Of Moths and Butterflies (35 page)

Imogen seemed yet unconvinced. “Was it because of Charlie she was banished?”

Archer didn’t answer this. That story would have to wait for another time. He turned to go.

“You will tell me at least…” she said, rising and stepping toward him as if to follow. She stopped again when he turned to face her. “Can you tell me there are no others, that you do not presently have…?”

He saw a look in her eye, a hopeful, desperate look that made him weak. She wanted assurance, and he might give it. He approached her. She took a step back from him but he caught her head in one hand, holding her still and forcing her to look at him. He was not rough, only determined.

“There is no other but you,” he said. He saw the ice in her hard stare melt. He felt her relax. His fingers were entwined in her sleep tousled hair and he drew her to him. She did not resist. But as he bent to kiss her, to offer her the only and truest reassurance he had to give, she placed her hand on his mouth. He stopped. Her fingers, cold and trembling, slid across his lips and then to his jaw, and the moment they dropped from his face, he placed that halted kiss, rather harder than he had intended, on its intended target. His lips pressed against hers, lingered for a mere instant. He wanted more, but this was not the time or place. He drew away.

Imogen blinked hard, her eyes flashing with conflicting emotions. Her breath came quickly, but whether she was aroused to anger or to something more congenial, he could not quite tell. Perhaps neither could she, and he prayed the latter would win out.

He waited. No words of rebuke or rejection came. Nothing either to encourage or inspire. His heart, pounding hard, ached with disappointment and a yearning yet unfulfilled. But there was nothing further he could hope to achieve here. Not now. He turned once more to go.

And once more, she stopped him. Not, this time, with a question, but with a request.

“I want this room made up for Charlie. I think he should have a room here. Your room.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then, slowly he answered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? I don’t see why not,” she said becoming excited, her face flushed still from a moment before. “We must have some natural responsibility for him. A responsibility so far largely neglected.”

“Which is?”

“He is family, is he not?”

“Yes. Of a sort.”

“What does that mean, ‘of a sort’?”

“He knows me as his uncle. That isn’t quite the case.”

“No, it’s not. He’s your…”

“Say it.”

She remained silent.

“You still believe he’s my son?”

She glanced at Charlie, still resting unmoved. “I just want to know the truth. He wants to know his father. Really know him, Archer. And be loved by him.”

He crossed the room and was once more directly before her. He saw fear in her eyes, though it quickly hardened. His proffered gesture, for all his good intentions, seemed to have worked against him. He’d convinced her of nothing.

“I have never lied to you.”

“No but you’ve kept the truth back often enough. You are doing it now. You did it the day you offered to me.”

His jaw tightened as he exhaled through his nose.

“I asked her,” she said.

“She wouldn’t have told you.”

“She didn’t.”

“I wish she had. It would make all our lives so much simpler.”

He left then, and in a combination of frustration and resentful anger, he went down to his uncle’s study. The place, without its books, and maps, and furnishings seemed to him alien, strange and barren. Perhaps it was this that inspired Sir Edmund’s choice of topic.

“Any progress?” his uncle asked.

“He has rested well through the night,” Archer answered. “There is no fever.”

Sir Edmund turned to him, his gaze evaluating, measuring. “It’s Mrs. Hamilton I was enquiring about.”

He was uncertain how to answer this, uncertain what it was his uncle hoped to gain by the question. “She slept in the boy’s room last night.”

“Well that’s certainly not progress, is it!”

“She wanted to be sure of him. She did not wish to leave him when there was still some risk.”

“Yes, well. She’s no nursemaid now, is she?”

“There’s no one else to see to him. What choice does she have?”

“So long as she’s out of my way, and remembers her place, I don’t care how she occupies her time.”

“And what is her place?” Archer asked, stepping forward. “Do you mind telling me? I think she’s under the impression she’s returned here to work.”

“I’m not sure she hasn’t, if you want to know the truth. If her station has improved so greatly, why is she not then observing her duty to it?”

“How can you ask such a question? Have you not seen the improvements? Have you not seen what neat work she’s made of it all? And with as little bother to you as can conceivably be arranged.”

“It’s not the house I’m referring to, Archer. It’s her duties to you as your wife. You ought to have taken her in hand already. If you wait much longer, the chance may get beyond you.”

