Roger stood and cleared his throat.
Archer, tossing a look at the ceiling, finished off his drink, brandy now, and faced the curtained window.
“The house has never looked better,” Sir Edmund went on. “I will not deny that, but there is more to marriage, after all, than appearances alone. And while this might do tonight,” he added with a wave of his hand in the direction of the young couple, “tomorrow’s evening will be a complete disaster unless they learn to play their parts a trifle more realistically.
Imogen stood and moved toward the door. Roger stopped her.
“But certainly she’s meek and mild and does everything she’s expected to do?” Muriel went on.
“I don’t know that she does, ma’am.”
“Will you walk with me, Imogen?” Roger asked her.
“In the dark?”
“Yes,” he said. “Have you a wrap?”
She borrowed a shawl from the back of a nearby chair, one that was kept there for just such a purpose. Roger wrapped it around her and then offered his arm. Which she took. Then, with that same exemplary show of deference, he led her out of doors.
They had walked some distance, however, before he found it possible to speak.
“The ass!”
“Roger.”
“Is this how it will be tomorrow?”
“I’ll try harder tomorrow. It will be okay. We quarrelled is all, and—”
“You’ll try harder? You’ll try? Devil take it, Imogen! I don’t want to hear that you’ll try harder. I want the sanctimonious smirk wiped off Sir Edmund’s face with my fist, is what I want. I want them, the pair of them, to realise what they have and are too self-absorbed to properly appreciate!”
He was shouting now, and Imogen feared that any minute he would be overheard.
“Roger, please?” she pleaded.
He checked himself, placing an arm around her and drew her nearer as they walked on.
“Tomorrow will be different,” she said. “I promise. He wouldn’t dare behave so among proper guests. You’ll see. I’m sorry it has upset you. I’m sorry if it pains you to—”
“My feelings are of no account at present. Yes, I’m disappointed, I won’t deny it, but it’s not my happiness—or lack of—that concerns me now. It’s this infernal charade that is not a charade at all. It’s Sir Edmund’s complete indifference to the demands he makes on you—and on Hamilton too, I grant him that. And if that’s not bad enough there’s your aunt, with her blatant reminders of the ruthless manner in which she has disposed of you. With no remorse, she speaks of the bargain they made, how she sold you off for her own personal gain. They sit there and speak of it as if you were some burden to be lamented. To hear him speak as though he had not quite got his money’s worth... And she talking as though she had not gotten precisely what she wanted!”
“She didn’t. I made certain of it.”
“What?”
“She got the house. Nothing more.”
He was struck dumb by this.
“It was wicked and vindictive of me.”
“Vindictive?” he demanded, shaking his head. “How was it vindictive to give her something, the one thing, that might have remained yours even after your marriage?”
“Because I knew why she wanted it. I knew she wanted all the wealth and treasures her imagination had built and stored up inside it. But it’s not there. There is nothing. There was once. But it’s gone.”
He looked at her curiously.
“I had Mr. Watts dispose of it.”
“What?”
“I could not let her win.”
“But don’t you see how it might have helped you?”
“How? Had I held onto it, it would have transferred like the rest of it.”
“But the house!”
“What would I have done with that?”
“You might have used it, should you find you needed somewhere to go.”
“I could never go back there again. Not ever. And while some hope yet remains, neither can I think of leaving.”
“Do you mean to say you wish to remain, with his uncle, and all your wealth doing naught but laying a fine shellac over all the family’s corruption?”
“I don’t know. I can’t know until I speak to Archer. Until he tells me what he has learned.”
“And if he won’t?”
“He must.”
“Why should he? You’ve never confided your secrets to him, after all.”
“That is cruel.”
“It’s not a reprimand, Imogen. I’m not saying you should have done, I’m just saying that if this marriage bore the promise of the hope you’ve placed in it, then would you be here now, tormented by his uncle, hiding from your past and afraid to own up to it, having been veritably sold and then robbed? What must they do next before you’ll realise that this is no place for you?”
“To leave the house is one thing. But to leave him… You would truly persuade me to do it?”
“I think you’re a fool to stay.”
“He’s doing all he can.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. What more would you have him do?”
“Ask me what I would do in his place, Imogen!”
He was shouting again. She turned from him and walked back toward the house.
“You say he’s not unkind to you” he said, catching up to her. “Is this not unkind, this passivity, this changeability in itself? He sits there, drinking, completely absorbed in himself, and he does nothing!”
“I don’t know,” she said, her own voice rising now. “I don’t know what he means by his silence. But Roger, he has not used me ill. He has never forced me to anything I did not want.”
He looked at her hard for a moment. “What nonsense is this? It was a marriage arranged for the acquisition of a fortune. You didn’t choose it.”
“But I did. He asked me to marry him. I accepted.”
“What?”
“It’s true it was arranged. But he offered to me nonetheless, and I accepted him.”
