Of Moths and Butterflies

by V. R. Christensen

  Imogen returned to her own room, to wait, unable to concentrate on anything but the passage of time. At last the lawyers arrived, and arrived together. It was another hour or more before she was summoned, once again, to the library.

  The gentlemen arose as she entered. Mr. Watts took her hand and greeted her warmly, and did not let her go once they were seated. This too seemed an ill omen. Archer and Mr. Graves remained standing.

  “I was informed I would find some letters and papers?” the lawyer said to Archer.

  Obediently, Archer handed him a portmanteau.

  Mr. Graves opened it and pulled out the contents. “Have you read these?”

  “Only the one addressed to me.”

  Mr. Graves looked this over and then returned it to Archer, who, in turn, gave it to Imogen. She read it, but she knew not as yet what to make of it outside of what he had told her earlier. It was merely instruction, telling Archer to expect the lawyer and to send him at once to Sir Edmund, from whence that man had just come. Except for a rather veiled apology, the remainder of the letter was written so cryptically as to prevent her understanding it.

  Archer had now fixed himself at the far side of the room, leaning against the mantle of an empty fireplace. Mr. Graves took his position at the desk and, sorting through the papers, began to examine them, one by one. At last he put these down and, removing his glasses, he looked alternately from Archer to Imogen.

  “Last night,” the lawyer began at last, “an intruder entered the house through this library and carried away with him some documents. He appears to have been both discriminate and calculating. What he took, however, cannot benefit him in the way he believes it will. This would be of little concern were it not for the fact that he has already shown a tendency toward violence, and this inspired by jealousy and an appetite for vengeance. There’s no doubt, judging from what he did manage to take, that he means to do Sir Edmund Barry, as well as yourselves, some considerable harm. At the very least, he means to publicly ruin you. But I would not hesitate to speculate that his intentions may be far more villainous yet.”

  Imogen looked to Archer, who had turned his attention out of doors.

  “This is why I must go?” Imogen asked of him.

  He made no attempt to recognise her question, nor to answer it. His gaze remained fixed upon the glass panes of the window, and what lay beyond.

  “There is more, Mrs. Hamilton. Mrs. Barry, I should say.”

  “Barry?” she answered in shock. She had drawn the conclusion before now. At least she had considered the possibility. She had not thought what it would mean to her personally. To share the man’s name… She swallowed hard and tried to look unaffected. It was difficult to do.

  Mr. Watts held her hand all the tighter, which did not inspire the confidence it seemed was his intention to bestow.

  “I have a letter here I would like to read,” said Mr. Graves. “I beg your pardon beforehand. It is not quite delicate.”

  “Go on,” she said, anxious to get the worst over and to know where she stood.

  Mr. Graves read, relating, in Sir Edmund’s own words, the story she had heard already from Mrs. Montegue, only slightly altered, of Sir Edmund’s dealings with Archer’s mother, and confessing that, as a result of the greatest of wrongs performed upon a woman by a man, Archer was conceived. And that, in his shame, Sir Edmund had endeavoured to hide his misdeeds by bestowing upon his son a name—and a position—that was not rightly his own.

  So much made sense now, why Archer should be referred to as Sir Edmund’s bastard nephew, despite the obstacles, the heartache it must naturally have caused him. Better Archer should suffer for the wrongs imposed upon his mother than that Sir Edmund should bear any responsibility.

  Mr. Graves went on, explaining that, in this lie, and unable to recompense earlier, when he easily might have done, Sir Edmund married his nephew by coercion to the girl of his choice. Under a name that he had been known by for five and twenty years, but which was not his, Archer had taken out a marriage licence. In ignorance, he signed the certificate and registry in that same name, leaving he and his new wife open to be preyed upon by any opportunist with a great enough desire to see them destroyed. Such an opportunist was already in the making, by way of Sir Edmund’s truly illegitimate son, Miles Wyndham, who now, realising his error, bereft of his mistress and having his son veritably removed from his reach, had every reason in the world to wreak havoc and revenge. And there could be no doubt he would. Indeed, he had already struck the first blow.

  Imogen looked up as Mr. Graves finished. Archer had not moved from his place beside the window. The tears she had fought to keep back came now, but they were mixed with anger as Archer refused to look at her. Why must he treat her so indifferently now? She had resolved to let him in, and she thought she had done it. But it seemed that with every effort, every success to draw nearer him, circumstances must drive them apart.

  “The facts of the matter are these,” Mr. Graves continued. “As far as any inheritance is concerned, property and fortune go to Mr. Barry, the recognised son. You were forced to this marriage, Mrs. Barry. You have been rather infamously treated. If not by Mr. Archer Barry, then by his father—for whose benefit the marriage was arranged. Coercion is adequate grounds for an annulment. In this case, the offending parties resorted to violence to achieve their aims.”

  “Violence?” Imogen repeated, confused.

  “You were struck when you raised objection to the plans, were you not?”

  She turned to Mr. Watts with a questioning look. In answer he pointed to her cheek. She raised a hand to the forgotten injury.