“I’m not sure it hasn’t,” he said, recalling the look of shock on her face, the flash of anger he had seen when he had left her but a few moments ago. “She spoke to Miss Mason.”

“Did she, now! And she thinks she’s got it all figured out, does she?”

“No. Not hardly, but she knows I owe her some explanations, and so far I have none to give, save that Charlie’s not my son. There’s no convincing her, it seems, and such can only serve as further obstacle to your desires.”

“Which are no different from yours, unless I’m very much mistaken. The longer you wait, you know, the harder it will get. If you want her loyalty, I’m afraid you’re going to have to demand it.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Archer said, turning away. “It’s unthinkable.”

Not quite unimaginable, though. And to avoid lingering on such thoughts, he left the house and took himself for a long cooling walk. Alone.

*   *   *

Imogen, after Archer had left, sat down to consider that morning’s interview. Why was it she always believed every word he spoke? What power did he have to cast such spells that she could not think when he was in the same room with her? What was the truth? Was he truly in love with her? It seemed impossible to deny completely. Yet love is not demanding. Nor is it deceitful. Whatever he might say to the contrary on any other subject, the fact that their marriage had been arranged and that he had known all along what he had been asking her to do, made it impossible for her to believe in his integrity on any other subject.

Imogen turned to find Charlie looking at her, a pained expression on his face.

“Do you hurt, Charlie?”

He shook his head in answer.

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head once more, but Imogen pulled the bell anyway and then returned and sat herself beside him.

“Your mother came to see you while you were sleeping.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?”

“I heard you talking. You and Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh,” was her only answer. What else had he heard?

“This is to be my room now?”

“Yes, Charlie. If you want it.”

He offered a grateful, if rather sad, smile.

“Charlie. I’m sorry if—”

“Mr. Hamilton is not my father.”

“He said he is not, but…”

“You don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what to believe, truly.”

“I don’t think he would lie. Not to you.”

He looked away, his eyes suddenly full and brilliant.

“I’m sorry,” she tried again. “I would not mind should it prove to be so.”

“I just…” he began and stopped, in the very same manner she had once or twice seen Archer do. In that moment she saw him in the boy’s eyes, in the boy’s countenance. In his confusion and longing. “I want…” And he stopped again.

“I know. It’s all right.”

“Even if he’s not my father, he might learn to care for me.”

Imogen was confused. “You would prefer that over knowing for certain?”

“I don’t want to be a burden. For everyone else to whom I might belong, that’s all I am. At least when I cannot find a way to be useful. I want to belong. To someone.”

She saw that longing hope once more and she felt his pain. She understood it too well. “I think I want that too,” she said in what was little more than a whisper.

His eyes flashed to meet hers. “But you do belong.”

“No. Not really.”

“He loves you. I can tell.”

“Charlie, you’re so young.”

“Not too young. Not too young to understand that there is love and there is duty, and then there is something else low and cheap.”

She was shocked by his speech. An eight year old boy should not understand such things. What manner of circumstances would have educated him so? She hated to think of it.

She arose. “This house is pitiably staffed, Charlie. I can ring that bell all day and nothing will come of it,” she said, hoping to change the subject. Or at least to lighten the mood.

“You can do something about that now, can’t you?”

“I think I may have to. I’m just not sure quite how to go about it.”

“Mrs. Hartup?”

“Yes.”

“What of her? If she doesn’t like it she can go somewhere else, can’t she? If she wanted to run the place, maybe she ought to have married Mr. Hamilton herself.”

“Charlie!” But she laughed in spite of her reproof. “Rest, will you? I’m going to go find you something to eat.”

Not too young to understand.

March 1882

HARLIE WAS QUITE
soon wholly himself, and though Imogen might have wished him to rest a little longer, he was determined to be absolutely well. The doctor, when he came again, pronounced his own declaration that the boy was certainly well enough to go home, and so Imogen had no further reason, outside of her selfish ones, to detain him.

“I want you to do something for me, Charlie” she said to him when they had accomplished the greater part of the distance between the Abbey and his home.

“Anything, Miss Gina.”

“I want you to take this.” She handed to him a pouch containing her quarter’s pin money.

He looked at it and shook his head.

