Of Moths and Butterflies (19 page)

ERY EARLY THE next morning, much earlier than Imogen was used to waking, Mrs. Hartup came to get her. She was wanted in Sir Edmund’s study. As quickly as she could, she dressed and went down. Mrs. Hartup let her into the library and then stood guard at the door. The formality of it all seemed a bad omen.

Sir Edmund stood cold and statuesque beside his desk. “I returned last night from Town having heard some rather remarkable news.”

Imogen blinked the sleep from her eyes and felt she had somehow awoken from a dream into nightmare.

“My friend Drake Everard had a niece. Did you know her?”

“You’ve asked me the question before. This cannot be the news. Sir.”

“She is missing. That is the news. Were you aware of this?”

Her heart sank so hard and fast into her stomach that she nearly jolted, but she remained silent.

“It is believed she has run away. Do you have any idea why she would do such a thing?”

She had no answer to provide, but Sir Edmund, it seemed, was prepared to wait. “Because her uncle was unkind to her, perhaps?” she suggested at last.

“Was he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not so unkind, I think. The man amassed a fortune, it seems. And he left it all to her. What on earth would make a young woman run from the one thing that might protect her?”

Imogen did not answer.

He waited.

“Lunacy?” she suggested at last.

Sir Edmund laughed out loud, then sobered again quite suddenly. “I think you might just be right,” he said. “For there is no other means of comprehending it.”

He turned toward the door and nodded. As if in slow motion Imogen heard the groaning of the hinges and turned to find, standing within the door’s frame, her aunt.

“Imogen,” was Muriel’s manner of greeting her niece. Nothing more. No words of reprimand. No sentiments of remorse, or sorrow, or relief.

She looked past her aunt. In the hall lay the small trunk (another gift) which Claire had so recently returned to her room—only to be removed again from it. Beside it stood a footman who was this minute preparing to carry it to the carriage that waited outside.

Imogen took her cue and left the library, her aunt following closely behind.

“Sir Edmund,” Muriel said with the stiffest of bows, and followed her niece out of the house.

*   *   *

An hour later, Claire entered Sir Edmund’s library.

“Miss Shaw,” she said, with a look of accusing suspicion, “where is she?”

Sir Edmund didn’t answer.

“I’ve been to her room. Her things are gone.”

“Well, they would be. She’s left.”

“Left?”

“Yes. It seems her family has found her and has come this morning to reclaim her.”

“With your help?”

Sir Edmund went back to his work.

“Was there a reward? Is that what persuaded you to do it? Or was it simply to remove any risk her presence presented to your plans?”

Still, he did not answer, simply pretended she was not there. Or tried, but she would yammer on.

“Sir? I beg to know. Has she gone back to London?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t much care! And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave well enough alone!”

Claire left the room as a feeling of dread washed over her. Slowly she made her way upstairs, contemplating all the while what it was that had really been going on in this house these last months. What had been Sir Edmund’s interest in Gina Shaw? And were those interests truly at an end?

She found Archer in his book room. She knocked and entered, placing herself within the doorway, and stood there, waiting for the necessary words to come. They would not.

“What is it, Claire?” he asked her.

She hesitated only a moment more. “She’s gone,” she said more calmly than she felt.

“What are you saying? Who’s gone?” His brow suddenly creased. “Not…”

She nodded in answer.

“Where?” he asked slowly.

“Back to her family, I think.”

He dropped the book he had been reading on the table beside him. It landed too close to the edge, toppled and fell off. He took no to notice.

“I do not believe it was of her own accord. In fact I’m certain it was not.”

He looked slightly relieved for this. “Do you know where?”

“Archer, I’m not sure there’s any point. There is something going on here I don’t like. I think it would be best—”

“Do you know where!”

“London I believe, but…”

He was up and on his feet.

“Archer, it’s no use,” she said trying to stop him. “She’s gone. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?”

“I think it’s best this way. Really I do.”

He tried to move past her again, but she would not budge, and with her hands on his chest, she stood her ground. She attempted to hold his gaze, but he would not look at her. He looked beyond her, beside her, all around the room. Lost.

“Unless you are prepared to walk out now, to abandon your uncle, your inheritance, everything you’ve ever known, you cannot go.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he demanded, looking at her at last.

“I do. You know I do. But that’s not your intention. I know it’s not.”

This seemed to stop him. For the moment at least. He looked at her, though reluctantly.

“You have to be sure of yourself. There is no going back. If you do and you come to regret, you will learn to blame her.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen it before. You do not know, after all, that she will accept you. Her family, Archer… I do not know her circumstances, but I fear they must be very low indeed. You’ll have to be prepared to shoulder that.”

His uncertainty was signally apparent. So was his disappointment.

“And you cannot bring her back here.”

Again he looked away.

“Don’t do it. Don’t bring her back to suffer that humiliation. To live where she had once been in service, to live as you have lived—controlled and cowering.”

“Claire!”

“Promise me, Archer.”

“Certainly you don’t mean to just let her go?” he asked of her. “You will find her?”

“I will do everything in my power, yes.”

“And when you do?”

“I can make you no promises.”

