking you to give her a little more room to breathe.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I fear your motives are not quite pure. I want her happiness, but I do not have vengeance on my mind, nor my pride to contend with.”
“These are heavy accusations, Miss Montegue.”
“But they are they inaccurate? Forget yourself, Mr. Barrett. If you want to help her, if her happiness is truly important to you, forget yourself. Perhaps then you might truly be of some assistance. As it is now, I fear you will only get in the way.”
“Your way?”
“Am I a hypocrite, Mr. Barrett? Is that what you accuse me of? You are more instinctively vindictive than I thought. And weak if you give into those instincts. Let me be clear. If you cannot humble yourself to think only of her, then it is she who will suffer. If you want to help her, you’ll have to learn to take a woman’s lead.”
“Really, Miss Montegue. Do enlighten me. In what way am I so wanting that your guidance should be necessary to me?”
She did not answer right away. And when at last she opened her mouth, it was only to shut it again. She rose from her place at the piano, turned her gaze full upon him, and blushing profusely, said, “I have not quite decided yet.”
“Do let me know when you have it all worked out, will you?”
“You have my word, Mr. Barrett. Enjoy your dinner. I find I am no longer hungry.”
In reply, he bowed, though not as stiffly as he’d intended. Neither had he intended to watch her walk away. He had meant to turn his back on her in turn. But he didn’t, and found, more disturbingly still, that he couldn’t.
* * *
Claire entered her room to find Imogen already in bed, her back toward the door and lying on her side. Asleep. Or pretending to be. For though her breathing was even, her posture relaxed and unaffected, Claire was not fooled. She sat down on the bed.
“Imogen?”
“There was no answer. She had expected none.
“Imogen. Will you tell me why you wished to stay with me?”
Still no answer.
She feared to ask the next question. Feared more the answer. “Archer has never hurt you, has he? You are not afraid of him?”
Imogen turned onto her back and faced her. “No, Claire. What would make you ask such a question?”
Sighing audibly, she cast an apologetic smile upon her friend. “You are afraid of something. Or anxious for it.”
Imogen turned back onto her side.
“Imogen. I’m not going to rest until you tell me who or what you are afraid of.”
Imogen remained quiet for a long time. “Wyndham,” she answered at last. “I’ve seen him.”
“Here? In the house?”
“Yes. In Sir Edmund’s rooms. He was looking for something, but I don’t know what. I’m afraid of him. And of what Sir Edmund will say—or do—when he learns of it.”
“You haven’t told him?”
“No. And I won’t. I can’t take the risk of having him think I met Wyndham on purpose.”
“But why would you meet him on purpose?”
“I wouldn’t. But it won’t prevent Sir Edmund from thinking it. Or… You won’t mention it?”
“No. No I won’t. But we must be on our guard.”
“He is not expected to come to the party, I think.”
“No. But that doesn’t mean he won’t make an appearance.” Claire paused to consider for a moment. “What of Archer? Do you think he’ll not worry when he returns and finds you are not in your room?”
“Do you think he will? Return tonight, I mean?”
“He had very well better. Or I’ll give him something to be afraid of.”
One corner of Imogen’s mouth turned up in a half-hearted smile.
“Shall I leave him a note to tell him you are with me?”
Imogen nodded and closed her eyes, signalling that that was the last of the questions she would answer. But before Claire arose from the bed, Imogen, in a gesture of gratitude, reached out and squeezed her hand.
Claire kissed her cheek and left the room.
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Chapter fifty-six
MOGEN SLEPT THAT night, and slept well. When she awoke the next morning, it was quite late. No sooner had the first glimmering signals of consciousness coaxed her from her sleep than the nauseating anxiety descended. Today was the day. Her family would come, perhaps Claire’s, too, and she would have to put on that plaster of Paris mask and smile to the world as though she had entered into the most amicable of arrangements imaginable. But how do that if Archer had not yet returned?
Of Moths and Butterflies Page 44