Of Moths and Butterflies (53 page)

MOGEN'S FIRST THOUGHT
, as the sun’s rays greeted her through the crack in the curtain, were of Archer, and so, as quickly as she could, she dressed and returned to her own room. He had not returned. Beyond tears now, she was angry. Livid that he would stay away so long, with guests due to arrive at any time, she gave way to that anger. The door between their rooms remained open from the day before. She slammed it closed and locked it. And then, removing the key, she threw it—hard. It flew across the room and came to rest beneath her bed, or somewhere thereabouts. She didn’t care. Her rage surprised even her, and it frightened her in its unpredictability. But she had not time to think or to repent now.

She went in search of Claire, and found her on the stairs.

“There you are. I was just coming to get you. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“To meet? Have we guests already?”

“Just one. My grandmother.”

“Your grandmother? Here?”

“Will you come meet her?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Imogen said, not quite recovered from the surprise.

And so she followed as Claire led her to the guest wing, and to the largest and best room, the room Mrs. Barton sometimes occupied.

“Gran?” Claire called from just within the doorway.

From the recesses of a large wingback chair, a cane suddenly protruded, stamping the floor with a dull thud as it hit the rug. Slowly, without the trouble her stick implied was requisite, she raised herself.

“I have brought her, Gran.”

“It’s about time, too.” The woman drew her eyeglass from the chain about her neck and examined Imogen very carefully. “So this is Archer’s bride.”

“Yes, Gran. This is Imogen.”

“I’m honoured to meet you, ma’am,” Imogen said. “And I’m so very glad you have come.”

“I was curious,” she answered. “Claire speaks so exceedingly highly of you. I wanted to see, in any case, how Sir Edmund has chosen for his nephew. He did far better than I could ever have expected.”

Imogen was uncertain how to answer this. Certainly a first meeting, a cursory observation of her appearance and manners, could tell very little in regard to how suitable she would be as a member of the family. Yet she understood that the examination had only just begun.

“Come sit down, Gran,” Claire insisted, persuading her at last to resume her former place, where Claire and Imogen joined her.

“You’ve done marvellous work with the house, my dear. I cannot imagine what pains you must have taken to see that it is so. And in so short a time. I would not have deemed it possible were I not here to see it with my own eyes.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“That woman has been to see it, I take it?”

“Mrs. Barton? No. She has not. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Of course she will be joining us?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Mrs. Montegue gave a disapproving look in answer to this. “And how do you get on with Sir Edmund?”

“Well enough,” Imogen answered diplomatically.

“That won’t do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You must tell me the truth. I will not accept anything but the plain truth.”

“Gran,” Claire warned.

“No. She must be made to understand me. I’m familiar enough with my cousin’s manners. You must be completely honest, for you will find I will be so with you, whether you like it or not.”

Imogen was tempted to quail under such perspicacious scrutiny, but held her own. “I won’t pretend that it’s easy,” she began at last, “but it might be much worse. I’ve certainly known worse.”

“I believe you have,” Mrs. Montegue said, narrowing her gaze. “But that is no reason why you should be expected to endure more, is it? Not now you have a husband to protect you? He is from home, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Endeavouring to do just that, I believe.”

“Is he?” and she truly wondered. How could he possibly protect her when he was not here?

“I can see quite plainly how you might despair, my dear. But it can serve no purpose to give up so soon.”

“I did not mean—”

“Archer would not have chosen differently, after all, had he been at liberty to do so. He must therefore be prepared to protect what is his. It’s late in coming, I’ll grant you that, but every worthwhile endeavour requires its sacrifices.”

Imogen could do nought but agree. She had said so herself, after all. And no so very long ago.

“The way Sir Edmund has used his nephew… It’s unconscionable. Archer simply must make the break sooner or later. He’s quite ostracised from the family as it is and it’s no fault of his own, save for his being so complacent. But now he has others to consider. And you will give him the strength he needs.”

“It’s not so easy, I think. The matter’s quite complicated. And who is to say he does not bring greater hardship by breaking the alliance? What of his familial duty? What of the responsibility he owes to his uncle’s legacy? What of the sense of gratitude and obligation he rightly feels for the man who raised him? What of those who wish to inherit in his place?”

“One question at a time, my dear. Sir Edmund may have provided for Archer’s upbringing, but he was hardly the nurturing parent, nor the exemplary father figure. Sir Edmund did his duty to Archer and not an ounce more. Whatever might be said of him, whatever gratitude Sir Edmund feels he is owed, the fact remains, he is and was never fit to raise a child. Archer simply must make the break, and he must do it before it is too late.”

“Too late?”

“Before he realises that the man he still looks to for love and admiration has no love to give. And before he loses the woman in whose hands he has placed his heart.”