“Claire.”

“You have your future to think of. Then we shall see. But we are talking of trifles as far as I’m concerned. It is her and her alone I am thinking of. It’s possibly my fault her family has come for her now. If I had not planned to take her away… If I had not encouraged you… I think your uncle would not have interfered. Or at least not so soon.”

“He has done this?”

“He has plans for you, Archer. As you and I both know. If you mean to separate yourself, you’ll have to do it quickly. Quickly, but very carefully. He’s not one to be underestimated. He has a firm hold on you, and if he can, he’ll keep it that way.”

He seemed to consider this. It was the most she could hope for.

“Goodbye, Archer.” She turned from the room and left him, all alone and to his own thoughts.

Archer, defeated, threw himself back into his chair. His uncle had sent her back to her family? Had she left them willingly, then? What on earth could be so bad as to make a life of servitude a welcome alternative? But if she did not want to return… London. What were the odds of finding one woman in a city of nearly four million? To the devil with the odds! She would be found.

HE JOURNEY FROM
Kent to London was accomplished in much the same way as was Imogen’s passage from India ten years ago—and felt every bit as long. Muriel, sitting beside her, remained silent the entire duration. Imogen could feel the tension, and waited any minute for the tirade to begin. It never did.

By early afternoon, they reached London. Still Aunt Muriel kept her reproofs to herself. Imogen, without ceremony, was shown to her room, where she retired early, though it was quite late before she found any rest. She awoke again but a few hours later, alone in the dark, her hair damp, her heart pounding. As she had returned to London, so had her nightmares returned to haunt her.

In the morning, Imogen arose to find that the lawyer had come. She was helped to dress in deep mourning and then led to the little library that had once belonged to Muriel’s late husband. Here she found Mr. Watts.

“I’m sorry if you had to wait,” she said to him.

“It’s no matter. I had a few matters to discuss with your aunt.”

“Oh?”

He looked up at her from the papers which he had only just situated on the desk before him. “If you would be so good as to put your signature to these, Miss Everard?”

“What are they?”

“A trust has been set up in your name. This will give you access to it—when the time comes. And here also is an acknowledgement, stating that I gave you…” He inserted two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and searched it. “...this,” he said when he had found what he was looking for. With a click of metal on wood, he laid the object down upon the desk. A key. “To your uncle’s house,” he said. “It’s yours now, of course.”

“I don’t want it.”

“So you’ve said, but…it is yours nevertheless. It is, according to present law—though who’s to say what will happen when the Married Women’s Property Act is presented before Parliament—the only security you will keep…when you marry.”

“I told you, sir—”

“You may change your mind.”

Imogen cautiously approached the desk. Mr. Watts handed her the pen and, reluctantly, she took it. She examined the documents. The size of the trust astounded her. It was quite shocking. Disgusting, even.

“Must I?”

Once more, Mr. Watts offered no answer. Perhaps there was no need. They had discussed it before, after all.

She bent to apply her signature. But stopped again as her hand wavered over the document. She looked up at him. “My aunt did not contest the will?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Who is to say? Perhaps she saw reason. Whatever the case, it remains that a Chancery hearing would no doubt last beyond your minority. The expense would be considerable, as well as the time and trouble… And it would make many things public that I’m sure you, and now she, as your guardian, would prefer remained quite private.”

“Yes, I see,” she said. And she did see. In fact it explained a great deal. Muriel had so far refrained from censuring her for her foolish misadventure. Instead she had treated Imogen with a sort of forced cordiality, a kindness that was never quite sincere enough to conceal the undercurrent of resentment and frustration she truly felt. Were she to do otherwise, were she to hand the decision to the courts, Muriel might never have a chance at Imogen’s fortune at all. But this way… Yes, this way her aunt might use more persuasive measures. Muriel had interfered, meant yet to interfere, to design and to scheme and to meddle. It was plain to Imogen now that the only means by which she could ever hope to be free was to hold onto this money as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it did, in a way.

She signed her name in a flurry of loops and flourishes and then took up the key.

“You are free to see the house whenever you like. If there is anything you want from it or—”

“No.”

“Very well…” he said and began gathering up the papers and replacing them into his bag. “If you change your mind… If you would like for someone to accompany you…besides your aunt, I mean.”

“Forgive me,” Imogen said, regretting her harshness. Mr. Watts was apparently on her side, after all.

He glanced up at her. “There is nothing to forgive.”

She wasn’t sure she quite believed him, but there was nothing more to say. She remained, watching, as he took up his coat and left the room. Leaving her to sit and to think in the seldom used library.

Twelve months. It wasn’t so long. Not really… How many days was that? And how would those days be occupied? Was she to remain quietly cloistered in her aunt’s dreary house, hidden away from Society and the tattle that must follow? Or would she be allowed to go out, to mix and mingle amidst a select company? Even she could not say which she would prefer.

She did not know, but she suspected these moments alone would be rare. Her aunt, no doubt, had some plan in mind for her, and it was unlikely to allow her much liberty to use her time as she wished.

