Of Moths and Butterflies (5 page)

“That’s enough, Mrs. Hartup. Not another word on the matter.”

Imogen glanced up, projecting a look of gratitude in Sir Edmund’s direction, which he either ignored or failed to see as the door closed between them.

Whatever words Mrs. Hartup had prepared to utter, she replaced them with silence and a cold look, and soon she, too, quit the room.

Imogen went back to her work, but was now at a loss as to what to use as kindling. So intent was she on the problem before her, she did not hear the approach of footsteps.

“You’re new.”

Imogen looked up to see a slight and fair haired young woman, a few years younger, perhaps, than herself.

“I’m Harriet,” she said.

Imogen smiled tentatively. “Gina.”

“You have no tinder.”

“No,” Imogen answered. “I didn’t know where to get it.”

“It ought to have been given you. She smiled a stiff smile that Imogen supposed was meant to be sympathetic. “You’ve done the blacking well.”

Imogen glanced at her work in recognition but said nothing.

“I hate the stuff, myself. I can never quite get it off my hands again. See?” she said and presented the evidence. “Perhaps…if you’ll do the blacking…I can lay the fires?”

“Yes,” Imogen answered. “All right.”

“Start in the drawing rooms. I’ll follow you behind.”

By mid-morning the downstairs grates were all blazing. The upstairs fires were left to the care of the other housemaid, whom Imogen met when breakfast was at last served to the staff. Becky, it seemed, took to Imogen’s arrival as readily as had Mrs. Hartup. The cause of her resentment Imogen could not begin to guess, but it did not appear that the girl’s displeasure was for her alone. She seemed generally of a petulant nature, her fiery red hair a symbol of that obstinacy of spirit she threatened always to display.

After the ritual of laying fires, it was the floors and bedrooms that were attended to next. A different section of floor was assigned to them each day so that in a week’s time, the entirety of the walking space had been scrubbed clean on hands and knees. It was gruelling work even so divided. With the water excruciatingly hot, the soap harsh (the acid harsher) and the scrubbing intense, it wore on Imogen faster than the work could be completed, holding the other girls up and fuelling Becky’s already healthy resentment.

In the afternoon, Becky and Harriet went upstairs to turn the mattresses, make the beds and clean whichever bedroom had been assigned to them that day, while Imogen returned to the scullery to attend to the morning’s dishes, which, by midday, had piled up into an alarming height. Again the water was nearly too hot to bear, and the cleansing powder seemed determined to slough off what little tender skin remained on her already chafed hands. But she did it uncomplaining, glad for the opportunity to prove herself—something she knew she had not yet done, for so far Harriet had covered for many of her mistakes.

Each afternoon, one of the state rooms was assigned them and they worked together, the three of them, cleaning the ornaments, the mantles, every stick of furniture, the carpets, the curtains, the walls. And though Imogen became more proficient in her work as the days drew into weeks, Becky’s resentment increased.

“I’d’ve supposed another pair of hands to help’d make our work go faster,” Becky remarked one day, breaking from her usual reticence.

“I
am
sorry,” Imogen said, recalling herself from her meditations and returning to the spot of soot above a gas jet on the drawing room wall. “I will try harder.”

“You’re slow enough, to be sure, but we’ve got more to do each day besides.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re not used to keeping so many fires going, nor to being so thorough,” Harriet tried to explain. “Especially in the state rooms, for they’re never used.”

“Next it will be the halls and spare bedrooms, I suppose,” said Becky. “The house is far too big for three maids and a housekeeper to maintain. Sir Edmund knows that. It’s like he’s trying to make a point of some kind. Or Mrs. Hartup is.”

“There is Mrs. Barton, remember,” Harriet added.

Becky rolled her eyes and continued on with her work.

“Who’s Mrs. Barton?”

“Mrs. Barton is Sir Edmund’s fiancé,” Harriet answered.

Becky scoffed. “Mistress, you mean. There’s no need to sugar-coat it.”

Imogen said nothing. Truly she had no reason to be surprised. It was a common enough practice among the men she had known.

“He does intend to marry her,” Harriet explained, “but the house isn’t quite fine enough for her, and so he must prepare it first. So far he’s been reluctant to do it.”

“Why is that?”

“Money,” Becky said. “There isn’t enough of it. Mrs. Barton’s been keeping him, so to speak. If he marries her there’ll be enough to put the Abbey to rights. But she’ll want it done her way.”

