Of Moths and Butterflies (71 page)

HE RAIN AND
wind and thunder continued long into the night, and as the storm passed, so, too, did Sir Edmund. The morning that brought the news was a bright but wet one, newly cleansed and ready for a fresh start. Mrs. Hartup had been with him as he slipped quietly from this world to the next. She did not disturb the house to spread the news. Archer had said his goodbyes; so too had Imogen. It was over now. The loss of sleep could not change what God had meant to be.

Despite all the pain that was now at an end, Archer’s despair was great. He regretted that Sir Edmund’s life had ended so, and, at the same time, he knew very well that the man had brought it all upon himself. He wished still that he had had the opportunity to know him as his father—as a real father should be. There was no chance for that now. And though his regret was profound, still, he felt some cause for hope. He had been drawn to the threshold. One door had closed, another had opened.

The funeral was scheduled for the next day but one; almost sooner than all could comfortably be made ready. Imogen undertook to see to the details. She saw no reason to delay, and she believed that to take care of the matter with all possible haste would allow the healing to begin much sooner. For her and Archer, too much time had been wasted already.

The funeral service was not well attended. The family had been notified. No one had come. Resentment—and guilt—kept Mrs. Barton in London. Even Claire felt it wise to stay away just now. Imogen and Archer, along with the household staff, gathered around the plot of earth that was soon to envelope Sir Edmund Barry. Having observed their duty—and gone beyond it some would say, the family returned home.

Imogen, busy with the arrangements, before and after, was conveniently able to give Archer the time he needed to come to terms with his loss. He went through Sir Edmund’s books and journals, everything that could tell him what little there was left to know of his own history. Then, at last, there was nothing left to do but examine that which Roger had left for him, which thing, until now, he had put off doing. He opened the journal and began to read. As Roger had done, he scanned the first page, then the second and third. He regretted to find that her uncle had much more in common with Sir Edmund than he had previously been prepared to suppose. He turned to the end, to the last few pages, those which recorded the last days and hours of the man’s life. He did not read much. However hard he tried, he found it too much to bear. And in all honesty, it could not matter now. He had given his heart, utterly and completely. He could not take it back if he wanted to. He pushed the journal away from him. That such a thing existed, proof of one woman’s torment and degradation… It deserved to be destroyed.

He arose with that thought and crossed the room to throw open the doors. “Roberts!”

A moment later, the man appeared. “Yes, sir.”

“Gather some men, would you? I want the ruined furnishings piled up outside. Then find me in my bedroom.”

“Yes, sir.” He bowed and left to attend to his errand.

Archer went upstairs to his room. Where he removed the sheets which covered his insect collection. He examined them for a moment, then turned his back to them and began looking for something upon the floor, around and in the fireplace, under the bed and table and chair. To no avail.

“Mrs. Hartup?” he called from his doorway.

No answer. It was a large house, after all. He rang the bell and called again. A few minutes later the woman appeared.

“Sir?”

“A week or so ago I broke one of my specimens. The Blue Morpho, did you see it?”

“I had one of the girls clean up the glass. The frame was saved, I believe.”

“The insect, though. Where is it?”

“There was no insect, sir. I instructed that it should be saved, but it was never found.”

“Who does the cleaning in here? Who lays the fires?”

“Ellen, sir.”

“Ask her, will you? If she saw the butterfly? If it was removed?”

“Yes, sir,” she said and bowed before shuffling off to do as she was bid.

The men arrived soon after, and in no time at all had accomplished the task assigned to them. That of removing the insect collection and taking it out of doors.

Half an hour later, Archer stood beside the burn pile. He surveyed it for a moment. Only a moment. His mind was made up. With a nod, one of the manservants applied some paraffin. Archer struck the match.

*   *   *

“He’s gone mad!”

Imogen heard the voice and came in from the garden where she’d been gathering flowers.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Hartup?”

“The young master. He’s gone mad. Come!” she said. “Come quickly!”

Concerned and certainly confused, Imogen followed the housekeeper, then ran ahead upon seeing him standing before the blazing pile of furniture and discarded household items.

“What are you doing?” she demanded upon reaching him, out of breath and wide-eyed with alarm. To all appearances he did indeed appear to have gone mad.

Hands at his waist, he turned to her, his eyes sparking and a satisfied smile on his lips.

“Any word on the lost insect, Mrs. Hartup?” he asked of the housekeeper who had just arrived behind Imogen.

“No, sir. No one has seen the butterfly.”

“What are you doing!” Imogen asked again, more desperately now. “You’re burning your insect collection? Why?”

He looked at her, still that placid smile on his face. He seemed to be examining her in some newly discovered light. “No more cages,” he said at last. “No more boxes. No more pins.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

And then he withdrew from his coat a leather bound book.