She arose from her place and crossed the room to examine the shelves. The rows upon rows of neatly arranged books consisted almost exclusively of multi-volumed collections, all with titles clearly marked on perfectly matched spines. Had they ever been read? For the most part they were classics: philosophy, drama, verse. Mythology. She stopped on seeing a familiar name, the same she had found on the shelf of the Abbey drawing room. She took it down and opened it. The virgin spine cracked as she turned the stiff pages. Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
seemed to be a collection of pursuits, conquests and deceptions in order to win reluctant lovers. Images of Daphne and Apollo, of Proserpina and Pluto assailed her. And one, the same she had seen before, of the winged Boreas carrying a naked and resisting Orithyia off to his home in the clouds.

For Orithyia Boreas suffer'd pain,

For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;

Tereus his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,

Against the match a main objection stood;

Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,

Empty as air and ineffectual prove.

She stopped again on hearing the bell. The door was answered. Voices were heard, softly at first, and then rising higher. Imogen stepped out into the hall. From her place at the end of the corridor, she could only just see the housekeeper, who was turning the callers away and struggling to shut the door upon them. At last it was accomplished.

“Was that my Aunt Julia?” Imogen asked of the housekeeper.

She curtsied but did not answer.

“And Roger?” Imogen begged as the woman walked away.

“You are not yet ready to receive visitors, Imogen.”

“Aunt.” She had appeared very suddenly. No doubt she had heard the commotion—had expected it, even, for the housekeeper knew what she was about when she refused to admit her aunt’s visitors.

“You slammed the door on your own sister? And your nephew?”

“Roger is not my nephew. He is my sister’s husband’s…something or other,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Nephew.”

“So they say.”

Imogen hesitated for a moment, considered this and dismissed it. “Am I to see no one at all? Not even my family?”

Still, no answer.

“What are your plans for me? How am I to occupy my time? And for how long am I to be kept hidden away?”

“I see you found your mourning.” Aunt Muriel attempted a smile. It was unconvincing.

Imogen let out a quick breath of frustration. Why would she not answer her questions? “Yes, I
found
it. It was hard to miss as it was veritably thrust upon me.”

The smile, thin as it was, faded. Muriel turned from the room.

Imogen followed. Upon entering the parlour, she was shown to a writing desk, where she was not to write—who would she write to?—but where several books had been assembled and placed for her. This was to be her morning’s exercise, spent in reading and contemplation. In reflection, and, so her aunt seemed to hope, in repentance. The selections were extensive and exceedingly tiresome. But as her penance, they were hers to attend to. Each day. Every day. Sermons they were mostly. Scripture, too, and occasionally a bit of inspirational verse. And while Imogen read and contemplated and reflected, Muriel watched over her, quizzed her, and, in her insipidly false kindness—which was a sort of cruelty in itself—she rebuked her the only way she dared.

In the evenings, Imogen was given needlework, decorative items for the home Muriel doubted very much her niece would ever have the miraculous fortune to earn. But one must be prepared, after all, for even the most unlikely of eventualities. And the cause of preparation was furthered by the nature of her projects. Wall hangings, pillows, tablecloths, all of which were to be inscribed, in needle and thread, letter by letter, with verses of scripture or sage warnings intended to remind her that, if she should ever find herself blessed with the comforts and privileges of home and family, that the pathway to happiness was always, and had ever been, a road both straight and narrow, reserved for the penitent and faithful. Which virtues Imogen had so far failed to exhibit.

As for her meals, they were all taken in silence. At least Imogen was silent. Aunt Muriel talked enough for both of them, commenting on the paper’s Society column, or on the doings of the young (and worthier) relations of those with whom she exchanged visits. Nothing was said of Imogen’s escapade. While she was reminded, at every opportunity, of her folly, the episode itself was to be forgotten. If it were necessary to mention it at all, the word ‘holiday’ was the preferred term of reference, as if changing the name would somehow alter the implications of what she had done.

Besides her daily garden walks, the only outings she had to look forward to were the weekly church services, to which she was expected to go. And to which she gladly went, eager as she was for any opportunity to get out of her aunt’s dreary house and the tedium of her life there. Though the sermons in her aunt’s parish offered little in the way of enlightenment, the predictability of the ceremony comforted her. The words which had once inspired her to recollection and regret summoned different memories now. Those of her brief residence in an out-of-the-way village in Kent. Where she had found friends. Where she had been admired. And where, were she to be quite honest with herself, she had admired in turn. The memories, though painful, were a sort of comfort as well. She had very nearly been happy there. She might have been happy, indeed, had Claire’s plans not been frustrated—had she been given just a few more days. She would have been out of her aunt’s reach then. But why dwell on the past? None of it could matter now. It was over. Better to forget it had ever happened. And yet this past, foolish though it was to dwell upon, was a kind of necessary escape from the wretched present, to which she must return with the ending of each service.

Foolish or not, still, Imogen endured six days out of every week so that on the seventh she might indulge herself, reliving in her mind small chapters in Gina Shaw’s short story, while the parson’s voice droned on in the background. She knew it was wrong but she was presently helpless to resist the temptation. If only there were something—or someone—to fill the hole that remained where a piece of another had once, if briefly, existed.