“But he must love Archer. At the very least he must feel some proper sense of obligation toward him? Why else would he have raised him as he has done? Why would he have made him his heir? There are others, after all.”

“Miles Wyndham?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know of that?”

“Nothing, really. He is Archer’s cousin, and elder by several years. I do know, because he told me himself, that he considers himself the rightful heir. And I believe he means to prove it.”

“I invite him to try,” Mrs. Montegue answered. “He’ll dig himself into a hole he rightly deserves to be buried in.”

“How is that?”

“Well, the money in question is not his, is it?”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Imogen explained. “It’s a misunderstanding, and one he has been allowed to maintain.”

“A dangerous deception, and one that will backfire, I have no doubt. But it’s not the only misconception Sir Edmund has imposed upon a too gullible society. Nor upon his family either. Wyndham is not wrong to feel slighted, for the feeling has been fostered in him for a purpose.”

“For what purpose?”

“Because the threat of being cast off to fend for one’s self, especially when that one has already been given more than they might otherwise have had a right to expect, has always and will ever be the most powerful incentive to maintaining loyalty in one’s dependents.” She paused a moment to allow Imogen to consider this. “I know Sir Edmund very well, as I have said, and you may take my word for it that he would not shrink from any selfish endeavour, nor stop short of shirking any responsibility that did not directly and immediately benefit himself. Sir Edmund has provided for Wyndham, which is no less than his duty. For Archer he has done more. And the question remains, ‘why’?”

“Do you know, Mrs. Montegue?” Imogen asked, nearly begged.

“There is only one answer I can logically conceive of and it hinges on his mother. For the sake of Ethne Hamilton alone would Sir Edmund consider taking on such a responsibility as raising a child. Her child. Even then I don’t think he would have done it were it not for the chance that he might have something to gain by it—or, just possibly, some further obligation to consider, and one that might save him from owning it in other quarters.”

“Oh, my!” Claire rose from her seat and moved toward the window, but she gave a curious look back upon arriving there, as if astonished by some fact that Imogen had not yet grasped, and anxious to know when she might.

“Ethne was his mother’s name?” Imogen asked.

Claire turned from the window to face her. “Has he told you anything at all about his parents?”

“I know they were not married, and that she died here. He’s reluctant to speak of them. Do you know the story, Mrs. Montegue? Will you tell me?”

“I’ll tell you all I know for certain. The official story, that is.”

“There is another?”

“One thing at a time, my dear.”

“Yes, of course,” Imogen answered, eager to hear anything at all of Archer’s mysterious history.

“Edmund and his elder brother Magnus had met and fallen in love with the same woman,” Mrs. Montegue began. “They both courted her—and mercilessly. In the end, she chose Magnus. Despite Magnus’ position as heir to his father’s estate, her family did not approve. Neither did Sir Gordon, who was ailing, and wished to see his sons married to both blood and money. Her father, knowing just how much Sir Gordon’s estate needed her fortune, had reservations. She was asked to wait, and refused, threatening to elope. It was their intention to do it, too. Only Magnus was not quite prepared to set up house. And so, while he made the necessary preparations, he sent Miss Ethne to the Abbey to wait, and to nurse his ailing father. As he knew she would do, she convinced his Sir Gordon to forgive him and support the marriage. And then Magnus died unexpectedly—tragically even.”

“How?” Imogen asked in alarm.

“It was a terrible accident. He fell during a foxhunt and broke his neck, poor man. News of his death was quite a shock. And it was the last straw for Sir Gordon, who soon died as well, leaving Edmund to inherit and Ethne alone. Six months later, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less, Archer was born.”

“Sir Edmund might have married her, to save her the infamy.”

Mrs. Montegue examined Imogen a moment. “He might have, indeed. But I’m not sure Ethne was in a proper state to consider it. Magnus’ death all but killed her. She lived only long enough to give birth to her child. Edmund was good enough to assume responsibility of the boy. Out of the kindness of his heart and the love and respect he had for his brother. And for Ethne, of course. Or so the official story goes.”

“And the other?” Imogen asked, more anxiously than she had intended. “How does it differ?”

“Perhaps it’s not our place to divulge Archer’s secrets,” Claire said, interrupting the conversation and returning to sit beside Imogen.

“They are Imogen’s now too, are they not?”

“Yes, but as you said, you cannot know for certain. It’s merely speculation.”

“I can add two and two as well as anyone. Or three and six, as the case may be.”

“I think we shouldn’t talk any more of this just now.” Claire stood again. “I think we should wait for Archer to return. Perhaps he will have learned something that will help you both.”

“But Claire. I can’t stand it. Tell me what you know? What you suspect? I beg.”

“Perhaps Claire is right,” Mrs. Montegue said. “Perhaps it is unfair to tell the secrets that are his alone to tell.”