“Is that–?”

“Your uncle’s journal. Yes.”

Alarmed, yet hopeful, she dared the question: “You read it?”

“Some. A little. Not all.”

“Why not?”

“It can’t matter. None of it matters. It’s all in the past. Meant to be forgotten.”

She was silenced. Her anxieties stilled. She caught the look of optimism in his countenance, suffusing him and setting him alive. She wanted a piece of it.

“The future is all that should concern us, my dear. Are you prepared to look ahead, to leave the pain and horror behind us?”

It took her a moment to answer. She had been waiting so long for this. Yet it had come so suddenly, unexpectedly. She was unprepared. But her silence, it seemed, would not satisfy him.

“I love you, Imogen. I want you. And I want you to choose me. Would you marry me, were I to ask you again?”

Stunned by the declaration, and by so unexpected a question, she could not summon the words to answer him.

“Will you? Will you marry me?”

“You
are
mad!”

“No,” he said and laughed. “I trust the lawyers can make the necessary amendments to the documents. But consider it, we two standing before God of our own free will and choice. I choose you. You choose me as I offer myself wholly to you. Not because someone else has arranged the matter for their own convenience.”

Still she was silent, but the hope that soared within her breast must find its way to her lips somehow.

“Will you do it? Will you marry me again?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice choked with emotion. “Yes!”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her. Warmly but quickly. They had an audience, after all.

“Shall we make the announcement?”

She laughed and looked about her. Much of the staff had gathered by now to see what the commotion was about. “I think we’ve already done it,” she answered him.

So they had. And the cheers and applause followed. It was a promise of peace at last.

*   *   *

There was a predictable and perhaps necessary awkwardness that hung between the couple that night. Imogen had returned to her room to find many of her things missing, and did not understand. Nor did she have much time to consider, for Archer, soon after, entered his own room. He stopped before the open door, as if surprised to find it so, or uncertain what to do now their reconciliation was imminent, and yet not quite complete. They were in a sort of limbo. Married but not married. She had promised herself to him. What now?

“Will it be a grand affair, do you think, this second wedding?” she asked him. She was still puzzled by the idea of it. Pleased, yes. But puzzled all the same.

“I think that might not be a very good idea. It is largely ceremonial, after all, hardly requisite. And yet…”

“When?”

“Soon, I think. Within the week. At the church here. Where we first met.”

“Yes.”

Then silence for a moment, the awkward tension thick in the air. Her pulse quickened as he watched her, his gaze taking in every inch of her. And she wanted to be taken in, to be made whole. By him.

“It is not necessary, you said?” she found the courage to ask him at last.

“No. Do you not wish it?”

“Oh, I do. Only… There is another way, I think, to make it all right. An easier way.” She flushed very red. And felt her colour rise higher as he stared at her. Clearly he comprehended her meaning.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he entered her room. He approached her, examining her quite carefully, regarding her with an air of vague disbelief as he observed her in this rare display of openness and vulnerability. He stopped to stand just before her, his hands he placed at her waist.

“Your arm?” she asked him, her voice not quite steady. “How is it?”

He shook his head. It was of the least consequence now, but she needed some dialogue, something mundane and sensible or she would be swept away, consumed.

“Have you had the bandages changed? I might do it for you?”

“You might.”

She raised her hand to lay it gently against his chest, then slipped it beneath his coat and waistcoat, to rest directly over the injury. Her eyes raised to his. He pulled her close and kissed her, long and slow, until she felt the blood rushing, her heart pounding.

A knock upon the door interrupted them. Mrs. Hartup entered.

“I’ve moved your things, ma’am,” she said.

“My things? But why?”

Mrs. Hartup folded her hands before her and beamed at the pair of them with a look of immense satisfaction.

“If you are to be properly married,” she said, “then we will conduct ourselves as is proper for a couple betrothed and not yet married.

 “You are risking your position, Mrs. Hartup,” Archer ground out.

She clucked her tongue and chuckled. “Now if you’ll be so good as to come with me, ma’am, I have you situated in Miss Claire’s room. You’ll be comfortable there.”

Reluctantly, Imogen followed, sorry to leave him now. Sorry to be separated from him by so many feet of hallway. Yet relieved, too. Like an unexpected gift, she would be granted the opportunity to do it all over, to be married as she had once dreamt of doing, before such dreams were robbed of her by wicked men and scheming aunts and uncles. She would have the opportunity to give herself, of her own free will, to exchange those vows truly and sincerely, to have that coveted honeymoon, that blissful wedding night. It was more precious a gift than she ever could have dared to hope. And she was every bit as determined as was Mrs. Hartup that, this time, all would be done as it ought to be.