Of Moths and Butterflies (33 page)

“Yes.”

They continued their walk, speaking only of trivial matters now. Upon returning indoors, Archer, invited her to sit with him in his library. She agreed, reluctantly, but hesitated at the door before entering.

“You can’t be afraid of the room,” he said. “I found you here sleeping last night.”

“I couldn’t see them in the dark.”

“Them?” he asked, puzzled.

A pointed glance about the room answered his question. The insects.

“You don’t like them?”

“They are beautiful,” she confessed. “Fascinating, but–” and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

“But what?” he asked, his tone a trifle harder than it had been a moment before.

She didn’t dare answer him and so entered, picking up a book, any book, to read before sitting down on the sofa opposite the fire. He sat too, in his own chair, and examined the stack of books, some of them quite newly placed. He picked up the first and, looking at it, scowled. The others received equal disapprobation.

His attention turned to her. “What are you reading?” he asked with a suspicious smile.

Imogen examined the title for the first time. “Oh. Nothing,” she said, and colouring, set it aside.

He arose and took it up.

“
The Ancient Science of Animal Husbandry
?” There was a laugh in his voice.

She didn’t answer and at last he laid it down again and placed himself beside her.

“Tell me why you dislike them. I’ll take them down tomorrow. Just tell me why they offend you.”

“Don’t take them down.”

“Tell me why.”

She looked up at them then, examining them carefully to be sure of herself before she spoke. It didn’t matter how she tried, they were caged and pinned, dead and trapped within their glass houses, and that was all she could see.

“Tell me.”

She looked at him but it took her a moment to find the courage to speak. “Because for a price you acquired them. Had you caught them yourself…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Explain.”

“You’ve done nothing but make some direction to someone that you should have them. And here they are, pinned to the walls, dead upon arrival. You cannot free them. You cannot bring them back to life. For a price they are yours and that is that.”

There was no doubt he understood her this time.

“Have I been unkind to you, Imogen?” he asked. “Have I ever treated you unkindly? Ever?”

“It was a kindness you did me then, persuading me to believe in you long enough to have the details tied up so I could not escape?”

“I did believe– I do believe I can make you happy. But if you won’t even let me try, then what hope is there? I think I’ve proved you need not fear me. Am I mistaken?”

“We’ve not lived together as husband and wife for an entire day.”

“That’s your answer? I haven’t been cruel because I haven’t had the opportunity?”

She looked away. Of course that wasn’t true. He’d certainly had the opportunity last night, but she couldn’t acknowledge this. Clearly he felt she owed him something, or that he’d somehow earned a reward for his efforts, but it was too soon.

“So you have no hope at all? None?”

“That’s not true. Of course I do. I must, don’t you see. But it takes longer than a day. I don’t yet understand just where I fit.”

“You don’t understand where you fit?” he said, taking her hand in his. “How can you not understand?”

Imogen arose.

“Where are you going?” he asked and would not let go of her hand.

“I’m tired. I want to rest.”

“You won’t rest here?”

“I can’t,” she said, and glanced once more at the insect strewn walls.

He too stood, and with the hand he still held, he drew her close to him.

“I’ll get rid of them tomorrow,” he said.

“Don’t. Please.”

“How can I keep them when they remind me of what I have but do not have? When they remind me how flame-singed and torn I feel beside you?”

“You compare yourself to a moth?”

“Yes, of course. I do blame myself for this. I do see that it’s my fault. I will make it up to you. Somehow.”

They stood in silence for a moment. She could see he needed some encouragement. Perhaps he deserved that much, after all. “Archer…” She drew a breath and swallowed before finding the courage to finish, to whisper the rest. “There
are
magnificent moths.”

His look changed in an instant, from one of frustration to one of wonder.

“Like anything else though, it takes time to know what one is, what one might become. It takes time.”

He looked at her for half a minute more before drawing her briefly to him and kissing her upon the temple. He released her then, and with a grateful, if half-hearted smile, she retired to her own room.

ITH THE ARRIVAL
of the workmen, Imogen adopted her labours with purposeful intent, determined to have something to show for her efforts upon Sir Edmund’s return. She began early and she did not stop until late, taking her meals in the ballroom as she made her plans. Occasionally Archer would join her, but he did not oppress her, neither did she encourage him to remain. And so he didn’t.

