Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  He did not answer but watched her absentmindedly before returning his attention to the room and its contents, as though searching for something.

  “This party is as much for us, after all, as it is for the young people. Of course I would come.”

  He answered this with a dismissive grunt that was half laugh, but he offered nothing more. He arose then, to peruse the empty and half emptied crates, to sort through papers, through books, and letters, then laying these aside, he shifted his gaze once more to the shelves before turning back to the desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hmm?” He sat down again, rubbing his face before setting to work with the papers before him, sifting through them, sorting them, never looking at anything long enough to really read it.

  “I asked you what you are doing? What is wrong with you? You look as though you’ve just found yourself in another man’s study.”

  Sir Edmund heaved a great sigh and at last met her gaze.

  “You left rather suddenly,” she said, prompting him for some dialogue.

  “Yes. I suppose I did. But then it was you who persuaded me I should.”

  “I’m not sure that was my intention. I only thought it wise to warn you—”

  “Yes. Well, your warning was rather timely, as it turns out.”

  “Oh?”

  “I returned home to find Archer gone, Claire Montegue managing all and Mrs. Hamilton in the arms of her lovelorn cousin. And someone–” He stopped.

  “Yes?” she prompted him, waking him from the reverie he seemed persistent to fall into.

  “And someone, while I was gone, while the contents of the library were being stored in my rooms, took the liberty of going through them.”

  Surprised by this, and a little alarmed, it took her a moment to collect herself enough to form the question. “Who?”

  “Well, it could only have been one of two people, couldn’t it? The first, and most likely in light of your warning, has never, to my mind (and I admit I’ve counted on the fact that it would always be so) possessed the gumption for such a feat. The other wouldn’t have the first clue what to look for or how that information could possibly serve him.”

  “Wyndham.”

  “As I said, I don’t think Archer has it in him. He is not of that make, or at least I’ve always counted on his sense of honour to keep him dutiful. But he’s been stirring up trouble in Town. Asking questions, trying to dig up the past. I don’t believe he’d do this. But if it wasn’t him, it’s a remarkable bit of coincidence.”

  “What was he looking for, whoever it was?”

  Sir Edmund cast upon her a blank look.

  “Did he find it, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? But you said—”

  “I can’t figure out what’s missing. Perhaps nothing, after all. But something’s not right and I can’t place my finger on just what. Archer’s been gone four days. He’s just returned this morning. Wyndham, usually on my heel at every turn, has not been seen, not by anyone so far as I can tell.”

  “It was not money they were after, I take it.”

  “No. I don’t think so. If that was his aim he never got it.”

  “The money is safe, you say?”

  Sir Edmund looked at her again, a hint of a warning in his gaze. Still, she was relieved. And not wishing to lose his attention to his pointless meditations, she began upon a subject she had meant to broach later, when he was relaxed. In bed, perhaps.

  “This might serve as a lesson to you, I suppose.”

  “Oh?”

  “Those rooms of yours, they are not secure.”

  “No. You’re right there.”

  “You know I’ve never cared for them. They smell of old books and cigars.” His two great loves, besides money. “Now that the rest of the house is so much improved, perhaps it is time to restore them to their original purpose. You have women now to think of, and your nephew might like a larger book room, even if he must share it.”

  “Just what are you getting at?”

  “I know you were planning on the west wing suite for us, but I was thinking…”

  “Yes?” he asked, rather impatiently. Perhaps this was not the best time, after all, to bring it up, but the break-in had provided a convenient opportunity.

  “Perhaps the east wing suite would be more befitting.”

  “Befitting? How so?”

  “It would be a bit like a great dining room table, you know, where two masters reside. Lord and heir would be seated at either end of the house.”

  “The east wing suite,” he answered rather tersely.

  “The apartments there are hardly unsuitable for use, you know. Granted, I’m sure they need some attention, as you’ve left them neglected for so long now.”

  “I don’t need you to point out to me the patently obvious, Cassandra.”

  “No, of course you don’t, dear, but I must have somewhere to—”

  “The guest rooms are not good enough for you?”

  “Well, yes, of course they’ll do for now, but when the time comes…”

  Again that monosyllabic, voiceless, laugh.

  “You mean to put me off, still?”

  He did not answer this.

  “You haven’t escaped, if that’s what you think. You have a wealthy niece and a pliant nephew and you are in the fortunate position of being able to control them. For now. And so, for the time being perhaps you don’t need me. But we had an agreement. You cannot forget all I’ve done for you. If it wasn’t for my assistance—”

  “You are not my greatest concern at the moment, ma’am.”

  She fell suddenly silent. “No,” she said at last. “No, I suppose I never was. Yet you promised—”

  “That’s enough, Cassandra.”

  “If I left now I don’t suppose it would be any great loss to you.”

  Still no answer. He was not listening but had drifted off once more.

  She stood.

  He looked up at her but did not speak.

  “One day you’ll learn to be grateful.”

  He opened his mouth, but it was she who spoke first.

  “And it will be just a moment too late.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Good bye, Edmund.” She turned from him.

