Of Moths and Butterflies (66 page)

“I realise you have not had much time to come to terms with your sacrifice, Mr. Barrett,” she said, “but I wonder what you think of my granddaughter?”

Roger looked at her dubiously. Suspiciously. And then he laughed, rubbing at his short, brown hair.

“She is a remarkable woman,” Mrs. Montegue suggested.

“Yes,” Roger answered. “I will agree with you there.”

“A man would not go far wrong to consider her.”

“Two very strong personalities, though, Mrs. Montegue, can often cause each other a great deal of vexation and trouble.”

“I think it sounds exciting.” And she smiled. A rare gesture.

“She might do well to attempt managing a weaker man.”

“I’m afraid she would run such a man quite over,” Mrs. Montegue returned. “No. I think she could do with a bit of managing herself, if you want my opinion.”

Roger laughed again, but this was not the most comfortable of conversations. Yes. He had considered her. Perhaps it was the reason he had been able to bear his sacrifice at all. But no. No, he wanted Imogen’s happiness for her own sake. Claire Montegue, though. And he laughed again and sighed.

“Mr. Barrett,” the woman said and held out her hand to him. “It has been a pleasure.”

In answer, he took her hand and kissed it. And then made his way on to London. It seemed he had a small errand to attend to.

MOGEN STOOD IN
her own room, not quite knowing what to do. Archer wished to speak to her. What to say to him? And what to do while she waited? It was late, and she was tired. But there was no waiting. Not long at any rate. She had not been there above a quarter of an hour when he knocked and entered. And stood, apparently as uncertain as she.

“How is the boy?” he asked her.

“Inexpressibly sad, but resting quietly.”

“You’ll stay with him tonight, I imagine.”

“No. I’ll sleep here.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“I’m so very tired.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. I suppose you would be.” He looked about the room. “You should have a fire,” he said. “I’ll get someone to lay it for you.”

“No,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “No. I don’t need one. You may leave your door open.”

He didn’t answer. Only looked at her.

“I would feel safer.”

“You could–” he said, and glanced in the direction of his room.

“What?” But she had understood him.

“Nothing,” he said. And then: “You leave tomorrow. With Claire.”

“I needn’t. I don’t like to leave Charlie.”

He seemed to consider this, but then, at last… “You’ll go.”

“You will follow?”

“I can’t say when.”

She had nothing to reply. It seemed his answer contained a veiled condition, and she did not yet understand it.

“We’ll start over,” he said next.

“Yes.”

“From beginning to end, it will be different.”

“Beginning?”

“I’ll not deceive you again. You shall have all the facts before you, and you will make your choice freely.”

“You have something to tell me.”

“I do.”

“Will you do it now?”

“What of your secrets, my dear? Are you ready to confess them?”

She didn’t and couldn’t answer.

“I’ve asked too much already, Gina. I’ll not ask more until I’ve earned the right to do it.” And he began to close the door between them.

“Archer?”

He stopped but did not look at her.

Yet she had nothing more to say, or, failing to find the courage, couldn’t.

“You’ll go tomorrow.”

She nodded and the door closed.

This was not the end she had wished for. Yes, she must go. She saw that. There was certainly no point staying if he did not want her here.

She thought to open the door again, but had not the courage. The warmth she desired from his room was as much a desire for the man himself. Such was not to be. Neither of them had, at present, what was required to give. Yet he provided for her as he had suggested he would, and very soon two maids came up to clean her grate and to quickly and deftly lay a fire. His determination to provide for her worldly needs, even if he could not provide for any other, was evidenced in this.

*   *   *

Archer lay awake in bed. He could not sleep and there was little point in trying. He contemplated the day’s events, and those of the night before—and just what it would take to put all these wrongs to right. Why had he made Imogen endure so much? Why had he refused to believe all she had already known, that even the greatest efforts would never win her the acceptance she sought? Nor him.

His gaze rested at the window, examining the leaded panes. A strange light was reflected there, and he found himself watching it, at first absentmindedly, then with growing interest. He had initially dismissed it as the reflection from the candle or perhaps the fire, but these were insufficient and at wrong angles to provide for such a curious effect. He sat up and considered the source. It seemed to be coming from outside, but when he went to the window he could see nothing but the dance of light from the library below as it was cast upon the lawn that surrounded it. Still, things didn’t seem quite right. Neither did he have an advantageous view of the room below. From Imogen’s window the vantage point would be better. Quickly he arose and dressed, and then entered her room.

His sudden entrance startled her awake, and she sat up in alarm.

“What is it?” she asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “What is the matter?”

He didn’t answer her but went directly to the window and threw open the curtains, and then the window too so he might gain a view undisturbed by the irregularities in the glass.

“What is it!” she asked again, this time rising from the bed and joining him at the window.

He tried to stay her but it was no use.

She gasped, comprehending the matter half a second before he did. She turned and flew from the room and out into the hall, where she stopped to bang and yell at every door that might have an occupant.

He stopped her in her frenzy. “You have to get out, do you hear me?”

“But the others! Charlie! Claire!”

“You leave that to me; I want you out!”

