Of Moths and Butterflies (9 page)

*   *   *

Imogen returned to the suite of rooms and busied herself until all that was left was to wash the walls before turning the room over to the painters and paperers. It was quite late when she retired to her own room. She readied herself for bed and sat down to read—certainly not to think—but it was impossible to focus. Her gaze wandered aimlessly, blindly, but at last rested on the grey merino dress which she had, a moment ago, laid across her bed. She detested it. How could she admire something so very different from what she had always been accustomed to? Her clothing, though modest, had ever been of the very best in quality, construction and design. But in wearing this, at least she had been reminded of the station to which she had rightly lowered herself, and in which she had believed herself safe. She now reconsidered that station. Had she lowered herself too far?

No. Mr. Hamilton had been displeased with her, as he should be. Better that his disappointment be for so small a thing as this than for learning what she really was. Now she might be sure of her safety. From him, at least. She should be grateful. And she tried to be. But for the first time since she’d left London, she began to regret what she had done. She missed Roger. His absence, her loss of him, was always in her heart, pricking at her eyes in her loneliest hours. But this was different. For the briefest moment she began to regret that she was no longer, could never be again, perhaps never had been—the sort of woman Mr. Hamilton might admire.

Examining her dress still, she leaned forward in her chair and drew her fingers across the coarse wool, over the moth holes, the streaks of soot, the patches worn thin and shiny about the knee, pressed there from long hours of scrubbing floors and tending fires and a hundred other low and seemingly insignificant tasks. But however practical her dress, however appropriate, it was wretchedly unbecoming. She must wash it. Perhaps, if she were to get up an hour earlier she might make the time she had not otherwise been able to find.

She arose to examine her wardrobe, to find there something that would suit in the interim, and was brought once more to a reminder of Mr. Hamilton—his face both pleased and angry—upon seeing the black silk she had worn on the day she had first met him. Never again would she make the mistake of dressing so far above her station. She took the dress down and, finding among her things the thread and scissors and needle she had meant to use before, went immediately to work, detaching the ruffles and frills and pulling apart the skirt that she might remove from the intricately gathered bustle as much yardage as possible. And when, bleary eyed and yawning, she finished, she had a dress she might easily wear when next she had the opportunity to go out. Adorned only by her well-worn and outdated shawl, that which had been her mother’s, there could be nothing to identify her as a woman either above her proper station or suspiciously below it.

Little remained of the lonesome night, and exhausted, she allowed herself a few brief hours of sleep before rising again, very early, to attend to the necessary and overdue washing of her one merino dress.

Only it turned out that it was no use after all. The dress, threadbare, moth eaten, could not bear to be scrubbed and wrung. After all her efforts, after the sacrifice of precious sleep, the dress was ruined. And it suited her just fine.

She was seated on the floor.

IR EDMUND, SEATED at the breakfast table, looked up with the opening of the door. Laying down his knife and fork, he watched as his nephew entered and took his seat. “I thought you had gone to Town?”

“No.”

Sir Edmund waited for an explanation or excuse. None came. “When do you mean to go?”

Archer laughed, if stiffly. “I think I’ve missed the Radcliffe party.”

“There are others.”

“I had thought I might remain at home this weekend. You’ve got more going on than you’re used to, what with the painters and all.”

“What is this about?”

“It isn’t about anything. I’ve been away a great deal lately. You’ve complained of it yourself, and so I thought I might remain.”

Sir Edmund watched his nephew as he attended to his breakfast, and considered with dissatisfaction this uncharacteristic air of rebellion. But he said nothing, eventually returning to his own meal, while a vague suspicion settled upon him.

*   *   *

Archer, after breakfasting, and not knowing quite what to do with himself, yet fearing the idleness which invariably crawled upon him whenever he was not actively engaged, decided to go out for a long, hard ride. The kind which taxes both mind and body. The very sort during which nothing else can be thought of and after which little energy is left for mischief. And later, hours later, he returned milder of temper and sounder of mind than when he had awoken that morning.