  “Where are you going?”

  But she didn’t answer. She left the room, stopping in the hall only long enough to direct the footman to retrieve her bags from the room in which they had a moment ago been placed.

  With an oath, Sir Edmund swept the contents of his desk onto the floor, adding to the chaos and confusion all about him.

  Back to top

  Chapter fifty-eight

  MOGEN SPENT A good hour or more before dinner resting and trying to calm her nerves for the evening ahead. Her aunts had done little to soothe them after all, and Claire, in her enduring selflessness, had undertaken to make sure that all was ready and as it should be for the evening, and for the one that would follow. As difficult as tonight would be to bear, with Sir Edmund and the aunts, Mrs. Barton too, all present to discuss and survey and to cast their suppositions upon the fate of the alliance they together had made, tomorrow would be far harder.

  And what of Archer? Imogen had seen him all of ten minutes since he had returned home. He had much on his mind, and more on his shoulders, and she regretted that there was so little she could do to ease his burden. If only he would share it with her. First however, she must persuade him to talk to her, but in order for that to happen, they must be given the opportunity. And when might that be? She had no way of knowing and did not dare to speculate.

  Imogen stood, examining herself in the mirror. She could not be more pleased with her gown, nor with her appearance, and she only prayed that Archer would approve. Standing still and silent, she continued to watch herself, trying to guess what others might see. Could she affect a happiness and satisfaction she did not feel? Was a silk gown enough to
disguise all the anxiety and uncertainty that lay beneath the facade?

  She started with the knock at the door, and turned as it opened. Archer entered. He hesitated a moment upon seeing her, then advanced slowly, an appreciative smile playing with one corner of his mouth.

  “Look at you,” he said.

  “Look at you. Your tie is not right.”

  “No. I was in a hurry.”

  “You have to do twice the tasks you rush, you know.”

  “Yes,” he said as though he were truly considering it, and perhaps a trifle more seriously than she had meant him to do.

  He was standing beside her now, looking into the mirror as she looked at him. She lifted a hand tentatively toward the loose ends of his tie as he fought with them. She hesitated half a moment. Then: “May I?”

  His hands dropped to his side. His gaze dropped to her face. “Would you?”

  She set to work, very carefully tying the knot, all the while trying to decide how best to bear the weight of his gaze upon her.

  “There,” she said at last and smoothed it. Only then did she look up at him. He was watching her still, though every so often he would glance at the mirror before him. Then he smiled.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, dismissively. “But where I stand, I can see all of you at once. And I’m not quite sure just where to look.” Then he laughed, very softly.

  She turned her head to observe herself from behind. Her dress was a work of art, especially in the back, where the train was gathered and the trims bound it into place, and then crissed and crossed as they were intricately woven along the hem of her skirt. She laughed too, and blushed.

  “I am so very sorry I left.” He kissed her cheek. “And that I was gone so long.” He kissed the other.

  She looked at him, wondering what she might expect next. What she might dare to hope for.

  The question was mirrored in his eyes as he placed a hand on the small of her back, and then as he drew her nearer.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “She’ll be entering next,” Archer said, frustrated.

  “I took the keys.”

  His brow furrowed in curiosity and surprise.

  “She is always entering at the most inopportune times.”

  “She is, isn’t she?”

  The knock again.

  “Is that why you have no fire?”

  “Yes. But it isn’t particularly cold.”

  “No not yet.”

  And yet again, though this time louder.

  “What is it, Mrs. Hartup?” Archer demanded.

  “Your guests have gathered, sir. Dinner awaits your arrival.”

  “Very well,” he answered, and then turned back to Imogen. “I suppose we must go down, then.”

  “I was hoping,” she said, as he gently turned her to stand beside him, they both looking into the mirror now, “that we might have the chance to talk. I’d like to hear about your trip, what you learned, what Mr. Watts was able to tell you.”

  She was still looking at him, not through the mirror, but at him. She understood what he was doing, but could not bring herself to gaze at the image of them both, side by side. She did not wish to see herself but in the reflection of his eyes. Would that reflection change…tonight? Tomorrow? When she told him her secrets? And begged him to tell her his? For if they were truly going to embark upon a life of their own, there could be no secrets, no mysteries. She would be an open book to him, and he to her. There was no chance otherwise.

  “It’s rather a shame we have to put on some ridiculous façade, a show for all to scrutinise and speculate upon.”

  She started from her reverie, her courage gone now.

  “It’s ridiculous, really. Especially tonight. Everyone knows what this is truly. And they could not care less whether we’re getting on or not.”

  “Not Claire, I think. Nor Roger.”

  “No,” he said, sobering. “No, I suppose not.”

  “A little honesty would be refreshing, wouldn’t it? No doubt Sir Edmund will be honest. Perhaps we ought to go down with the full weight of our uncertainties plain upon our faces.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant, Gina.”

  “I am reserved and aloof, hardly worthy of the opportunity I’ve been given. You are reconsidering your decision now you think it may cost you your comfort.”

  “Stop. That wasn’t what I meant at all. I did not think before I spoke.”