There was so little time, but he would not take the risk of sending her out on her own only to find out later that she had not gone. He walked her down the corridor, calling as he did, trying to wake everyone within hearing. He stopped at Sir Edmund’s rooms, as she moved on to Charlie’s. Sir Edmund was there, and fast asleep. Archer awoke him, then rang the bell, hoping to rouse anyone at all who might be able to get the others up and out of the house. Sir Edmund, cursing, raised himself and threw on his robes, while Archer went to find where Imogen had gone. She was in the hall, holding tightly to Charlie, who was wrapped in a blanket. She herself had not thought to take any wrappings.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Claire said, emerging from her own room and holding her dressing gown closely around her.

“There’s a fire,” Archer said.

A quick intake of breath answered this.

“Will you get a blanket or something for Gina? Anything. And get her out. Charlie too. Go to the summerhouse. And stay there!”

Claire ducked into her room and returned a moment later. She threw a dressing gown around Imogen and took Charlie from her, expecting, or so it seemed, that Imogen would follow her through the east corridor and out through the cloisters. And yet Imogen remained, staring at him as though she were paralysed.

“Go!” he said, angry now, and prepared to walk her out of doors and watch until she had got to safety.

Sir Edmund emerged then from his own room and rushed down the flight of stairs, spitting and flinging expletives as he went.

Archer took Imogen’s arm and led her downstairs. She clung to him, afraid, perhaps, to go without him. How unlike a few hours before when she was so complacent about the idea of leaving.

At the base of the stairs were the bleary-eyed and hastily dressed footmen. He did not like to put her in their hands, but he knew she would not go unless taken. And though he needed the help of every one of them, her safety was paramount. More important to him now than anything else in the world.

He gave his instructions and left her with a regretful look but no words. He did not have them. Not at such a time as this. Sir Edmund had entered the library already, and Archer opened the door to follow, but stopped upon hearing the light, quick footsteps.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded with fear wild in her eyes. “Come with me.”

He ignored her, hard as it was. She was clinging to him now, but he had not the time for this. He motioned for the footman, Roberts, to retrieve her and take her away as he had been bid. He approached, and taking her by the arm, began to lead her off, as she struggled and protested. Making one last great effort, she freed herself, only to trip in the hem of Claire’s too long dressing gown.

Seeing her crumpled on the floor was more than he could take. He knelt and, raising her, held her to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her tousled hair. “For everything. I’m so very sorry. But you must get out of this house. And I have to stay. Do you see? I have to stay and fight.”

She fell silent and still. At last, and with his help, she raised herself.

Her face plainly showing her heartbreak, her fear, her anxiety. But truly there was no other choice.

Mrs. Hartup appeared then. “Let’s get you out of here, dear,” she said gently and taking Imogen by the arm.

“Are the others awake?” he asked the housekeeper.

“Yes, sir. They’re coming. What’s happened?”

“There’s a fire, but I don’t know more than that yet. Take Mrs. Hamilton to the summerhouse and see that she stays there. Claire is there, and Charlie. Go.”

Assured now of her safety, Archer joined Sir Edmund in the library, where he found that the fire was larger and had been burning longer than he had supposed.

The men appeared, and more every minute, with buckets and pails in hand. Water was brought from every available source. From the kitchen, from the pantries, from the pump in the yard. From the fountain in the centre of the drive. Wherever they could get it.

The smoke was thick, and made it difficult to see. Harder still to breathe. Great flashes of light were accompanied by clouds of darkness. All seemed a great conflagration. The books, the bookcases, the desk and cabinets smouldered. The wool rugs were singed, and the pungent odour of burned hair hung all about. But here, at least, the flames crawled slowly and were soon enough dowsed. But the curtains! The flames were climbing these now, and climbing quickly. Archer gathered them and yanked them free, dislodging the fixtures as well, which tumbled down upon him. He tossed these aside and smothered the flames, stomping them and folding the rich velvet fabric in upon itself until they were safely extinguished. He went then to the next window to do the same. Then to the next and the next. At last, the fire conquered, Archer stood, breathing hard and looking around him. At the damage done. At the newly restored and now ruined library. At his uncle, who sat, soot begrimed and coughing for want of air.

“I suppose there’s no need to ask who did this.”

“Wyndham!” Sir Edmund answered, spitting the name out as though it were a fleck of bad tobacco on his tongue.

“But it wasn’t just revenge. He was looking for something. What? And did he find it?”

Sir Edmund slammed shut the drawer he had been looking through, and which he had looked through twice already. “He found it. But it’ll do him no good.”

“What? What is it?”

“Proof.”

“Of?”

“That he’s my son.”

“But he found that already. The letter from—”

“No.” Sir Edmund shook his head and coughed again, clutching at his chest.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Archer approached the desk, crossing the sodden and soot stained carpet.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Archer turned to see Roberts.

“No, Roberts,” Sir Edmund said.

The footman turned to go.

“On second thought...”

He returned again. “Yes, sir?”

“If you would be so good as to fetch the doctor. Not the chap who was here before. The other one. The usual fellow. You know.”