But the settling effects of his outing lasted only until he had returned to his own room, where he changed and prepared himself to assist his uncle in the library, by whatever means he might find, and however trivial. It was on leaving his room once more that his efforts were frustrated, for, as he passed the west wing, and from the very corner of his eye, he saw that too familiar figure of a not quite common servant.

Knowing very well that he was a fool in doing so, and berating himself as he closed the distance between those rooms and his own, he followed. He was curious to see what work was being done in that part of the house. Even without Gina Shaw’s presence, he was curious. Or so he told himself as he ventured in that direction.

He did not enter the room. Instead, he remained just without, cloaked in the shadow of the darkened corridor. From this vantage point, unobserved, he pondered the room and its lone inhabitant. How different she looked from the day before! That woollen monstrosity was gone and she wore, this morning, a dress of pale poplin. She was seated on the floor. With her drawing pad in one hand, a pencil poised in the other, she contemplated her work. After several minutes, she sighed and raised her gaze to rest on one wall, in a corner unobservable to him—that near which was the passage to the room beyond. She looked down once more at the several papers which she had spread before her. Archer’s curiosity now all-consuming, he took a tentative step nearer and left the protective cover of the shadowed corridor.

She looked up and saw him. And stood, dropping her work in her haste.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, surprised but pretending not to be. “Is there something I can do for you? Sir.”

“No,” he answered casually. “I was curious, that’s all.”

He continued to watch her. A stoic expression rested on her brow, but her eyes were alive, searching, uncertain what to do or how to behave. He did not like to see her ill at ease. Desirous to remedy the situation if he could (and he knew he could), he entered the room. Quickly, almost hurriedly, she began collecting the spilled and scattered papers, and tucking them into the cover of her drawing pad as if to conceal them.

He approached, examining her as closely as he might have done the renderings he could no longer see, and quite as intrigued. He held out a hand. He wished to see them.

“No,” she said, and held them closer.

He reached for them, placed a hand upon them.

“Please,” she said, but she made no more determined effort to stop him.

He took them, and page by page, examined them. What he saw impressed him. And he said so as he looked up at her again.

“Will you show me,” he asked, “what it is you have done? What it is you mean yet to do?”

She hesitated for a long, agonising moment. “Very well,” she said at last. And to his delight, she smiled.

And she did show him, explaining how it was that she had, with the help of Charlie and Mr. Brown, removed all the contents of these rooms, had seen to the cleaning and repairing of the plasterwork, had taken for her inspiration some remnants of a former colour scheme she had discovered under several layers of paint. Now, having peeled from the walls every last vestige of curling and mildewed paper, she was ready to make the final preparations before the new paints and papers were to be applied.

He watched her carefully. Her words, honest but perfectly delivered, her movements natural and yet well-schooled, she seemed at ease, as he would wish her always to be.

He was impressed. He could not be otherwise. In a combination of keen observation and her own resourcefulness, she had put together a room both tasteful and comfortable. And somewhat provoking, too, for the colours she had chosen were all flesh tones. She continued on, speaking now of some uncertainty that had arisen and how she was no longer sure of herself. But he was not really listening. He was watching her, following her, nodding his head at the appropriate times. Or so he hoped. But his mind was on the purpose of this room, how it might be used, and by whom, and whose hands would make it a welcoming place once again. And how they ought to be rewarded for that effort. It was not difficult—in fact it was far too easy—to imagine her here. Servant, lover, mistress of the house, he did not much care at present.

“You’re not listening.”

“Wasn’t I?” he said, awaking with a blink and laughing at his own blatant lie—and at her boldness. No. She was not like any common servant at all.

She smiled wryly. “It will do no good to show you if you will not even pretend to look.”

Rebuked, pleased by this easiness of manner, he did look. She was showing him the source of her misgivings. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, but between the layers of faded and flaking paint was evidence of a mural, rendered in hues decidedly not in keeping with the plans she had formed.

“I hate to cover it over. It looks to be very good work. And yet it has been covered on purpose, I think. Were it up to me I’d have it restored, but that means revising my entire scheme.