  “Furthermore, there is no reason to believe that any children might issue from this marriage. Such is not imminent, I believe.”

  Imogen, speechless, only shook her head in answer.

  “You have not consummated your marriage?”

  “Is this manner of questioning really necessary?” Archer protested.

  “No,” Imogen said, answering the lawyer.

  “Then there should be little difficulty.”

  “There is certainly some difficulty,” Imogen said, with tears swimming.

  “Well, of course it cannot be as if you were never married. You have lived together for these many weeks. You very recently held a party to celebrate the marriage. These are certainly worth some consideration, but these are hardly your greatest concerns.”

  “It’s out of the question,” Imogen said.

  Mr. Graves cleared his throat. “If you object to an annulment, you might instead wish to consider a separation.”

  Again, Imogen was speechless. Is this what Archer had been preparing her to accept?

  As if in answer, Mr. Graves went on. “Mr. Barry is prepared to be quite considerate in the provisions he’s willing to make for you. The scandal will fall upon his shoulders. He will shield you as far as it is in his power to do. You may reside where and how you like. He will return to you what he can, and will provide for you in whatever way you may require.”

  Imogen arose and turned to Archer. “Your mind is made up?”

  He looked at her, but only when she had come to stand just beside him. It was a glance only.

  “This is for the best, Imogen. You need time to consider.”

  “There is nothing to consider.”

  “You need time. So do I.”

  There was hardly any argument she could make. “Yes. Of course,” she said. “If that is what you want.” And then: “Perhaps I should have Mr. Watts explain to you my history. You will want to take that into consideration as well.”

  She turned from him, but he stopped her, taking her arm and turning her once more to face him. He was angry and she was tempted to cower. But she had done with being afraid. She would stand her ground.

  He spoke. His words were whispered. Confidential and deliberate. “It doesn’t take a great genius to understand what will keep a woman from giving herself to the man who would love her, to the man whom she mi
ght love if she would only let herself.”

  “This is my fault?”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying.”

  “You are saying that having learned the truth about the mother you have learned to despise, you now despise the wife who is too much like her.”

  He hesitated a moment. Then released her and turned back to the window. “I don’t know what it means yet.”

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  Chapter seventy-one

  OGER RETURNED TO Wrencross Abbey to find it quite altered from when he had left the day before. There was no one about. The air hung heavy with the scent of charred wood and burnt wool and horsehair.

  “Mr. Barrett!” came the voice from the landing above, and soon the face it belonged to appeared.

  “Miss Montegue. I’m pleased to see you.” He bowed. “Has something happened?”

  “There was a fire,” she explained as she descended the staircase and stopped to stand before him. “It was set on purpose.”

  “On purpose? Who would do such a thing?”

  “It is believed Wyndham is the culprit. The constabulary are searching for him now. Sir Edmund has taken ill and it looks to be the worst for him. And Imogen is preparing to leave.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I can’t stay longer. My grandmother, you know. You did deliver her safely?”

  “I can assure you she is in good hands and well looked after.”

  “I’m so grateful to you,” she said with apparent sincerity.

  “Think nothing of it. It was a pleasure. Your grandmother is quite a woman.”

  “Yes, she is. Only I do hope she did not tax your patience. She means well, but her counsel can be tiring.”

  “How do you know she counselled me?”

  “Well,” Claire said, standing straighter and reddening slightly. “I suppose I don’t.” And then, looking a little anxious: “Didn’t she?”

  “She did. In fact, she chastened me quite soundly.”

  Claire seemed instantly relieved.

  “But what of Imogen?”

  And concerned again.

  “She has determined to leave him?”

  “I know so little, Mr. Barrett, of the circumstances. Will you speak to her? She will tell you everything, I’m quite certain. Come,” she said. “Archer’s book room is empty. I’ll send her to you.”

  * * *

  Imogen was both relieved and anxious to learn of Roger’s return. What would he think of her trials? And in the state she was in, should he insist on her coming away with him, would she have the power to refuse him?”

  “Roger,” she said upon seeing him, and nearly flinging herself into his arms.

  He kissed the top of her head. “More tears?” he asked her.

  She buried her head in his chest.

  “Don’t try to tell me they are happy ones.”

  She shook her head. Recovering herself, she released him.

  With an arm around her, he guided her to the sofa and sat down beside her.

  “Miss Montegue said there was a fire.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that scoundrel Wyndham set it on purpose. Will you tell me why and what it means? And why it is you are prepared to leave your husband while his uncle is on his death bed?”

  “His father.”

  “What?” he answered in apparent surprise.

  “Sir Edmund is his father,” she said, and proceeded to tell the rest, all she knew of Archer’s family, all she had so recently learned with regards to his mother, and how she feared it must reflect upon his feelings for herself in consequence. She told him, too, of the difficulties inherent in the falsely signed names. And how, in order to escape the threat of Wyndham’s devilry, she was to be sent away.