“He will marry her though? When do you think it will happen?”

“I have my doubts it will ever happen at all,” Becky answered.

“Sure he will,” Harriet said. “If he wants the money.”

“If I were her, I’d not be too quick to give up control of it. She’s better off as they are.”

“But surely she would wish to marry rather than–” Imogen had begun the question but did not dare form the words to finish it.

“She wants the status—the respectability. That’s what will make it worth it to her. As for him he’ll have the money, but I don’t think he’d like to bring her home to live with him. They get on like oil and water. But if you ask me, he’s got a grudge against women in general.”

“He’s been very kind to me.”

Becky laughed. “That won’t last long. You interest him. We all have done at first.”

Harriet shook her head, and Imogen took it as permission to dismiss the idea. And she tried very hard to do it.

’D LIKE YOU to begin on the west wing bedroom suite, if you would, Mrs. Hartup,” Sir Edmund was heard to say, perhaps a week later. “Now you’ve got the public rooms in hand, you might turn to that part of the house next. Tomorrow, I think. Or as soon as you can manage it.”

“I’m not sure I can manage it, sir.”

Sir Edmund’s voice became more strained. “You’ve got extra hands now. I don’t see why there should be any difficulty.”

“I’ve got extra hands, yes. But what kind is the question. She’s slow. She makes mistakes.”

“It does not take great skill, I think, to pack up a room, to load and carry boxes. But I want the room done properly, the papers peeled, the walls washed. Slow or not, it must be done.”

“But the young master returns home tomorrow and so we’ll have his rooms to prepare on top of everything else.”

“I cannot comprehend, Mrs. Hartup, how it is you presume that every direction I give is open to debate. My nephew is not the master of the place yet. You will do as has always been done in preparation for his arrival. No more. No less.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then see to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Hartup returned to the drawing room. Her mood was a dark one if her features were any indication. “You heard that, I suppose?” she said to Gina.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If I’m to lose your help tomorrow, you’ll make up for it today, do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She did make up for it, too. After finishing in the state and drawing rooms, she returned to the kitchen, where she saw to the day’s dishes before sifting out the latest collection of cinders and ash. She then cleaned the kitchen, scullery and pantry floors, the work tables and every surface with carbolic acid and water before retiring to bed, her arms aching and her hands cracked and bleeding. At least they were clean. But they were, by now, so rough that they caught and snagged against the woollen fibres of her blanket as she pulled it up around her that night. Yet she felt she had little to complain of. She was making her own way, earning her money honestly. Her work left her so tired that she fell into bed each night to sleep peacefully, free of oppression from the usual foul dreams and haunting memories.

*   *   *

Upon being shown to the bedroom suite by Mrs. Hartup the following morning, Imogen looked around in silent wonder. These rooms had clearly not been used in some time. The largest was the first of those shown her. Its fine and delicate furnishings, or what could be seen of them through the masses of clutter, betrayed the fact that it had been intended, at one time, for a woman’s use. Beyond that, was a sitting room, small, but very comfortable. Or had once been. Another door opposite led into a second bedroom, rather smaller than the first but grand in feel, with coffered ceilings and dark wood panelling.

“You will begin by emptying the rooms of their more portable contents,” Mrs. Hartup instructed her. “Everything from the walls and windows to the floors and furnishings must be cleaned and aired, sorted, stored or repaired and returned to the room as its purpose requires. You’ll begin in the first room, and here you will remain until it’s complete. Someone from the stables will be sent, I believe, to help you with the heavy work.”

With the closing of the door, a mixture of relief and dread washed over Imogen. The only way to conquer it was to set to work immediately. She made another round of the rooms, taking note of all that would need to be accomplished. And the list, half an hour later when her help arrived, had grown quite long.

A knock was heard. The door opened tentatively, and Charlie poked his head in.

She could not help but smile at the sight of him. She had thought to be working alone. To learn that one of the manservants was to be brought in had disarmed her a bit. But to find that it was Charlie pleased her very much.

“Have you come to help me?”

“Yes,” he said. “And old Tom from the stables has come, as well. Mr. Brown,” he said by way of introduction.

It occurred to her only then that, though her help might perhaps be pleasant company, it might not be as useful as one might wish. She looked around at the room once more, the large wardrobe, the immense bed. These things would have to be moved, but her assistants, it seemed, had been chosen from among the very youngest and oldest of those at Sir Edmund’s disposal, with nothing in between besides her own strength and resourcefulness—though this was no small thing. Still, the work ahead of them was monumental indeed.