“But Charlie, you said—”

“I can’t take money from you, Miss Gina.”

“Why ever not?”

“It isn’t gentlemanly to take money from a lady. Nor anyone I think, but especially a lady.”

“Think though, Charlie. Will it help your mother? Will it help you? I have no use for it. If it means your mother can rest one night a week rather than taking in extra work, wouldn’t you give her that?”

“She won’t take it. Not for a better reason than that. She might take it from Sir Edmund, or from…”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“She won’t take charity. Not from you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s not charity,” Imogen said as if he had been utterly mistaken. “It is reasonable recompense for damages suffered. Your mother has not had your help while you’ve been at the Abbey. Sir Edmund often pays you, does he not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then we shall say it is for damages. Especially as we’re returning you rather worse than we found you. You may not be well enough for a few days yet to be truly helpful, after all. This will make it up to her.”

He appeared doubtful.

“And I did tell her, when she came, that I would help her if I could. She said she would hold me to my promise, and so here it is.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, Charlie. Please take it.”

At last, reluctantly, he took it from her and placed it in his pocket.

“Is she spoiling you already, Charlie?” came a voice.

Imogen turned to see Archer’s cousin, Miles Wyndham. His sudden appearance unnerved her, but she was determined not to let it show.

“I wasn’t spoiling him, Mr. Wyndham,” she answered. “I was merely trying what little I might to make up for some ill-use he received at the Abbey this week.”

Wyndham looked at Charlie suspiciously, and with a hand placed on the top of the boy’s head, he examined him. And then he saw the plaster.

“Good heaven! How did this happen?”

Imogen answered, explaining the case in such a way as to preserve the young fellow’s ego.

Wyndham released Charlie, and the boy, with a half menacing glance, strode on ahead a few paces, though not so far as to be beyond their sight or hearing.

“I understand I’m to congratulate you,” Wyndham said, examining her next. “You are now the fortunate mistress of Wrencross Abbey. Well, well.”

She did not feel it necessary to answer him. His too familiar manner made it impossible she should.

“Or am I to understand from your silence that it has not the lustre you had once expected?”

“Now you are being impertinent, Mr. Wyndham.”

“One doesn’t often see a servant rise as successfully—or as quickly—as you have done. Not that they don’t try, mind. One or two have done before, but it usually works contrary to their efforts.”

“Do you mean Charlie’s mother, Mr. Wyndham?”

He did not answer this, and turned to face the road, and the boy, ahead of them. “Don’t get me wrong,” he went on at last. “Your redeeming qualities are quite apparent, but why these alone should be enough to recommend you for something so lofty as marriage...”

“I can assure you, sir, I’m as astonished as you are.”

This answer seemed to impress him. “You did not have to work too hard for the distinction, then?”

“I did not have to work for it at all.”

He suddenly grew serious again, contemplating. “It is not an illustrious connection. Not for Hamilton, at any rate.”

Was he ignorant of the bald facts of the matter? Though her marriage had clearly been made known to him, perhaps the details had been omitted. Just how much did he know?

“No. I should think not,” she said in an effort to find him out. “Though I daresay it has its advantages.”

“I have no doubt of it!” The look he gave her then made her squirm, though his answer told her nothing. “Forgive me for observing that you do not look quite the blissful bride. Your circumstances are improved, of course, but perhaps they are not so improved as you had hoped they might be.”

“I don’t know what you can mean, Mr. Wyndham.”

“You married him for love, then? Is that what you want me to believe?”

So he didn’t know of the money. It was a relief, but it also cast his insinuations, in a rather paltry light.

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“That, of course, can change.”

Imogen stopped. Accompanied or no, she would not go another step in this man’s presence. “Do you mean to follow us?” she demanded of him.

Wyndham, too, stopped and looked at her a long time. “No,” he said at last, and, squinting toward the horizon, he surveyed the boy who had now turned to see what had caused the delay. “I mean to take him myself and spare you the trouble.”

Without another word, without even waiting for her consent, or Charlie’s, he walked on. Catching up to him, he nudged the boy along rather more roughly than was necessary. And Imogen, though reluctant to leave Charlie in Wyndham’s care, gratefully returned to the house.