  “Archer believes he poses a threat,” she explained. “That he may seek further revenge when he learns that the documents he’s taken will prove nothing more than that Archer is Sir Edmund’s only legitimate son, by name and by birth.” She went on, relating the how’s and why’s of the deception as she understood them. “This morning the lawyers came,” she continued, “He set them upon me as if I were some witness on a stand, as if I were a truant wife and was there to be condemned.”

  “Condemned?”

  “No. Not quite condemned,” she conceded, “but it was horrible. Degrading. And they asked such questions, as though I were nothing more than…nothing more than…”

  “Yes?”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “He should have told me himself. It was his obligation to tell me! I did not want to hear it from them, so heartlessly, so unfeelingly, as though it were somehow my fault I had not made his house a home, his uncle into the loving father Archer always wished for. As if—”

  “All right, my dear. I agree you have been wronged. I agree he should have told you himself. But, Imogen, did you ever think you might not have made him feel quite able to do it?”

  She had no reply for this.

  “Circumstances do indeed seem to conspire against you, but while he has struggled for the courage to understand the history he hardly knew, and to do what you wanted him to do, you have still insisted on withholding from him that which was equally his right to know, and his right to have—you.”

  “But I—”

  “You never told him your story. You never told him what it was he must do to win you. Yet it was patently clear you could not be made happy while you and Sir Edmund shared a roof. He never should have asked you to do it. But upon realising his mistake, he did try to amend it.”

  “But it is his responsibility as my husband, his duty as a gentleman, to tell me such things, and considering the manner in which this marriage was arranged, and that I’ve never really reconciled myself to it, I haven’t felt myself quite prepared to tell him what I ought.”

  “That’s just it. You haven’t committed yourself to this marriage. You’ve done your utmost to resist investing anything in it.”

  “But I have. How can you say I haven’t?”

  “I didn’t. I only said you’ve tried not to do it. For the most part you have failed, but you’ve never given up that last little bit of your heart to him. You’ve protected yourself behind the shield of your untold secrets. He’s a good man, Imogen. He’s truly done all he could to make you happy. Yes, perhaps his efforts to separate himself were in vain. Perhaps he began the endeavour too late. But you cannot say he did not try. The result is the same. Better, perhaps, for all is no longer lost, you see? Is it possible you still cannot trust him? He cannot want you to go. I won’t believe it. Is it possible you only wish it were so?”

  “Why would I wish him to be rid of me? I don’t want to go, I’ve told you that.”

  “Have you told him?”

  Again she was left speechless.

  “Imogen, will you imagine for a moment that you’re going to tell him your story? Imagine it. You are going to do it today, straight away upon my departure. You will unburden your soul to him. You’ve done it before to others. Miss Montegue. Myself. Why not him? Are you afraid he’ll reject you?”

  She offered no reply other than a stony face.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, of course I am. As I should be.”

  “Can he have felt so differently when his secrets stood between you? He’s being more than gentlemanly setting you free and not pressuring you to make a decision according to what he would want. If you choose him now, Imogen, you choose him for good. You might be very happy. And I believe, if you allow it of yourself, you will, in turn, make him a very happy man. Can you love him, Imogen? Truly love him? Does he require further proof?”

  She offered no reply.

  “Tell him, Imogen. At least give him the opportunity to accept you before you reject yourself on his behalf.”

  He arose then.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You need time to think. And I want a word with your husband before I quit the Abbey.”

  “You’re not staying?”

>   “I’m in the way.”

  “What about Wyndham?”

  “Hamilton has about three dozen men guarding the place. If you’re not safe here, you’re not safe anywhere.”

  He bent to kiss her cheek. “Write to me, my dear. I expect to hear very soon that all is well. There’s been an earthquake to be sure, but it has only shaken down a few dilapidated buildings so that you can build better.”

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  “Yes,” he said. “My analogies are always too complex. Still, if you need me, you know I’ll come.”

  “Thank you,” she said and kissed him in return.

  * * *

  Roger reached the library and knocked at the already opened door. The lawyers, it seemed, had gone. Hamilton sat alone, his head bent studiously over a pile of letters.

  “Good heaven!” Roger said upon entering. “This place is a mess!”

  “Yes,” was Hamilton’s simple reply.

  “What has you so engrossed?”

  Hamilton appeared nervous for a moment, but at last replied. “Letters. Written between my mother and my…my uncle.”

  “Sir Edmund is your father.”

  “I see you’ve already been filled in.”

  “Yes, I’ve just been to see Imogen.”

  Again that nervous look, though there was a great deal of pain in it this time. “And how did you find her?”

  “I’ve certainly seen her better.”

  Clearly Hamilton regretted to hear this.

  “I’ve seen her worse, though.”

  This answer inspired a look of puzzlement.

  “There is more, then?” Roger asked, nodding toward the letters.

  “More?”

  “Yes. More to learn. More dark history to uncover.”

  “I’m just trying to understand her, my mother. To comprehend what it was she suffered. I want to know who she was. You might understand this.”

  “I was young when my mother died, but I remember her.”

  “I don’t have that good fortune. This is all there is.”

  “You knew your father, though. That is no longer a mystery to you.”

  “It is not a connection I’m proud of. Nor is it the relief I’d always hoped it would be.”