“And when did you find out it wouldn’t have mattered had you accepted or refused? When did you learn that it all would have been the same? Tell me! Did he wait until after you were married, when you were well and truly and irrecoverably his?”
She hesitated to answer him.
“Imogen?”
“We had gone for a walk. He made his offer then. When we returned, to Mrs. Barton’s house, where my aunt and Sir Edmund were waiting, that’s when Sir Edmund told us. That is when he told me.”
“The scoundrel! Do you not see how you’ve been deceived?”
“Yes, I see it. I’m not blind, after all. Only–”
“What?”
“Only I think he thought he was giving me the honour of choosing for myself.”
“Honour? What the—”
“He meant well, Roger. I’m certain of it now.”
“He’s convinced you, has he? And what has been his method of persuasion, Imogen? Has he forced it upon you? Has he forced himself? Has he beaten it into you?”
“No! Don’t speak of him that way. He’s never touched me. Never.”
Again, Roger only offered that cold, uncomprehending stare. And then: “Do you mean–” he began and stopped. “Do you mean to say he has never-”
“I can count on one hand the number of times he has entered my bedroom, the number of times he has dared an intimate embrace, the number of times he has kissed me...” And then she shook her head to say the rest.
Roger fell back upon the stone wall, utterly dumbfounded. He was both appalled and elated with relief. It was not too late, after all.
“Then what is all this talk of shame and honour and redemption? You can leave him. He’s not asserted his place as your husband or as your protector. You can leave. You may lose the fortune you never wanted but what is that compared to freedom?”
She looked away and he turned her toward him.
“No one can now make any claim
s upon you. You can really and truly be free.”
“Free to do what, Roger? To live alone? To live a life of scandal? Always to be the subject of Society tattle? To be judged and despised?”
“For a time, perhaps. But that will go away, when people learn how you have been wronged. Don’t you see?”
Her eyes flashed suddenly to his. “No I don’t see,” she said. “I don’t see at all. Perhaps I’m a fool, but–”
“What, Imogen?” he said more patiently. All the fight had been knocked out of him, for what he saw now gave him little comfort.
“It could be worse. I have known so very much worse. And he needs me.”
“I don’t know if I can do it, Imogen. I don’t know if I can play witness to anymore.”
“Then you must go.”
“I can’t do that either. I won’t leave you.”
“It’s unfair, what you’re asking me.”
“Unfair?”
“Yes. You sent him to London, without telling me, to see what might be done to free us from Sir Edmund’s grasp. His difficulties are as much your responsibility now as they are mine. Whatever it is he’s learned, he’s not yet even had the opportunity to use, to his benefit, or to mine. Please, Roger. Please be patient.”
“Can you be patient? Can you endure more?”
“For the first time in my life, I have someone prepared to fight for me. If that’s what he means to do, I owe him that opportunity.”
He glanced at her tentatively before casting his gaze once more upon the ground. Repentant, he approached her. He took her hand in his, pressed it to his lips and then placed it gently in the crook of his arm. There was so much more he had planned to say, but she was right. And this, in light of Claire’s admonitions, persuaded him, though he did not want to admit it, that he was wrong. Rebuked in his selfish impatience, he could think of nothing at all to say. Nothing that could offer any comfort. Not for her. Certainly not for himself.
They walked on in silence for a little while, she clinging to his arm, he trying to draw some warmth from it—some comfort. It gave him none.
Having taken more time than was possibly appropriate, they at last returned to the house. Archer was waiting for them, standing within the doorway and looking a little worse for drink. They entered, and Roger, making his excuses, retired for the night. But neither was Imogen feeling up to the task of facing Sir Edmund and her aunts once more. She glanced at her husband and moved past him.
“Will you come back in?” he said, stopping her with a hand placed lightly upon her elbow.
“I have a headache.”
“It’s just your aunts now,” he said, and she could smell the alcohol, could see the effects in his drooping eyelids. “Sir Edmund has returned to his study.”
“You?”
“I need to speak with him, Gina. You’re right, we need to talk, but I must speak with him first. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
He was looking at her almost pleadingly, and she found she could not meet his gaze. They stood there, together, alone, in strained silence.
“Will you return to the party?”
“No,” she answered, looking at him, though only briefly. “No, I’d really rather not.” She hesitated a moment more as his hand lingered on her arm, chill now from the evening’s air. “Perhaps I’ll go check on Mrs. Montegue.” And then she moved on.
Archer, left once more to himself, went in search of his uncle, but found, to his mounting frustration, that the library doors were once more locked. It was not possible his uncle was alone, for he heard the sound of muffled and indistinct voices through the oaken panels of the door. Having nothing else to do, and fully aware that he was unfit for any company, he went out to walk the grounds.
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Chapter sixty
MOGEN TAPPED AT Mrs. Montegue’s door. It was immediately opened.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you,” Claire said and pushed Imogen once more out into the hall.