In truth, he had begun to see the futility in pressing her too hard. She would not be manipulated. If she warmed to him, and he knew she would—she must!—she would do it in her own time. He would simply have to be patient. But that was difficult to do, for she was a constant reminder of his frustrated longing. The sight of her, the sound of her, as she quietly worked and directed and turned, room by room, the cold and forlorn Abbey into a home, it was as if fate were mocking him before his own eyes. She was the mistress, busily fulfilling her obligations, he not quite the master, simply the procurer, the idle observer, the helpless vehicle for his uncle’s ambitions. Yet there were other obligations he knew he was meant to fulfil, and the idea of these threatened to drive him mad. There was no forgetting them. Not with her so near—and so out of reach. And she kept herself that way. Out of reach and too busy for him or anything but the project she’d been given.

*   *   *

“Dear heaven! What have you done to my ballroom?”

Imogen started and looked up to find Sir Edmund’s silhouette within the doorway. He had returned early, it seemed, and she wished she had been given more time. Or that she had taken better advantage of that which had been given her.

She stood to greet him, but found she could not move beyond the debris all around her. She’d been so consumed in her plans, organising her samples so that she could look at them all side by side as the rooms were arranged, she had not realised that she had created a veritable ocean around herself, and she the island.

Sir Edmund entered and approached her, warily eyeing her work and herself alternately.

“You’ve been keeping yourself busy, I see.”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry about the mess.”

“It had to go somewhere, I suppose,” he said directing his attention toward the far end of the room where the furniture and sundry items from the state, drawing, and sitting rooms had been brought for storage.

He returned his attention to the work before her—her sketches and plans, her collection of samples fastened neatly to small planks of wood—and examined it for a moment or two.

“I had thought red for the drawing room,” he said at last and with a questioning look. “I see you’ve chosen blue. Mrs. Barton was particularly keen on red. Every English house should have a room of red. Or so I’ve been informed.”

Imogen blanched. Mrs. Barton’s aesthetic was out of date, it seemed. But how to state her objections tactfully? Or should she dare to do it at all?

“You have your reasons, I expect, for making the choices you have.”

“Well, yes,” she said, gathering courage. “Red is the answer to the age old question of how to coordinate colours and patterns. One shade of red will match any other, but one could not say the same for another colour—for greens or blues, for instance.”

Sir Edmund raised both eyebrows.

“However, for a room that is meant to be the representative of the house, a guest’s first introduction, if you will, I’m afraid the colour would seem quite intimidating. Red has its place, but perhaps not here. At least not in the drawing room. That is my opinion.”

“Perhaps you are right, Miss Shaw. Excuse me... Mrs. Hamilton, I meant to say, of course.”

Until that moment he had been uncharacteristically civil, but a hint of derision seemed present in his countenance now, and it would have alarmed her more had she not had a sea of fabrics and papers protecting her.

“Do you know where I might find my nephew?” he asked. “Your
husband
.”

His emphasis of the word grated and sounded as profanity. Or a reminder.

“I’m sorry, sir, no,” she answered.

“You’ve hit it off as well as that, have you?”

He did not wait for an answer, but turned and left the room. With cheeks burning, she sat back down to collect herself before continuing on with the task at hand. And focussed every ounce of attention on it.

*   *   *

“Your little woman has been keeping herself occupied,” Sir Edmund said upon finding Archer staring out the library window. He had a book in hand, but was not reading it.

Archer laid the book down without closing it. “You’re home early.”

Sir Edmund picked it up and examined it. “Ovid! Philosophising again are we?”

“Not exactly.”

“How have you been getting on?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“But not as well as you’d like?”

Archer didn’t answer.

“Making a woman happy is a secret few men have ever discovered.”

“The fact that it was arranged causes some difficulty,” Archer argued. “I warned you it would.”

“I take it you’ve not made a success of it yet, then.”

Archer turned to face his uncle. “I think it takes a bit more than a week for that, sir,” he answered and then started as he realised his uncle’s meaning.

“Now you understand me.”

“We might have been allowed a little more time. We might have been allowed a holiday to ourselves. To bring her here straight away, so she can see how her money is working for us is not much of a wedding present.”

“You have to take the opportunities given you in this life, my boy,” Sir Edmund offered now.

“Seven days?”

“Long enough to make it a proper marriage.”

Archer had nothing to reply to this. The room had grown suddenly ten degrees warmer.