*   *   *

Sir Edmund’s bedchamber had once been a large and spacious library. It was so again, though now the books were piled in boxes, the boxes stacked one atop another, and all and sundry placed haphazardly and without much thought, in any nook, cranny, or pigeonhole that could quickly be found by a careless company of removers. The confusion, among other things, provided for Sir Edmund’s unusually foul mood.

“So the boy has gone home, has he?” he said, looking up from his desk, now awkwardly perched in one corner of the room, and pushed against the large bank of windows that had once been part of the upper cloisters. He was standing beside it and had, a moment ago, been looking over the plans for Imogen’s improvements. He was looking out the window now.

Archer followed his uncle’s gaze, then stood from the deal table at which he’d been working to look without. Imogen could just be seen returning. Appreciatively, he watched her—as his uncle watched him.

“I expect matters will progress now. Rather more quickly than otherwise. Now the boy is out of the way.”

Archer regretted the answer he must give. “She may be returning to her room, but the fact of the matter is a locked door stands between us.”

“Yes, but you have the key, do you not?”

“I gave it to her,” Archer answered plainly.

“How can you be such a dolt?” Sir Edmund said, throwing open his desk drawer and producing another key. “I certainly hope this is the greatest of your impediments.” He tossed the hard, cold object onto the desk, where Archer retrieved and then pocketed it without a word.

He prepared then to leave the room, but stopped and turned at the doorway. “I had thought,” he began and faltered. “I had thought that my having agreed to this would have won me a little more consideration.”

“You think this is all about you, do you? This is about a legacy. This is about preserving what is rightly ours. What will one day be yours, if you’ll only take some necessary pains to preserve it. When we are restored to respectable society, when all our debts are paid—to the loan agents, to the banks, to Society and the world—when you produce an heir, that’s when we’ll start talking about consideration and respect.”

Archer remained, silent, inwardly seething. His uncle went on.

“My father’s ruin was my ruin. We’ve held onto the Abbey only by the greatest of efforts and sacrifices. It’s all that’s left. And now, at last, we have the opportunity of restoring it all. Of restoring ourselves.”

“Thanks to her.”

“It will be, if she can manage it. I have my doubts. She’s a selfish, self-centred little thing, and she’d best learn her place and to be grateful in it.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You heard me. Your wife has a responsibility now. You have a responsibility. If she does not learn her place, and live up to it, then it is up to you to see that she does. Put her in it if you must, but quit prevaricating around duty. If you were a man at all—

“Sir!”

A long silence followed.

“So I am to understand,” Archer began at last, and struggling for composure, “that my marriage did not only restore us to some semblance of prosperity, but was also meant to restore virtue and respectability to our name? To your name? She’s to make a house a home, to charm and woo Society to our door, to restore us in fortune as well as reputation?”

“And to secure it.”

“The image though. I presume you do not mean the reality.”

“You give her too much credit if you think her capable of so much as that.”

“Were she given leave to do it, I would think her capable of anything—were it the reality you wanted and not just the façade—were you willing to make some effort yourself.”

Sir Edmund gave him a warning look for this.

“So it is all on her?”

“As I said, I have my doubts.”

“You refer to her history. You know it then. Will you tell me?”

Sir Edmund turned back to his work.

“Sir?”

“Some things are best left alone, Archer. Sleeping dogs and all that.”

The same old answer. Archer opened the door to leave, but it was his uncle who stopped him this time.

“An heir, Archer! I want someone to leave my legacy to. Do you hear me?”

Archer stepped back inside and shut the door.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take time for that, sir. I’ll not be making any unreasonable demands of her. I promised to provide for her happiness, and I mean at least to try to keep that promise.”

“You’re a fool! I’ve no delusions she can be made happy under any circumstances,” Sir Edmund answered, becoming more irate as the conversation continued. “Even your mother was desperately unhappy. For all the efforts made for her, nothing could change that.”

Archer cringed to hear his mother spoken of so unfeelingly. And to think that Gina was next to receive his censure. Perhaps he had been wrong to think he could make her happy under such conditions.

“You can dash your brains out in the effort, but I’m telling you it’s to no purpose. If the house looks well, if she remembers her place—and keeps it—that’s good enough for me. But neither can she neglect her duty forever. And she won’t. You’ll attend to your responsibilities, you’ll provide me an heir, or I’ll find another.