  “We should go down now.”

  “Gina, please.”

  But she did not answer, simply stood at the door waiting for him to open it.

  “Great day, what a mess this is.”

  “Well that at least was truly stated.”

  “Imogen, I did not mean—”

  “It’s all right. Forget it. Sir Edmund won’t be happy we’ve made him wait.” And she quit the room, leaving Archer to follow behind.

  Back to top

  Chapter fifty-nine

  ITH STOIC FACES, the couple arrived downstairs. Archer was the last to greet his guests, and did so with grace and humility, though he was clearly out of sorts. Imogen and Archer led the way in to dinner, while Roger escorted Claire, Sir Edmund escorted Mrs. Ellison, and Julia was left to see to Mrs. Montegue, who was looking particularly frail and tired tonight.

  No sooner had the party been seated, than Muriel, who still did not understand Sir Edmund well enough to know which topics were strictly off limits, began in her usual interrogative manner, posing her questions with as much grace as a moth in blinding daylight.

  “Is Mrs. Barton not dining with us tonight?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid she’s found herself unable to attend,” Sir Edmund answered with forced cordiality.

  “But surely she’ll be joining us tomorrow? I would so like to see her again.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be so good as to pay her a call when you’re next in Town. You do still reside in London, do you not?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, of course I do,” she stammered, just now catching the veiled animosity in his voice.

  “Speaking of London residences, how do you find your new house suiting you?”

  “Oh,” she began and faltered. “Well. It’s an odd story, that. Has not Imogen told you?”

  “Why would she do that, ma’am? You’ve not written to your niece since the day she married.”

  “Oh, well, no. I suppose not. But she will forgive me, I’m sure,” Muriel said, casting a tentative look in Imogen’s direction. “You know how it is, new places take so much adjusting to, and what with the removals and the necessary improvements, it’s been a struggle to find the time.”

  “The house does not suit you, then?”

  “Oh, I did not mean to say that,” she answered nervously. “I have no complaints to make. I’m sure something will turn up to make the venture worth it in the end. So much trouble you know, and so many unexpected expenses. It was a good deal worse off than I had realised.”

  “Aunt Lara did not come?” Imogen asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

  “No, no. I left her at home. Someone must stay to watch the place. We find we have been beset by spies.”

  “Spies?” Sir Edmund echoed.

  “Not spies,” Julia clarified. “Just some hooligans come to have an eyeful now the place is occupied again.”

  “They mean to rob it. I’m quite sure,” Muriel said, looking a little hysterical.

  Again, Julia presented the rational voice. “It’s nothing more than idle curiosity. I’ll not credit it as being anything more. I think moving into our brother’s house has quite rattled her,” she said as an aside to Imogen. “I never would have dreamt she’d decide to live in it. She’s letting her own house now.”

  “What of these spies?”

  “Just a group of troublemakers who’ve likely been there as long as the house has been standing. They only watch her because she watches them, and because her odd behaviour veritably d
emands that they should.”

  “Odd behaviour?”

  “You must be able to guess why she would take residence there?”

  Imogen hesitated for only a minute. “She is looking for—” She thought she had whispered it, but she glanced up to find Sir Edmund looking at her curiously.

  Julia, lowering her voice further, answered. “Of course that’s why she moved in. Now she can spend all her waking hours—and there are more of them than there ought to be—looking for what she believes is there.”

  Imogen’s attention turned once more to the end of the table, where Sir Edmund and Muriel sat, and where he had just been posed the question as to his satisfaction with his end of the bargain. Sir Edmund would not admit that it was a smashing success, only that there were advantages. And though he would by no means admit that Imogen was an ideal wife to his nephew, she served her purpose and she would do.

  She glanced then at Archer, who had hardly touched his food, though he was just finishing off his third glass of wine. He did not seem to be aware of anything at all. He was half dead with sleep and preoccupied to the point of stupefaction. Roger and Claire had their heads together, speaking of who knew what, while Roger glanced surreptitiously about the table, first at Sir Edmund, then Archer and then at Imogen, tossing her a stiff smile as he did. Clearly he was just barely maintaining his temper. Mrs. Montegue did not appear to be feeling well, and the moment dinner ended and it was suggested that all withdraw, she made her excuses and retired for the night. Claire followed to be sure of her.

  It was clear, upon entering the drawing room, that Muriel had not yet learned when to let well enough alone. She simply had to know that Sir Edmund properly realised that the bargain they had struck in the uniting of their dependents was to his greater benefit.

  “Surely you don’t regret the match?” she asked, when she could not get from him a satisfactory answer.

  “Certainly not,” he said. “I’m not a fool. But it is a little early to be counting our successes.”

  “You speak as if she’s failed in her duty by you.”

  “Her duty? By me?” he looked keenly at Archer. “She’s ornamental enough, to be sure. She’s got the house running again; that’s something. But I perceive she might make herself miserable over trifles, and men can’t bear to be around melancholy women, you know. It sets a bad example. Nor has she adopted all of the responsibilities expected of her.”