“What is it? What is the matter?”
“Gran is unwell. It’s nothing serious, but she does get headaches and dizzy spells. I want to fetch the doctor.”
“Yes, of course. Shall I send someone?”
“No. I’ll go. I’d much rather go myself. Not anyone will do, you know. Will you stay with Gran until I return?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Once Claire was gone, Imogen approached Mrs. Montegue, who had been prepared for bed and now sat in that same comfortable chair, draped in a handsome dressing gown of embroidered silk, her head resting on the knuckles of one hand.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Montegue?”
Slowly the old woman looked up. “No. I’m quite all right. I have a headache, but it will go away.”
“Claire has gone for the doctor.”
“Good. Her energies were wasted here,” and she drew up straighter, appearing instantly stronger. “Besides, she’ll rest more comfortably knowing there’s a doctor in the house.”
“But you do have a headache, you say? And Claire mentioned something about dizzy spells. Are these not serious enough to warrant sending for a doctor?”
“It seems I forgot how very much I despise my cousin, Mrs. Hamilton. The very sound of his voice, never happy, never satisfied, always complaining about something…or someone. It’s quite the limit of my tolerance.”
“I’m sorry he wears on your nerves,” Imogen said. “But I am glad you came.”
Mrs. Montegue examined Imogen once more, and with a more acutely scrutinising air this time. “You cannot be happy here.”
“I suppose there is no point in trying to convince you that I am entirely satisfied.”
“Yet you do not seem to me to consider yourself a victim.”
“No. I would hate to think I do.”
“You might. You very easily might. The manner in which this business has taken place is regrettable; certainly Sir Edmund is reproachable. I won’t pretend that Archer is completely innocent, but where Sir Edmund is guilty of having abominably used you—and perhaps his nephew as well—Archer is only guilty of succumbing to weakness. All men must, at some point in their lives. He cannot be blamed for loving you, nor wanting to secure you for himself. You do not blame him for this much?”
“No. Perhaps I did once. But not now.”
“And you are in love with him, or would very much like to be.”
Imogen did not answer this. There was little need.
“What draws you to him in spite of all of the difficulties you know you have yet to face?”
Imogen hesitated only a moment. Then, at last answered the question. “I believe his heart is good,” she said. I think he wants to be good and strong and honourable, all the things his uncle is not. And yet there is great conflict in him as well. I see such a contradiction of gentleness and strength, but that gentleness, that enduring concern for others, it binds him as a slave to those who cruelly use him.”
“As you do by withholding from him that which would make him a man.”
Imogen flushed in answer and turned away.
“You’re afraid.”
In surprise, she looked to the woman again.
“It is true. You are afraid to open your heart to him, and your fear prevents you from helping him, and from helping yourself. He’ll need what comfort and encouragement you can give him in the trials he’s now facing, which trials will only get harder before they get better.”
“And if he makes this break, and he regrets the effort, regrets the sacrifices he made—for me!—how will I live with myself then? I couldn’t bear the guilt.”
“Because you bear too much already.”
“What?” Imogen said, looking to Mrs. Montegue with eyes wide.
“The only thing that matters in this world is love; love of a family, love of friends, love of a man. I think you’ve known too little of these things. But now you can have them all, if you’ll only allow yourself that privilege.
You have a right to it. The only way the guilt you feel can be justified is if you accept the admiration of those who are not worthy of it and push away the love of those who are. Then perhaps you’ll have deserved all the hellfire and damnation you’ve heaped upon yourself these many years now. If you can summon the courage to take this chance—though it might be a great one, it’s too late now to reconsider that—you very well may find that you are able to rid yourself of past pain.”
“But what do you know of that?”
“Claire told me.”
“She told you? Why would she do that?”
“Because Claire has suffered under the same self-condemnation as you. Her story and yours are not entirely dissimilar.”
“Claire?”
“By helping you, she is helping herself. If you refuse to do this, to dare to love and trust again, you show Claire how futile is the effort. And she deserves some happiness too, does she not? Even if it’s only in the satisfaction of seeing her beloved cousin and her dearest friend find happiness together.”
Imogen was allowed to contemplate this for a few minutes before Mrs. Montegue went on. “Will you try? For her? For Archer? For yourself? Will you?”
“I will consider what you say,” Imogen answered honestly. And honestly, how could she not? But she could offer no further assurance than that. Not yet. Not until she understood for herself the burden Archer was presently bearing—which she must consequently share.
With her head against the wing of her high backed chair, the old woman rested now, her eyes closed. Imogen remained until the entrance of a servant roused them both.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” the girl said with a curtsey. “Miss Claire and Mr. Barrett have returned with the doctor.”
Puzzled by this announcement, Imogen arose and looked to Mrs. Montegue, whose face bore the slightest trace of a satisfied smile.
Imogen entered the corridor to find Roger and Claire just arriving there. Claire stopped and turned to him.
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