Still he was having a difficult time really concentrating on her meaning. What cared he for paints and papers, for lost and forgotten murals? All he could think of was her, her voice, the way she smelled, like lye and lavender, the warmth of her beside him. All these things, welcoming, inviting, comforting—these were alien experiences in this house. But she was not to be considered by him. She was not! This was insanity. To be consorting with the maid... What was he thinking? He wasn’t. She rendered the exercise all but impossible. Minus the hideous dress, without the concentrated and, to his mind, affected humility, there was nothing to indicate by any means obvious or apparent that she was miles beneath him. Reminded he was not supposed to be here, he prepared to make his excuse and be gone.

But it was she who spoke first. “Excuse me, Mr. Hamilton, but I really must get back to work.”

Suddenly it seemed impossible to leave. “Must you?”

“I really should,” she said, and moved away. Yet she appeared uncertain of herself even then.

“What is it?” he asked and prayed the answer was not the obstacle of his lingering presence.

She did not answer, but bit her bottom lip.

Tell me I should go.
He tried but could not bring himself to say the words.

“I really must get back to work. Only...”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m waiting for a change of water. Have been waiting this half hour. They complain that I’m slow, but… Forgive me, I should not speak so.” Suddenly self-conscious once more, she turned from him. “I think I must fetch it myself. It’s just that I’m not to leave the room.”

“There’s an easy enough solution to that.” Archer crossed to pull the bell.

“No!” she said, stopping him.

“Why ever not? You need water. If you cannot fetch it then it must be brought to you.”

“But it will cause me trouble, don’t you see? A servant does not ring for a servant.”

Of course not. And he felt a fool. Why could he not remember what she was to him? His servant. Or his uncle’s at any rate. It was not much different.

“Excuse me,” she said and turned from him. “I had better go fetch it myself.” He watched her go, but she got no farther than the door before she stopped suddenly. Becky had arrived, a pail in each hand. She set down the buckets and looked up at Gina and Mr. Hamilton alternately. A scowl was followed by the slyest of smiles. She said nothing however, and simply turned from the room.

“There. You see. You did not have to go, after all.”

She turned on him. Angry now. “Do you see the trouble you will cause me?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Yes!”

But he couldn’t do it. He remained. He found he could not look at her when she was staring him down so. There was both ice and fire in those great blue eyes of hers. He turned from her and took another examination of the room, and of the mural that had started it all. It was a landscape, it seemed. Or was it?

“Are those eyes?” he asked her.

She nodded, tersely at first, and then sighed. “Yes. I believe so.” She crossed to the other side of the room, far from him, where she could get her own clear view of the ill-concealed mural. “Were it not for the eyes staring out at me, I might be able to ignore it. It’s as if they want to be discovered. And I have to confess, I want to discover them.”

He examined them a moment longer. “Have you a brush?” he asked her at last.

“What? No,” she said, though her gaze fell to the very object which lay on the floor at her feet.

“You’re not a very good liar, you know.”

“Am I not?”

“Thankfully, no. Will you bring it to me?”

“No,” she said and stared at him, blinking.

He turned back to the mural and sighed. Those eyes… “Listen, if I must, I must.”

“Must what?” she asked tentatively.

“I will call you by your Christian name and order you about.”

She had no answer for this.

“Gina…” he relished the name. “Bring me the brush.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said at last and quietly.

“It should be uncovered,” he said, “if for no other reason than to see what it is. Perhaps it’s worthless after all. We won’t know until we see it. Now bring me the brush.”

She remained for a moment more, and then, at last and determinedly, she approached him, brush in hand. But she did not give it to him. Instead, she dipped it in the water and began to scrub, albeit gently, the loose and loosening paint. He watched for a time, but as he saw her once more retreat into her chrysalis, he relented and moved away. Perhaps she disapproved of him watching her work. It was fair enough. He disapproved of her working. But there was nothing to be done about that, was there? He pondered the question. Foolishly.

“You are from London, I think,” he said at last, finding it necessary to keep the conversation flowing, if he could. To keep his mind from wondering off onto forbidden and foolhardy paths. And to put her at ease… But it didn’t work. The question seemed to have made her suddenly wary.