They worked hard and steadily, and by the end of the day a good deal of clutter had been removed. Amidst the piles of disused furnishings and long forgotten personal effects, Imogen had found an old artist’s kit. When Charlie had gone home that evening and Mr. Brown had retired, she sat herself down and began to draw. Something about the room inspired her, though she could not explain just what or why it should be. Some watercolours too she found, and though they were stiff and dried out from neglect, she managed to make them work for her nevertheless. And within an hour’s time she had a fairly accurate and admirable likeness of the room as it might once have been. What it might be again, with the proper attention.

*   *   *

“You’re home are you?”

Archer handed his uncle the requested papers from Town and then poured drinks for them both. “Is that a problem?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Sir Edmund nodded his gratitude and examined the papers, counting them first and then casting an evaluating eye over them as he stood before his desk.

“What has you so interested in world affairs all of a sudden?”

“London affairs will do at present,” Sir Edmund answered, and, laying one of the papers open across his desk, he began to look it over.

“Such as?” Archer prompted.

Sir Edmund glanced up. “Nothing that should concern you.”

“Very well, then.” Archer, after handing his uncle his drink, took a chair a little distance off.

“You didn’t go to the Edgefield party then, I take it.”

“No.”

“You’re wasting time.”

Archer did not answer.

“Nothing comes of nothing, you know.”

“I’m in no hurry to marry, Sir.”

Sir Edmund took a drink and set it down. “If it’s either you or me, I’d much rather it be you,” he said and went on with his examination of the paper before him.

Archer stood and looked out of the garden door into the dark. He did not like these lectures. And he found, the more of them he heard, that his patience for them was wearing thin. What business was it of his uncle’s how he spent his idle hours? If he was not wanted here, well then, he might spend them where and how he liked.

“Here it is,” Sir Edmund said, breaking the silence. He began to read as Archer turned to listen.

FUNERAL OF MR. DRAKE EVERARD, LONDON

The death of this highly esteemed gentleman, which took place at his residence in London after a brief illness, caused feelings of regret amongst a wide circle of family, friends and business associates. The interment was at Brompton Cemetery. The chief mourners were Mrs. Muriel Ellison, Miss Lara Everard, and Mrs. Julia Barrett, sisters of the deceased. Mr. Everard also left behind a niece, Miss Imogen Everard, who was in his care until his death.

A long silence followed this. Then, at last and quietly, “What do you make of that?”

“What am I supposed to make of it?” Archer asked.

Sir Edmund then seated himself behind his desk and examined some indiscriminate object in the near distance.

But to Archer, something did seem vaguely familiar. “Everard? Didn’t you have a friend by that name?”

“Yes, once. Until I was foolish enough to borrow money from him. That’s when the man showed what he was really made of. ‘Esteemed gentleman’, to be sure. Feared, loathed, despised more like. He was as crooked as they come.”

“You owe him, still?”

“I suppose I owe somebody, don’t I? Let’s just pray whoever it is who takes over his business dealings has enough sense to know that interest compounded indefinitely becomes impossible to pay. Not that I have a choice, mind, but if…” Sir Edmund trailed off, as his attention returned once more to the article before him.
“…in his care until his death…”

“Sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” he said, and, folding the paper, he tucked it away in the top drawer of his desk. “It’s not too late, you know. If you were to go back into Town. Mrs. Ellsworth’s niece, I understand, is visiting. It’s no great fortune, granted, but it might not hurt to scout out your possibilities.”

It was not, after all, his absence his uncle had complained of. Archer knew that. And yet he could not deny his disappointment. Was it unreasonable to suppose that Sir Edmund might consider the company of the nephew he had raised—and meant to raise higher—preferable to solitude? But his uncle would not be pleased with him, it seemed, until Archer had married a fortune sizeable enough to restore them to a footing equal to the station they rightly held but had only just barely managed to hold onto. Perhaps then… Archer glanced at his uncle.

“I don’t want you here,” Sir Edmund said, as if in answer to the question Archer had not asked. “Neither do you need to be wasting what little you have. A respectable dinner party would suit you very well, I think.”

“Is first thing in the morning early enough?” Archer answered, resentment thick in his voice.

“It’ll do.” And Sir Edmund turned back to his work.