“It’s your duty to see the thing through. Assert yourself. It’s about time you learned to do that much. The sooner you can secure the legacy the better. A son, Archer,” was his explanation to the question upon the young husband’s face, though in reality the look was one more of incredulity than ignorance.

Archer rose to leave the room. He needed some air. Desperately.

“She has taken all of her other responsibilities in hand, I take it?”

“Not quite all. She’s having a time of it, I think, with Mrs. Hartup.”

“Little wonder. Mrs. Hartup won’t want to give up the power she’s had these past twenty-odd years. And to a former servant, no less. I cannot blame her. Perhaps it’s just as well.”

“Sir?”

“I brought her here to restore the place, not to take over in fact, and so perhaps matters are best left as they are.”

Archer wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned by this, and he had no intention of remaining to hear more.

“I suppose we might start on the library,” Sir Edmund said, stopping him once more.

Archer turned but did not answer.

“We can begin with the removal in the morning. See that the men are gathered, will you? We’ll start early.”

“Yes, sir,” Archer answered, and left to attend to his errand.

*   *   *

Imogen was awakened the next morning by an unusually great commotion. She dressed herself as quickly as she could and went out to investigate. What she found surprised her. Man after man after boy after man was busy in the occupation of carrying box after box after crate after box from the recesses of somewhere below and into Sir Edmund’s bedroom. Imogen entered the west wing cloisters, where she could observe in safety the activity in the yard below. From here she could see that those who entered the old library from the main hall, returned by way of an exit private to Sir Edmund’s rooms. She watched for a moment more before proceeding to make her way down, and then into the courtyard itself. She stopped again upon hearing her name.

“Miss Shaw! Miss Shaw, you’ve come back!” was the cry as a young boy ran toward her.

“How are you, Charlie?” she asked him.

She might have embraced him she was so happy to see him, but feared his gentleman’s ego might suffer under such an open display of affection.

“Have you come to stay, Miss Shaw?” he asked her.

“I have, Charlie. But my name is not Miss Shaw now.”

A look of confusion was on young Charlie’s face as he tried to contemplate the meaning of this. “No longer Miss Shaw, you say?” he asked, as though he was not at all sure he had heard her correctly.

Shaking her head, she laughed. “No.”

“Then what am I to call you?”

“Miss Gina, I suppose, as you have done, or if you’d rather, you may call me by my married name.”

He waited for the rest.

“I am Mrs. Hamilton now.”

His pale blue eyes grew very large at this. “Oh, Miss Gina,” he said. “Or–” and shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“No, nor can I, to be quite honest with you.”

“How happy he must be,” Charlie said with a brilliant smile. But something in his manner changed as he looked at her. The hopeful gleam in his eye frightened her just a little, as though he wished for something more from her yet, something she would not deny him, though it broke her heart to think of it. Just how much a part of her life would this boy become? She had believed wholeheartedly Archer’s declaration that the child was not his, and yet some doubt remained, and would remain until she could find out the truth.

“Have you been working here this morning?” she asked him, changing the subject.

“Oh, yes. Sir Edmund means to have his library done over, you know.”

She took a quick look toward the house, surprised by the news, though she had no right to be. Surely she would not be wanted there. “You are come to help?”

He nodded.

“Oughtn’t you to get back to it then?”

“I suppose so, yes,” he said, looking a little reluctant to leave her. “I’m so very happy you’re here though.” And he ran off to return indoors and to his work.

Imogen followed him at a steady pace, curious to learn what demands his current occupation required. She stopped as he entered the library. Archer was atop a ladder, handing down books which were subsequently placed into boxes and then carried out. There were seemingly hundreds of boxes too, besides which were the desk and chairs, the rugs, and pictures and numerous other items that all required removal to the room upstairs, or airing, or repairing, whatever the case might require.

Imogen observed as a box was handed to Charlie, and that he took it, and, furthermore, that it was far too heavy for him to carry such a distance. She was considering asking Archer about it when he met her gaze and welcomed her to come in. He descended the ladder as she made her way around the men and the piles of miscellany they were either arranging or preparing to carry away.

“I think we must have woken you early this morning,” he said.

“Not too early.”

“Sir Edmund’s study is next, you see.”

“Yes. And Charlie is here to help. He’s not quite a match for these other men, you know. Is there not something more appropriate to his age and size?”